“Nope.”
“Then we can’t have a Viking wedding.”
“Don’t worry, Kell.” Ma patted him again. “She’s teasing you. Where do you want the wedding, Calli?”
She glanced at Kell. “We want an Australian wedding, Tiggy. Some thing cool and simple, and in a garden. Then you could deck out that restaurant on the river for the reception. Does that suit everyone?”
“It seems too easy.” Ma relaxed. “Who wants another custard tart?”
* * * *
Kell barely remembered the wedding ceremony. The bride stole his breath, standing in her parents’ beautiful garden smiling up at him. Calli wore shades of autumn in a drifting fairy-like gown that suited her long-limbed elegance. He had been coerced into a light suit, and he wore a tie in the autumn tones that matched the bride’s dress and the setting and the day.
He had sold his house days after the first viewing for one and a quarter million. The settlement had been banked, and as his workshop would now be an adjunct to AA & Company, he didn’t need to buy a larger truck for deliveries. He had employed another three cabinetmakers, he had almost finished his first office fit-out for the company, and Calli was proud of him.
The wedding presents almost overwhelmed him, but after the wedding, he had moved into the best-established house he could afford on the best street he could afford, not too far from Calli’s parents. He would renovate this house, too, and move on and up. Although he had nothing left to prove, he didn’t intend to grow fat and complacent.
He now had a beautiful and successful wife, and he would never stop trying to earn her.
“When do you want to start having children?” she asked him in the honeymoon suite that night.
“You might want to wait until Vix and Jay have produced two,” he answered with a grin.
And then he explained the alphabetic naming in his family.
She mulled over Max, Noah, and Oscar. “I understand your qualms,” she said laughing. “But if I have to, I can always skew this by changing Hobo’s name to Quasimodo.”
After the weekend honeymoon, Calli collected her cat from Tiggy. She put the question of a name change to Hobo, who violently objected. She squirmed out of Calli’s hold and stalked over to Kell, whom she beseeched to pick her up.
“There, there,” he said, using his smoochy face to calm the cat. “You might have to take one for the team, but don’t worry because the name has only been used once before by a human who saved a beautiful young maiden. Since you also did, the name makes sense.”
Hobo managed to do one of her Kell-nods.
Kell laughed. “She says ‘purr-fect sense.’ Get it?”
Calli did. Somehow meeting the cat and Kell at the same place made perfect sense.
Don’t miss other books by Virginia Taylor
Sets Appeal
In the cosmopolitan coastal city of Adelaide in South Australia, two theater lovers create a little drama of their own . . .
Twenty-seven-year-old divorcée Vix Tremain nally has her rst job—as a theater-set painter—and is ready to leave the past behind. What better way to get her con dence back than a ing with a handsome stranger? She isn’t looking for anything emotional, she’s had enough heartbreak. Rugged Jay Dee, the set construction manager, ts the bill for no strings fun perfectly. What Vix doesn’t realize is that Jay is not exactly a stranger . . .
Jay would recognize wealthy, spoiled Vix anywhere. After all, she’s the ex-wife of the man who destroyed his career. Naturally, Jay wants a little sweet revenge—at rst. To his surprise, Vix is far from the ice princess he expected, and spending time with her changes everything. Soon he realizes he’s actually falling for the vulnerable beauty. But becoming entangled with her will mean revealing who he is—and opening them both up to more pain. With their dreams at stake, is their connection strong enough to weather the truth—and take center stage?
Chapter 1
Her shoulders almost creaking with tension, Victoria Tremain turned off her car engine. Tonight, as one of the crew, she had attended the first party she had been to in a year, a pre-production getting-to-know-you function held for the cast and crew of the stage version of High Society. Experiencing a deadly case of stage fright, she aimed the huge smile she had plastered on her face in the direction of her wildly attractive passenger. He had told her he would make her a cup of coffee if she drove him home.
Behind him, the blaring streetlight reflected on the outside of a suburban redbrick bungalow with no fence and a front garden that had been dug over but not planted—a work in progress, but not out of place in this narrow street of tidy post-war houses. Shadowy stacks of planks lay in his concrete driveway.
“So, this is where you build your theater sets?” Her voice sounded suitably low and husky, not because she was at all sophisticated, but because she was terrified.
Picking up men wasn’t as easy as… Actually, she hadn’t imagined picking up men would be easy, not for someone as naturally awkward as she. She had almost fallen over her feet in her hurry to get the hunky set-builder into her car. Or maybe she almost fell over her big yellow heels, which took some getting used to—for she was now flashy, single, champagne-drinking Vix Tremain, trying to find the life she had missed during the past seven years. Married at the age of twenty, she had divorced eleven months ago.
He shook his head. “The wood belongs in the garage, but I haven’t had time yet to shift it.” Muffled doof-doof music rocked the air as he opened the car door on his side.
She opened her side, stepped out, and caught her bag on the handbrake. Muttering under her breath, she untangled the strap and closed the door, hoping he hadn’t noticed. His coordination was as notable as his big, honed body.
She cleared her throat. “When did you finish your last set?” Scooping her hair back, she followed him along an overgrown path to the low front porch.
“A couple of weeks ago. My team does four a year.” He fumbled for his keys.
A sudden gust of wind blew a sheet of newspaper across the road and an orphaned takeaway coffee cup rattled against the fence. As she took a step back to give him space, her spiked heel caught between two slats and she stumbled.
He grabbed her, steadying her against his chest, his shaggy brown hair idly teasing across her cheek. “My woman trap.” He set her back on her own feet. Suppressed laughter deepened his voice.
She gave a careful smile, scoring herself a ten for not apologizing. The man smelled like pine chips and the fresh sea breeze blowing in from the port. He opened the door, a forest green blistered over white undercoat and slivers of ashen wood. For a moment, his arm blocked her as he reached around his doorframe for the light. The pulse in her neck thudding, she waited until he stepped back. This could be her first one-night stand if she didn’t mess up or say something dorky. Tonight, she had great expectations of herself. She had scrubbed-up quite well and now she only had to follow through.
He placed his hand on the center of her back and guided her through a bare hallway to an open space containing a sitting room at one end and a dining–slash–kitchen area at the other. Tossing his leather jacket over a chair, he stepped behind the kitchen countertop and began to pour coffee beans into a grinder sitting beside a basic espresso machine. For a moment, she experienced stark disappointment. Perhaps when he had said “coffee,” he had meant “coffee.”
“Take a seat.” Using his eyes, he indicated the sitting area, painted in faded magnolia and furnished with a floral two-seater couch and a couple of stiff-backed chairs upholstered in gray.
Keeping him in view, she sat on the edge of the couch, clutching her handbag to her chest. Her mouth was as dry as the recent winter. “What’s your real name?”
“JD.” Resting his work-roughened hands on the countertop, he flitted his gaze over her legs.
Her skirt had hitched up too high. She thought about using her handbag as a cover but she had worn the bad-girl, tight red skirt to c
hange her image. Breathing out, she put the bag on the floor, giving him a sideways glance. “I’m guessing. An abbreviation of Juvenile Delinquent?” She held her breath.
He smiled, forming creases that were almost dimples. “From West Side Story?” He scooped the ground beans into the measure.
She half-relaxed. He recognized the musical, and most men didn’t. “Just Deciding might suit you better.” She laughed at her blatant hint but when his gaze connected with hers, her face warmed. He could take all the time he needed and if he didn’t plan on having sex with her, the world wouldn’t end. He might simply have wanted a comfortable ride home. Men invariably preferred using her cars.
Fortunately, he gave her an amused look. Reaching for the mugs, he showed her an impressive back view, wide at the top and angling to lean hips and a tight, hard rear. Although stacked, he couldn’t be called handsome. The left side of his face had been puckered by a scar that wove up his cheek and toward his eye. He looked like the tradesman he was, an appearance he emphasized with his faded jeans and cotton shirt.
“How do you like your coffee?” He stared at her over his shoulder.
“Plain black, please.”
At the party for High Society, she’d used champagne to segue into the new sophisticated Vix Tremain. Awkward, tactless Victoria Nolan had barely spoken to a man in this past year, let alone stumbled into his house. Married young, she’d never ventured into the dating scene. Instead, she had accepted the first man who had shown an interest in her, impressionable fool that she had been. “How complicated was your last set?”
“A single room.” He shrugged. “Three entrances and a flight of stairs.” He brought over a brimming coffee, placing the mug on the blue-painted table adjacent to her seat.
“Sit here,” she said, amazing herself by patting the cushion beside her. She even considered adding a casual touch by kicking off her heels, but couldn’t with any semblance of grace. Her legs were long and her skirt was a size tighter than she usually bought. She should have worn fitted pants. Then she could have crossed her legs or casually hooked one up onto the couch. Dressing to pick up a man needed more planning than she had imagined. She dragged in a breath. “I see we have ten scene changes. That’s enough to keep me painting solidly for the next three months.”
He lowered himself beside her. For a few heartbeats, he sat silently. “Are you being paid for your time or the job?”
“For the job. My specialty is set design, but I’ve never worked. I have to start. So, I thought taking on the painting first would ease my way in, which makes the money immaterial.”
He gave an almost imperceptible nod. “When did it happen?”
“Getting the job?”
“I’m asking about your divorce.” He lifted her third finger, left hand, which still held an indented reminder of the wedding ring she no longer wore.
She no longer owned the platinum band, either. Although she should have flushed the meaningless thing into the sewer, she couldn’t stand waste. Instead, she had gone out to buy herself a box of celebration chocolates, the last she had eaten since then, and sold the ring, dropping the money into the hat of the first street musician she saw on the way back to her car. “You’re observant. I’ve been free for a year.”
“Good.”
She tilted her head to the side, trying an unconcerned smile. “Because?”
His eyebrows lifted.
Her insides began to quiver with hope.
He settled his arm along the back of the couch. His hand touched her hair, and he tugged a lock. “What am I going to do with you?” He used a deep, soft tone.
“Did you have anything else in mind when you offered to make me coffee?” Her tentative gaze met his.
“Not my thinking mind, no.”
“Your thinking mind as compared to…?”
He drew air through his teeth. “As compared to the mind I don’t often use when I’m with a beautiful woman. So...” He rested one large hand on the side of her neck and his thumb under her jaw. Leaning over, he touched his lips to hers.
A delicious shiver ran though her. His eyelashes were thick and brown at the tips and blond near his lids.
When she could breathe evenly, she said, “You have nice, soft lips.”
“That’s my line.” His steady gaze held hers.
“I thought you might need encouragement.”
His mouth tilted at the corners and his eyes gleamed. “More likely discouragement.”
She gave an off-hand shrug, smiling inside. “I’m just not in the mood to do that,” she said, trying for a mock snooty tone.
“To discourage me?” He glanced sideways at her. “Let me get this straight. You want to encourage me?”
“I drove you home. What would you expect if you had driven me home?” She lifted her eyebrows.
He nodded. “I would hope for much more than a cup of coffee.”
She couldn’t look away from him, and she certainly couldn’t breathe.
He meshed his fingers with hers. “And, fair’s fair.” Staring at her face, he put his other arm along the back of the couch behind her. His hand shifted to the nape of her neck and she found herself tucked into his frame.
She glanced up, hoping to be kissed again.
He obliged, dropping his mouth lightly over hers and testing her upper lip with his tongue.
She drew back. “The bedroom?”
“Right now?”
Experimentally, she brushed his upper thigh with her knuckles, noting an exciting shape expanding his jeans. “I can’t possibly give you time to change your mind.”
He picked up her hand and gently took the pad of her forefinger between his lips. “Why hurry? We’re going to be working together,” he said in a relaxed voice.
“Not often. When your job ends, mine begins. I can’t paint a set before it’s built.”
He toyed with her fingers.
She wriggled uncomfortably. “If you’re afraid of awkwardness when we meet again, I’m sure we will hardly ever meet again. I mean…”
“So, you want to get into bed with someone that you expect to hardly ever meet again?”
Her insides began to shake. “If you don’t want to, you can say no. I thought… Well, it’s kind of normal, isn’t it, to have an instant physical attraction to someone? Well, it’s not normal for me, but…”
He leaned back, staring into her eyes. “I didn’t plan on saying no.”
“Are we arguing about what happens next, or are we agreeing?” She started to chew on her lip and, mindful of looking insecure, stopped.
He glanced away. “What color are my eyes?”
“You have light brown hair, so you probably have light eyes.”
“Your eyes are blue.”
“You’re looking straight at them now,” she said indignantly.
“How does that follow? You’re not naturally blond.”
“I almost am.”
He laughed.
Embarrassed, for she had been born blond and had remained that way until about the age of ten, when her hair had turned a pure shade of natural mouse, she said, “Hardly anyone is at my age. If you are only interested in natural blondes, you’re doomed to disappointment.”
“I didn’t say I was disappointed. My mind was simply trying to connect eye color and hair color.”
“I can only judge your reaction to me by your, um...” She stopped, knowing she shouldn’t tell a man that from the moment they’d met, his smile had lured her on, way past her normal comfort zone. Most men preferred assured women who knew how to tease.
“My um?” His expression blanked, and he stood.
Her stomach dropped to her toes. Being knocked back on her first try at propositioning a man would probably put her off ever trying again. Any other unnatural blonde in a tight red skirt would get the man she wanted…or leave with her dignity intact. She rose to her feet, avoiding his eyes. “So, I’ll say goodnight and th
ank you for the coffee.”
He stood. “You read my um right. That’s one of the disadvantages of being male.”
She nodded, reaching for her handbag. A tall, confident man like him was possibly propositioned twice a day, at least. He could afford to pick and choose. Her breath stopped as she realized what he had implied and, her mouth not quite shut, she lifted her gaze to his.
“And thank me in the morning,” he murmured as his mouth slowly connected with hers.
At first stunned, she didn’t respond. Then he settled a palm on the small of her back, drawing her close. Her insides began to hum, and she leaned away to struggle out of her jacket. He helped, tossing the distraction onto the chair with his. She started to work on the button of his jeans, her brain a maze of unfinished thoughts. Unfortunately, in her confusion, she tangled her fingers against his flat belly.
“I’ll do that,” he said, his eyes glinting with humor. “I think I ought to head for the bathroom for a condom. The bedroom is through there.” He indicated the room in the hallway closest to the front door.
She glanced at his chin, traced her gaze over his scar, and straightened her shoulders. Then, picking up her jacket and her bag, she went into his bedroom, where after undressing quickly, she arranged herself in his bed. With her arms at her sides, she lay staring at the flaky ceiling, forcing in long, deep breaths. He gave her time enough to ease the nervous flutter in her chest and time enough to justify acting out of character.
She had never before let anyone think they owed her a favor. A good girl all her life, she had been called prissy and conventional. She’d watched the bad girls grab whatever they wanted while she’d stood back and hoped to be valued for being honest. No more.
She’d been cheated on, taken advantage of, and left humiliated. If she had any sort of courage, she would stop living for tomorrow and start living for today—tonight. What sort of person had no regrets? Wincing, she glanced at her clothes on the floor. If need be she could make a quick getaway.
Perfect Scents Page 21
