“Okay. You’ve won me for the time being. I won’t call the rescue. I’ll take you to the vet instead. We’ll give you a chance. Everyone deserves a chance.” She wiped at her nose with the back of her hand.
She was an everyone, too.
* * * *
Kellen Dee, known as Kell by his brothers and friends, and Killer by guys who wanted to deride his luck with the female sex, swept the discarded nails into a pile. The shapely young jogger this morning had been a welcome sight. The job he would begin this week was starting to look more interesting.
The well-heeled residents in this area were reputed to be doctors, but only specialists; lawyers, but mainly high court judges; politicians from either party; businessmen, the most successful; and anyone else with up to three million to spend on a house.
The jogger could be a wife of any of the aforementioned, and he would probably never know, but her beautiful long legs had been an enervating sight. If he could watch her every morning, he would be happy to stay for the three months he had estimated he would need here to run a chainsaw through the garden and effectively swing a sledgehammer inside the house.
He glanced idly around the room at the top of the main area where he would begin his destruction this morning, having taken a couple of days off work to make sure of a good start on his new renovation project. All the old cupboards needed to be removed from the bedrooms, as well as a water-stained part of the ceiling in the upstairs hallway. Fortunately, unlike his current housemate, he didn’t have a hangover. Abstemious, and not about to end up like his alcoholic father, he had kept his intake last night to a single glass of beer.
The staircase creaked and Trent appeared. Tall and gangly, with light hair and eyes, he had a peaceful nature. He also thought he had an artistic bent, which left him open to constant ragging.
“I saw Steve outside. What did he want?” Trent massaged his forehead, wincing when the light from the window hit his eyes.
“He thought he’d left his sunglasses here last night.”
Trent creaked out a laugh. “Is he having separation anxiety already?” Steve, briefly the employer of Kell and Trent in his theater set construction business, last year had married Lonny, ex-hairdresser and stylist to the stars, and now had a one-year-old pesky son.
Kell shrugged. “Maybe.”
“He tried to get me to leave with him again last night. I told him I wanted to finish this house with you first.”
“He’s a hometown boy. For him, moving to Sydney is a big deal.”
“Yeah, but he’ll do better with his business there. How about Lonny, though? A contract for a TV makeover show. You and me, we’re getting left behind.”
Kell squared his shoulders. No one would leave him behind. He had plans and nothing or no one would distract him from his course. “Don’t fret. You’ll be back working with him in a couple of months.”
Trent nodded and heaved a sigh. “You starting in here?”
Kell nodded. “I think I can reuse some of the wood.”
“From the cupboards? Yeah. Good quality stuff, man. What are you going to do with it?”
“Haven’t decided. I’ll put it into storage. See these floorboards? Jarrah.” Kell licked three fingers, squatted, and moistened the boards. The wood turned a clear mahogany red. “Beautiful. I’m thinking about taking them up, too. Can’t see much reason to leave them here. I can do this floor with composite instead, because I’ll carpet the place.”
“What job do you want me on first?”
“Start gutting the garage and laundry. Then we can knock down the outbuildings. I’ll want to put up a fence for the subdivision, too. Or you can do that. Remember, I want to keep anything salvageable. And be more careful of the leadlighting. I can make money out of that. I don’t want any more breakages.”
“I didn’t know it was there. Vandals must have taken the window out and then decided to leave it,” Trent said with stiff dignity. “I wouldn’t mind having a go at restoring the broken one, though.”
“No point. I’m not reusing it. I’ll sell it. How did you get on with the nurses last night?” Kell gave Trent a sideways glance.
Trent had somehow never learned how to pick up a woman, though he was a nice guy and reasonably intelligent. A year or so ago, Kell had let the well-meaning idiot go on a double date with him. Since Saturday, two days ago, when they had moved in to flip this house, Trent had been angling for another invitation.
A long running joke said one woman wasn’t enough for Kell and he “dated” his two at a time. He never commented. The women involved also never commented since spicing up Kell’s reputation also made their own look more interesting. His brothers maintained that the women ignored him and enjoyed themselves with a good gossip while he slept. The truth lay somewhere in between.
Kell was a cynic who worked long hours. Since he didn’t drink, nights out with the lads invariably ended up with him driving everyone home and pouring them into bed. Like any other sexually active male, he’d done his fair share of sexual experimentation, but when he wanted female company, one woman at a time was enough for him. However, if he happened to be attending an event where one of the guys, namely Trent, would be sure not to have a date, most of the women he knew had a bestie he could take along as a spare.
In all, he’d never met a woman he wanted to keep around permanently. Could be he was simply waiting for the right woman to come along. He hoped he would recognize her when she did, or if she did. In the meantime, he kept his relationships on a strictly casual basis. A man with a mission, he would go nowhere if he tied himself down.
“Well enough,” Trent said, turning and heading toward the stairs. “How about if you organize a double date with them? Then I might be in with a chance.”
Kell ran his fingers over his stubble. The spare women last night had been invited by Trent in a roundabout way. “When you’re interested, you need to do more than sit back and watch.”
“I’m trying to learn from the Killer.”
“Ask them about themselves. They’re people like you and me,” Kell said impatiently. At twenty-eight, he was two years younger than Trent who by rights should have settled down a while ago. “The next time I meet a couple…” Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he walked off, leaving Trent to assume whatever he liked about the conclusion of the sentence.
He glanced around the downstairs area as he boiled the water in the electric kettle. The place might still have a kitchen but the last update must have been a good fifty years ago. The cupboards, although made out of good English oak were…well, made out of good English oak, which meant each had been lined with paper that didn’t stand a chance of protecting the wood. The insides had rotted, but the doors were still good and would scrub up well after he removed them. He planned to put them back again refitted onto a laminate carcass.
His real-life, everyday self was a cabinetmaker. He earned a good wage, but his elder brother, now an architect, had made quite a few dollars out of renovating the worst house in the best street in their old neighborhood. Jay had then married, found himself a better job, and had scrambled out of debt with the sale of his house. Jay’s wife had advised Kell to go into flipping houses, deciding he had the skills. She had proved right. A few months ago, he had sold his first flip, making enough money on the deal to fund a mortgage on this tumbledown house-and-land deal.
The local council, fat and greedy with the profits from suburban infill, had already approved his subdivision plan. Within the next few months, he would do up the old house on this side of the block to exhibit his cabinetry work. For the other side, he also had plans. A while back, the major property development company in the state had hired his small team, consisting of him, a carpenter, and an apprentice, to help catch up on a shopping mall job. Seeing the scope, Kell wanted more jobs with the company, but like every other business in the state, he had to prove himself first. AA & Company only took on the best.
Knowing he h
ad to earn his way in, he spoke to the company’s property manager and put forward his proposition. He would renovate the house on his double block, and if AA approved of the job he did, they would take on the build of the new house on the other side, and share the profits.
The property manager had nodded. “Three months. You’ll want to show your management skills, too.” A handshake sealed the deal.
Kell had no time to waste. This morning, the remaining roof tiles would be lifted off the old outhouses and stacked onto pallets, ready to take to the salvage yard. He could also sell the cleaned bricks from the demolition, the best of the reclaimed wood if he didn’t find another use for the quality lengths, and the old leadlight windows.
This time next year, if AA took him on, he would end up with a good steady income, and the means to expand his business. In the meantime, he had moved out of the caravan he had parked inside his workshop to camp in this house he was renovating. Eventually, he would have the money to buy himself a pretty good home in a classy area. Then, no one would dismiss him as a lowly tradesman.
Chapter 2
Calli checked where to find the nearest vet and wrapped the cat in a towel. One look at her bundle by the receptionist, and she was ushered into a tiny cubicle.
“She’s a pretty girl,” the leathery vet said, his careful eyes and gentle hands checking out the cat, not Calli, who was rarely called pretty, even by men her own age. “She came a long way to find you. Look at the pads of her paws. She has done some travelling.”
Calli cleared her throat, trying to force her voice. “Why would she want to find me? I don’t even like cats.”
“She’s not yours?” His brown-eyed gaze connected with hers.
“She walked into my house. Sorry for whispering. I think I have a touch of hay fever.”
“So, you want me to euthanize her?” He stood back, staring at her, his expression impartial.
“I promised her I would help her if I could.” She lifted her shoulders, blinking at him.
He examined Calli’s expression for some seconds, and then he wiped the cat’s eyes with a wet cotton ball and squeezed ointment into them. “A cream Burmese I would think. De-sexed and starving. Put this ointment in twice a day and clean her eyes as often as need be.”
“Will she be okay?”
He shrugged. “She was looking for someone. It might have been you. No charge if you are planning to give her a home.”
Calli moistened her lips. She could offer the little cat a home until the creature was strong enough to be passed onto someone who liked cats. “Would I be allowed to give her a bath?”
“Good luck,” the vet said, already on his way to the next patient in the next cubicle.
Calli made a nest out of her oldest T-shirt when she arrived home, and put that and the cat close to the milk and fish. “What shall I call you?”
The cat gave her a bleary-eyed blink.
Calli shrugged. “Hobo?”
The cat staggered out of the towel and nosed at the fish.
“Hobo it is. Now, will you be okay while I earn my living? I’ll come back at lunch time and check on you.”
The cat ignored her and daintily sniffed at the food.
Calli changed into her gardening gear: jeans, a stiff new khaki work shirt, and her old work boots. She jammed on a khaki military hat and sunglasses. With her diagram in her hand, she grabbed up a spray can of marking paint and strode over the rolling green lawn to the area of the garden in front of the main house. The cat would either be better or worse when Calli saw her next. She hoped for the former. The sooner Hobo fattened up, the sooner she would find a good home.
The cream paving from the cast iron front gate led straight to the door. Calli planned to change the paving to gray slate, laid French style. The iceberg roses standing sentinel on either side had to go, and not because of the new wider path. For this lovely bluestone house, she wanted a base of blue and silver, forming a softer and gentler, more cottage-like entrance to the old and gracious property.
Without stakes and string, she didn’t attempt to spray the straight edge where the lawn would end at the planned garden bed. Instead, she sprayed a small dot at one end and the other, and filled in the line with a few dashes. As she moved to do the same on the other side of the path, she heard, “You! Out!”
She raised her head. Standing by the front gate, the impossibly handsome stranger from this morning glared right at her. His lowered eyebrows showed his disapproval of her, but she stood, staring straight back at more than six feet of annoyed male, his fists planted on his lean hips, taking his morning neighborhood-watch duties one step too far.
Although conscious that she looked far from her imperfect best, she instantly reacted to his imperious manner. She’d had enough of men telling her what she could do. He could get rid of her neighbor with her blessing, but other than that, he could mind his own business. He appeared to be able to speak civilly to the gangster next door, but not to a harmless woman. As she rose to answer, her throat completely closed over. “Me?” she asked in a husky whisper.
“Put down that can.”
She rose to her full height of five-eight, ready to set him back into his place. Trying again, she forced through, “Now, j—”
“Don’t make me come in and take it,” he said in a dangerous tone.
Backing a little, she held up a placating palm and began a far from ladylike hawking of her throat, and finally managed to say, “I’m the gardener,” in a voice that sounded like a scaredy-cat with laryngitis rather than a fully-grown woman.
His dark eyebrows arched with disbelief. “Well, buddy, in that case you would know the name of the owner of the place.” He folded his arms across his manly chest and stared down his nose at her. The morning sunlight emphasized his wonderful cheekbones and made chiseled angles of his clean-cut jaw.
She smiled at her challenge. At this time of day, still before ten and wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, he could be a doctor, a lawyer, or possibly an architect, but he was most likely a professional sportsman. His clear skin said healthy living and his perfect haircut said money. He looked about the right age to be a footballer. She knew a few lived in this area. If so, he would be married. She didn’t know why she tried to see a ring, but angling her gaze to his left fist took her eyes to the front of his well-packed jeans. She hastily glanced back at his face. His relationship status had no relevance at all to his infuriatingly melting effect on her.
“Buddy,” she repeated, belatedly realizing he thought she was male which capped her indignation. Tallish she might be, and square-shouldered, but she had all the girly bits in all the right places, too. Not that any showed under her stiff shirt. However, no matter how she looked, he had apparently decided that the spray can she still held and had somehow pointed at him, was a weapon. She lifted the can higher, narrowed her eyes, and aimed more directly at him. Her thumb toyed with the nozzle, her lips firm.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said in a deadly tone.
She paused. Of course she shouldn’t. Aside from that, if he wrestled with her for the can, he might knock off her hat, and then he might recognize her. Not too long ago, her picture had not only been splashed across the daily paper, but also flashed on the news screens. At this stage, she couldn’t deal with any more opinions of her character. She drew a resolute breath.
“I’ll have the name of your employer right now.”
She lowered the can. For all she knew, he might be a very good friend of her employer, who trusted her not only with his garden but the keys to his house. She had no business offending a stranger. But to keep her self-respect she couldn’t give in without a show of resistance. “Horace Rumpole.” She raised her chin.
“Try again,” he said through his teeth.
“John Deed.”
“One last try, smart-arse.”
She thought he had relaxed slightly. “Adrian Ferguson,” she said, taking her thumb off the nozzle
of the spray can.
His eyebrows lowered as his gaze pierced through her. Finally, he unclamped his lips. “Keep in mind that around here, neighbors look out for each other.” After a terse nod of his head, he went on his way.
She didn’t watch, although she wanted to. That was one hunk of a yummy man, not a dimpled charming man like Grayson, but his polar opposite. Pushing out a huff of self-impatience, she turned back to the garden and sprayed more blue spots onto the lawn, marking out where she expected the string lines to go.
She wished she had checked to see where the neighbor lived. When the judge came back, she could tell him and make the story funny. Then she laughed. The story was already funny. Mr. Neighborhood Watch thought she was a boy.
Then again, for a woman who had been shown only too often that she had no appeal, that wasn’t so funny.
At about one, she stopped work for lunch. The cat had again curled on the couch, leaving the food dish half-full.
“Progress,” Calli muttered, scraping the stale food into the bin. She swallowed a long glass of water, and hacked out a cough, clearing her throat, momentarily.
Hobo glanced in Calli’s direction, but her eyes seemed to be leaking again. Calli made an ick-face. The idea of cleaning gunk from the cat’s eyes made her stomach churn. The idea of being so heartless as to leave the cat in misery caused her to find a couple of cotton balls and wet them.
She gingerly sat beside the cat. “Help me here. I don’t know how to do this. I’m going to wipe your eyes, right? Here goes.”
With a tentative hand under the cat’s chin, she tilted up the little furry face. Quickly she wiped the first eye. The cat sneezed.
“Well, that was easy, don’t you think?” She did the second and, not with any confidence, she squeezed a row of ointment across each of Hobo’s eyes. The cat sneezed again and curled up into a dainty, weary ball. For a bundle of filth, she had elegant pretensions.
Perfect Scents Page 2
