As they set off he could feel movement through the bag’s material as Milly purred in her sleep, snuggled against his chest. It was a comforting feeling he remembered from nights of having pets sleep on his bed in the innocent times of youth.
Some time in the future he’d persuade her to tell him why she’d chosen the name.
He kept the bag open, allowing him to see Milly, and occasionally stroked her head, causing a deepening of her contented sounds. This was one of the comforts missing from his life that he intended to rectify soon. His dilemma was cat, dog or both.
At the end of the shopping area Jemma led him down a side street and onto a track that wound through native scrub and trees—some recognisable from his mountain home surroundings.
‘This is where I find my painting inspiration. All the seasons of nature are right here on my doorstep. I keep extensive files of photographs in my computer because nothing stays the same in bushland.’
Her face lit up as she indicated plants she’d painted, adding the fact that she ensured every tile ended up unique. Her passion for her art moved him, and when he queried the canvas paintings he’d seen on the shop wall she admitted they were hers too, and gaining interest.
As they approached a bend she caught his arm to slow him down and touched her finger to her lips. When she stopped and pointed upwards he followed her finger’s direction and felt his throat clog. A koala sat in the crook of a gum tree within climbing reach, a joey clinging to her chest. He couldn’t remember when he’d last seen one in the wild.
She didn’t stir and appeared to be dozing, completely oblivious to their presence.
After a moment or two they continued on, and Nate waited until they were some distance away before speaking, though he was certain his voice wouldn’t have disturbed the sleeping pair.
‘That was a rare sighting for me. We don’t have koalas in the Blue Mountains—wrong type of gum trees.’
‘They’re plentiful here, but often hard to spot. She’s been in that tree for a week, and I haven’t seen her awake once.’
They hadn’t gone much further when Jemma pushed between two shrubs, and he followed her onto a narrower, rougher, more overgrown dirt path.
‘My hidden entrance. I keep it that way to prevent hikers assuming it’s another trail and coming to my back door asking for directions.’
That he understood—though it was rare that anyone ventured near his fenced-off property, which was on a clifftop away from the main road.
The track brought them into a cleared area behind a stone cottage with a corrugated iron roof, its long garden surrounded by a vine-covered, weather-worn wooden fence. It was classic Australiana, by his estimation over a hundred years old, and the house nearest to town in a row of three.
CHAPTER SIX
JEMMA OPENED THE gate and led the way along a crazy paving path between a vegetable garden and patch of lawn on one side, and fruit trees and a flowerbed on the other. Wide steps ended on a veranda that stretched across the back, furnished with an old-fashioned three-seater swinging seat, a small outdoor table and two chairs, and a number of potted plants.
They entered a compact kitchen fitted with modern appliances, with a dining area through an archway on the right. Jemma placed her bag on the mottled stone benchtop and stepped in front of him to take the kitten.
Nate willed himself not to move a muscle. He was in her home on trial. A wrong action or word could have him banished with no chance of appeal. He leant against the bench, admiring the harmonious blend of old and new decor. Admiring Jemma’s supple movements as she crouched down, gently placing Milly onto a blue-cushioned bed in the corner behind the back door.
‘Is the house yours or rented?’
He could imagine her scouring magazines for furniture and colours to suit, fired with enthusiasm. Picturing her in an ultra-modern house—like his?—wasn’t difficult either.
‘I bought it, along with some of the seller’s furniture, three years ago this coming June. The only difference is the colour. I painted the walls in the bedrooms, study and lounge.’
‘You?’
‘Not a big job with such small rooms. Do you want coffee, tea or water?’
He grinned. ‘You need to ask?’
This was polite small-talk—a prelude to the serious conversation ahead. Her earlier fractured invitation, and the way her lips didn’t quite make a return smile now, had him guessing she was nervous. Because he was a relative stranger or because he was a man?
He watched in silence as she clicked on the electric jug and took two mugs from the hooks on an antique hatched dresser. This was her domain, and the less he intruded the quicker she’d accept his presence.
When the drinks were ready he offered to carry them. She thanked him and walked into the hall that stretched to the front door. The compactness of her sitting room was eased by the light sandy-coloured paint, and the space around the furniture. Two suitably-sized paintings—a stormy sea and one landscape—had been hung on the walls.
He appreciated the furnishings: a traditional patterned sofa and armchair, a wooden coffee table and a classic sideboard with mirror, all smaller than regular size. A television sat on a mobile trolley in one of the nooks either side of the stone fireplace. The other held a packed floor-to-ceiling bookcase. And, although modern, the imitation log heater suited the setting.
* * *
Polite as always, Jemma thought, as he waited until she’d taken her coffee and settled into the armchair, sliding back, keeping her body erect, and crossing her ankles to one side.
From this position he appeared to dominate the room the way he had the kitchen in the gift shop. Her heartbeat skidded to a stutter as his eyes held hers captive. She refused to be the one to initiate the discussion. He’d requested it—he should air his views first.
Breaking eye contact, he flicked a glance at the window behind her, huffed out a solid breath and sat on the two-seater. He took a drink, placed his cup on the table, and then, keeping his body equally upright, clasped his hands between his knees.
‘You have trust issues with men.’ It was a simple statement of fact rather than an accusation. ‘One in particular or more. Either way, every man you meet has to field the blame.’
‘That’s...’
‘True, Jemma.’
She stared at her collection of stones in a bowl on the table, accepting that he was right. She believed it was justified to protect her heart. He had no right to disparage what for her was a necessity.
She tamped down her irritation and, feigning a neutral expression, replied, ‘I have good reason.’
His oblique nod showed that he understood—to a point.
‘I don’t doubt it. However, the best way for this collaboration to succeed will be for us to work closely together. And that requires your trusting me to treat you as an equal colleague. If—’
Her spine stiffened and her fingers scrunched the bottom hem of her cotton top as she cut in.
‘Trust is a two-way street. Your initial greeting was superficial, at best, and you weren’t exactly receptive to my having access to your novel.’
His eyes narrowed for a second or two, and then he stunned her by chuckling at her outburst. The realisation that she’d missed a sound she’d only heard a few times shook her. Unusual and gravelly, it was imprinted in her memory. For ever.
He leant back, his elbow on the sofa-arm, wiped his hand across his mouth and made no attempt to hide his amusement. ‘We must be making progress, Jemma Harrison. You forgot to call me Mr Thornton.’
She really, really wanted to glare at him for sending her up, but her facial features and her body refused to co-operate. Her lips were mimicking his smile, her pulse was giving the impression she was running a relay, and a warm glow was firing up in her abdomen.
‘I’ll put a reminder in my calendar.’
&n
bsp; Any bite she might have meant to give was negated by the suggestive breathy sound that came from her dry throat. A swallow of coffee didn’t ease it at all—but then, the cause was right there, watching her with fascination.
‘And I’ll try not to warrant it.’ He extended his hand over the table. ‘Truce?’
She reached out to meet his gesture, and had to wriggle to the edge of the chair. ‘Truce.’ They both had much to gain by co-operation.
Wishing she didn’t like the feel of his skin against hers so much, she sank back and curled her legs up onto the chair.
‘So, will you be sending me the next chapters? Do we need some sort of written agreement? I have a back stock of paintings and can begin work any time from now.’ She couldn’t wait to read future instalments of Trials of a Broken Man.
‘I’d rather not send them but, yes, that suits me—with provisos. I suggest we ring Brian tomorrow and find out the legal ramifications. Will you be free in the morning?’
She nodded, puzzled by his first answer and unable to speak.
‘How obligated are you to your hours in the gift shop?’
‘It’s pretty flexible. There are two young mothers who don’t want to be tied to regular shifts but are happy to go in for odd days or an occasional week.’
He nodded again, as if pleased with her answer, and then fell silent, his inscrutable gaze making her squirm and gulp the remainder of her drink. She almost choked when he spoke again, churning the words out without pause.
‘We’ll talk to Meg as well. The sooner we finish the amendments the better. Emailing partials back and forth and waiting for each other to check them will take too long. Would you be prepared to come to Katoomba and stay with me until they’re finished?’
‘Stay with you?’
Idiot! Of all the phrases he used, that was the point you zero in on?
Her cheeks burned but she didn’t dare look away, needing to see his reaction. She inhaled and exhaled in slow deliberation, her mind processing all he’d said. An elementary fact, an obvious problem and a logical solution. Practical and impassive. So him.
* * *
Every cell in Nate’s body clamoured to go to her, take her in his arms and reassure her.
Yeah, a great way to prove you’ll act like a gentleman and keep the relationship platonic.
He hadn’t meant to shock her—to him it had been the best answer to a logistical problem. One which meant breaking his rule not to have any unrelated women staying in his home. Any liaisons were conducted in Sydney, in his apartment or at their homes.
This was the exception to break the rule. They’d need time with no distractions—somewhere they could take breaks, walk or run at will. Somewhere they could work, eat and sleep at odd hours as needed. That was the way he’d lived while typing most of those hundred-thousand-plus words. And all the ones he’d deleted or cut and saved.
Now he hoped to persuade Jemma—who probably only typed in her spare moments—to accept his way until they’d finished.
‘It could take weeks.’
He started—had been so lost in thought he hadn’t noticed she’d recovered from his startling proposition.
‘There’s no way of knowing. You’re the one who emailed to say that my characters’ emotional relationship will affect every aspect of their lives. Being able to discuss any possible revisions and do them on the spot will speed up the process.’
‘I get that. It’s just the idea of leaving with no idea of a return date. That’s asking a lot of my neighbours, who keep a watch on the house if I’m away. And I can’t foist Milly on anyone for that long.’
‘Bring her.’
Hell! That had shot out, bypassing any thought process. Not what he’d been thinking when he’d made his earlier decision, though having to buy bowls and a pet bed would strengthen his resolve to get a dog or cat of his own...
It suddenly struck him that expecting her to drop everything and come to his out-of-town house had been arrogant.
‘I apologise, Jemma. I’m wound up and I want to get things rolling. Plus, I’ve lived solo for so long I’ve got used to making autocratic decisions. How about we allow a fortnight, to give us an idea of the timeframe we need? Then we can take a short break, or continue back here with me staying in the hotel.’
She didn’t answer—just swung her feet to the floor, held out her hand for his now empty cup and, holding both, stared at the floor for a moment.
Then she sat down again. ‘We’re strangers. I’ve never lived with anyone but my parents.’
His heartbeat soared with an adrenaline rush he refused to attribute to her second statement, blaming it on her consideration of his offer.
‘We both want success, so we’ll agree on boundaries and work through any issues that come up. Compromising should get us through.’
Being surrounded by the house he’d designed as a refuge to keep him from ever again falling prey to romantic fallacies would be a constant reminder to him to stay objective and focus on the end result.
‘Starting when?’
‘Your decision. Whenever you can come.’
He heard a plaintive mew from behind him, and she looked past him to the doorway.
‘Milly’s hungry. I’ll see my neighbours in the morning and phone Meg to arrange fill-ins. The takeaway menus are in the kitchen drawer.’
He waited until she’d gone before giving a short, triumphant fist-pump. This was no night for tinfoil cartons. They had a deal to celebrate—albeit a verbal one.
As he joined her in the kitchen, a phone number already punched into his mobile, Jemma closed a drawer of the dresser, turned and held out a handful of pamphlets.
‘There’s one from every takeaway in town. Pick what you fancy’
He might be in trouble if he did—and, anyway, for this evening he had an alternative plan.
‘How long will it take you to get ready to go somewhere special for dinner?’
His muscles tightened, and his gut clenched at her enchanting reaction: cheeks colouring, lips parting in an O and beautiful eyes blinking. The sound she made was a delightful mixture of huff and laughter. He’d have to surprise her more often. Or not.
‘To celebrate our agreement on collaboration. It’s a milestone for both of us. Forty minutes, okay? That’ll give me time to walk back for my car.’
At her audible intake of air and quick nod he pressed the already accessed number for the restaurant. A short conversation later he had a reservation for eight o’clock, with some leeway for the unfamiliar route.
‘Where are we going?’ She’d found her voice, and was eager for information. ‘Casual dress?’
‘Windy Point. My brother Sam’s recommendation, and luckily they have a table. I’ve been staying with him for the last two days.’
If he’d thought he couldn’t surprise her even more he’d been mistaken. Her eyes clouded for a millisecond, shuttered and then sparkled on reopening. ‘It’s back on my wish list. We were booked in a few years ago and had to cancel. The view is meant to be stunning—especially at night.’
‘I’m glad you approve.’ Her happiness lifted his spirits higher and gave the promise of an unforgettable evening. ‘You did say it’s quicker to town by road?’
‘Yes—I’ll let you out the front door.’
She squeezed against the wall of the narrow hallway, her perfume filling his nostrils as she passed, tempting him to press a light kiss on her lips.
Fingers held tight to his thighs, he crossed the threshold and told her he’d see her soon. With purpose in his stride, he pondered her back on my wish list. Why had it been crossed off? And who was the we she’d referred to?
* * *
Jemma leant against the closed door, shaking from head to foot, fighting to unscramble the sensations churning inside her.
She’d agreed to r
evise essential scenes in his manuscript. In his home in New South Wales. She would be taking time off from her part-time job, and wouldn’t have time to paint while she was there. She was excited, overawed and nervous. And scared by how easily Nate had undermined her vows to stay detached.
She’d also agreed to go to a restaurant that not so long ago would have evoked dark emotions. The evening she and her ex were supposed to have had dinner there he’d rung to postpone, claiming an impromptu office meeting. They’d never rebooked, and a few weeks later she’d learned of his infidelity.
On the way to her bedroom she mused on the diverse changes in her life since that time. As she showered she vowed to embrace these latest ones and relish every moment, even while keeping her heart guarded and Nate at a distance.
Wrapped in a towel, she studied the selection of dresses in her wardrobe and chose two, holding them up in front of her to view in the mirror. They’d be eating in a popular venue with floor-to-ceiling glass windows, overlooking the city and the ocean, the sun setting on the horizon. Her aim was to be dressed appropriately and to appear stress-free while being escorted by Nate.
A quick calculation told her she had time to research the restaurant, and the images online helped her decide on a simply styled electric blue dress, with thin shoulder straps and a below-the-knee hem. Cloe’s Christmas present to her—a similar-coloured, long-sleeved lacy knitted jacket—would be perfect when the temperature cooled. Comfy, medium-heeled shoes and silver jewellery completed the ensemble.
Well aware that she’d never challenge Vanessa’s impeccable fashion sense, Jemma still found herself grinning as she nodded at her nice-but-nothing-special image in the mirror. Her sister would never write a book, let alone a good one—no riveting and satisfying emotional scenes worthy of being published.
Jemma’s basic storyline was a problem, but she’d already decided not to hold Nate to his revision of a full story for her characters. It was too far out of his comfort zone. But she’d study his prose as she worked on it, talk to him and ask his advice. When his book was finished she’d enrol in writing courses and hopefully resolve her particular ineptitude.
Unlocking the Millionaire's Heart Page 6
