by Jennie Jones
‘In the excavator?’ he asked with a wry lift of his eyebrow.
In his wheelbarrow if need be. ‘I’ll stay at the B&B.’ She’d stayed there for the night of Sammy and Ethan’s wedding, along with Verity Walker, Sammy’s difficult mother. ‘The
Cappers’,’ she said. ‘They own the B&B. They know me.’
‘The B&B is closed,’ he informed her. ‘The Cappers have gone west to visit their son.’
‘Closed?’ It couldn’t be. Where the bloody hell was she going to stay? ‘I need to talk to Sammy.’ Not that giving Sammy a good talking-to about this fiasco would leave Kate with anywhere to sleep, unless she curled up for the night in the waterless, powerless homestead on Burra Burra Lane. ‘What am I going to do?’ Goddamn the country. No hire cars. No taxis.
No bloody room at the inn.
‘You won’t reach Sammy and Ethan until tomorrow.’
‘I know that!’ Okay, so her own tenacity had worn thin. Was there a wheelbarrow? She turned from him to take a look, already envisaging herself pushing it all the way down All Seasons Road. In the dark. No streetlights because this was the bloody country.
‘Obviously, you’ll have to stay here.’
Kate spun to him so fast she nearly tripped as the heel of her sling-back twisted beneath her. Which annoyed her even more. She never tripped. She was the steady at heights kind of stiletto-wearing executive. ‘Stay here?’ she demanded as something horribly like panic bubbled inside her chest. ‘I don’t know you. I know nothing about you. You might be a ditch-digging murderer. Is that why you bring your fourteen-tonner home each night? So you can dig holes to bury the unsuspecting visitors?’
Oh, now he decided to smile.
‘I brought the excavator back because I don’t need it up at the homestead tomorrow, and I’ve got a job I want to use it for here. At my house. Silver Bells House. Jamie’s house.’
If she hadn’t already been given a shoe-about-to-break warning, she’d have stamped her stilettoed foot on the slab paving.
‘Stop quaking and come on in,’ he said. ‘Looks like we’ll be getting to know each other.’
He needn’t have made it sound like he’d been forced into sharing his house with his mother-in-law.
****
Kate tried to keep the panic at bay and her temper under boiling point but the softer senses inside her speedily came to the fore when she stepped inside the house.
The wall on her left was mellow-yellow stone, like the outside. Must be a foot thick. The wall on her right was plastered and painted a French-linen colour. Two plastic builder’s buckets, a set of trowels and a red wheelbarrow — ah! there it was, her possible transportation — sat in the hallway to one side of the pale-blue front door. He must have been re-pointing the stone wall in the hall, Kate thought, noting the slight difference in colour between the old grouting and the new, but that was probably because the new needed time to dry out and weather.
Kate’s apartment in Sydney was modern and functional but one day she planned on finding the time to buy and do up one of the Federation bungalows still to be found in the Sydney suburbs so she knew a thing or two about renovation.
Jamie left her suitcase in the hall, at the base of a reddish-brown wooden staircase with wrought iron railings.
‘Okay, come on through.’
She followed his big, broad back into the kitchen and any stony parts still in her heart melted like chocolate chips in a warm bakery.
Dark floorboards again, like the ones in the hall and on the staircase. They probably went throughout the house. Plastered walls in antique white, one feature wall with a big window left as stone above a square white-enamel sink, surrounded by black granite bench tops. An old blackened range stood in a stone-encased alcove. It must work; there wasn’t another stove in the room. The ceiling gave the room its greatest appeal. Breadth and length. Thick, squared beams painted in dove-grey ran the length, fitted and slotted into crossing beams. The entire space was countrified with flare. Not feminine, not entirely masculine.
What had once been a separate dining room now extended into the kitchen, making it one long room. The plasterboard wall still in its just-knocked-down state. It’s exactly what Kate would have done. The man had taste.
She glanced his way and as he busily moved things on shelves in the pantry, or looked for something she gave his physique her full attention. What would this khaki-clad, work-booted man look like in a suit? The first assumption she made when perusing shots of male models her young designers might use. Surprisingly she discovered she didn’t want to know how Jamie Knight would look in a designer suit. Instead, she saw him in cream chinos and a slate-grey shirt. A black belt and black shoes. Relaxing on his Chesterfield sofa in his stone-built house with his Sunday newspaper.
The masculine greys would complement his nutmeg-brown hair, the deep, natural tan on his arms and the sprinkling of dark hair at his throat, where his khaki work shirt sat untidily, three buttons undone. Nothing about him — his clothes, his style, his demeanour — said predisposed to trend. This was a naturally-honed man and she had a feeling his personality matched. Rough and ready when called on. Big-hearted and gentle when needed.
A bit of a yummy package. She took her eyes off him. Pointless trying to listen to the part of her personality that demanded she stay frosty. Jamie Knight was a lot yummy. She’d seen thousands of glamorous, handsome men in her job, although she didn’t date models. A rule. She didn’t date at all, really. Well, now and then. More then than now. And of course, she wasn’t even considering a date with Excavator-man. Her thoughts were simply a comparison of what she was used to and what she faced.
She took a deep Zen breath. She wasn’t in the country to ponder the lack of gentleman escorts in her life. She was in the country to make The Decision.
‘It’s a lovely house,’ she said, a slice of envy carving a space inside her because she wouldn’t be enjoying it in solitude. Wouldn’t be enjoying it at all. She’d have to leave. Go back to Sydney where she’d be plagued with business. Gone were her chances of peace while she contemplated which way to murder you know who and get away with it. There’d be no running from business or him now. It was Christmas. All the cute country holiday lets in New South Wales would be fully booked. She’d wanted twelve days. She had eleven, after tonight. She didn’t stand a chance of finding somewhere to nurture her solitude. ‘I take it you’re an ace builder as well as a stonemason.’ He must be the one building that dry-stone wall.
He smiled. ‘You sound peeved about that.’
There was something comforting about the ever-present slight crease of a frown between his eyebrows. As though he’d always be on the lookout, always be alert and prepared to rescue, or have a concise answer to a problem.
‘This was supposed to be my hideaway house, remember?’ she told him.
‘What are you hiding from?’
‘Business,’ she said, not about to go into details. ‘I run a fashion house in Sydney.’
‘That explains the sky-scraper heels and the elegant attire, then.’
Was he being suggestive or rude? Difficult to tell. He just looked comfy. Big and comfy. And secure.
****
Jamie let her study him. She’d be more than peeved about the accommodation problem, she’d be wary about staying here with him. He might have helped her out of a muddy paddock, but one small rescue didn’t constitute safety. What was it about this city woman that made him feel sorry for her or compassionate or something?
The last thing he needed was a damsel in distress. He’d spent the previous four years worrying about another damsel and he doubted his nerves would hold out on another.
Especially one who appeared to be in an emotional flap. Maybe she was just tired and a little frustrated. She certainly hadn’t known the house was his.
What the hell was going on? Why had Sammy arranged for her friend to stay at Silver Bells House?
‘I’m afraid there’s not much to eat,’ he sai
d, dropping the bag of potatoes he’d taken out of the pantry onto the bench top. ‘Grocery shopping is overdue.’
‘That’s alright, I’m not hungry.’
He turned to look at her as she ripped at the lid on the box of her wine. Slim build. Slim. Not thin. Not ultra-thin. He noticed these things. He had reason to note collar bones and elbows and wrist circumferences. She had a whippet-slim waist which enhanced her hips, making her look like she had some. Yet Kate had curves too. He’d felt them when she’d been pressed over his shoulder. She didn’t look like a wire coat hanger fashion guru in some magazine. Well, maybe the softly padded variety.
‘I’ll cook us some baked potatoes. Cheese and chives topping okay with you? I’ve got some lettuce and a couple of tomatoes too.’ He closed his eyes briefly and turned from her, a little irked he’d settled into coercion mode so fast. It wasn’t anything to do with him if she didn’t want to eat.
‘I just want a glass of wine,’ she said, struggling to open the cardboard box.
‘It’ll be warm,’ he said, picking up a kitchen knife and walking over to her.
She shot back when she saw the knife. Jamie slit the cardboard on the box, took a bottle out and put the knife down onto the kitchen bench at a range where she was closest to it, not him. ‘I’ll put this in the fridge,’ he said, holding her bottle of Chardonnay up. ‘I’ve got a good Shiraz if you’d like a glass of that.’
He slid her Chardonnay into the near-empty fridge. Must do shopping tomorrow. Especially now he had a guest. He pulled a bottle from the wine rack he’d built into the recess above the bench top. He’d spent every evening and weekend of the last four weeks, since the sale had settled, sanding, re-modelling the bathroom and the kitchen, knocking down the dining room wall and doing a spot of re-pointing and painting. Nothing else to do in the evenings or at the weekends, and he wasn’t the sort who liked having nothing to do. Neither was he the sort to have bought the house on some Goddamn whim. But he had. He was still trying to come to terms with why.
Now he wished he’d done up one of the spare bedrooms upstairs. Where was he going to put her? He’d taken the master bedroom for himself and had stripped the other two bedrooms. They were four walls. No furniture. She’d have to take his bedroom. He’d sleep in the small spare room. The only other room that had a bed.
She had her hand around the cap on the bottle of Shiraz he’d handed her, her face angled away and her features telling him she was concentrating hard, but not on the wine.
Everything about her was all shades of chestnut — apart from her blue eyes. Her hair, her eyebrows, even her eyelashes. But he had a feeling most of the make-up, the dress and the shoes were for show. Like a candy bar. Peel off the snazzy wrapper and what would you find? Nougat; sugar and honey with the odd hazelnut thrown in for bite and flavour. He had an inkling most people in her executive world wouldn’t look for the softer side of her. Why was he seeing it then? Because of Megan, probably.
She’d styled her chestnut-coloured hair into what he thought of as a ponytail with glamour. She’d secured the ponytail, somehow, with her own hair. Her long fringe swept across her brow in a dramatic way, concealing one eyebrow and almost touching her eyelashes but — again, somehow — it looked smart and casual all at once. The fringe part flopped forwards and the executive ponytail swung around her shoulder.
He walked over to her and took the bottle off her. ‘Look,’ he said, twisting the cap in the palm of his hand and cracking the seal. ‘We can figure things out in the morning, so why don’t you calm down?’
He wanted to put his hands on her shoulders and anchor her. He’d like to run a hand over the top of her head too, and smooth her ponytail in his fist, right down to the tip at her shoulder blades, to check if it was as soft as it looked.
Instead, he turned and took two wine glasses out of a cupboard beneath the island bench. The glass rang with a dull tinkle as he put the stems onto the bench.
He poured wine into one glass then paused as she moved. He looked across at her as she picked up a house renovation magazine from a stack on the dining room table and flicked through the pages.
She put the magazine down and ran her fingers through her fringe, eyes downcast, as though ironing out her thoughts. Or strumming through her worries.
Jamie went back to the wine, poured one for himself.
‘What am I going to do tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got to get the hire car out of a paddock and that might take all day to arrange. Then what do I do? Get the evening bus out of here?’
‘Well obviously, it’s going to take a couple of days. So stay a couple of nights.’ He walked around the island bench and handed her a glass.
She sighed softly as she took it, with what was obviously an unwilling acceptance of her situation. ‘I don’t have much choice.’
She peeked up at him. Stunning eyes. Almond-shaped dark-blue boats, framed with long brown lashes. Her pale-skinned face looked more theatrical because of the blue-toned eye make-up and the rose-coloured lipstick.
‘Although I tell you now,’ she said, glass of Shiraz aimed in warning. ‘One weirdo move, one miniscule sexual innuendo and I’ll be picking up that nail gun over there and zapping you in your Bojangles.’
Jamie’s grin almost hurt his cheeks. ‘Bojangles?’ he asked. ‘Isn’t that a song?’ He wandered back to the bench where he’d gathered the makings for their impromptu evening meal, and sipped his wine. ‘And before you get any nicer than you already are, I’d like to talk to Sammy about a couple of things too. But since we can’t do that until tomorrow, why don’t you drink your wine and settle down?’
****
Jamie put the two plates of microwaved baked potatoes onto the dining room table next to the bowl of salad he’d prepared. He’d filled the potatoes with the cheese, chopped chives and put a dollop of sour cream on top.
He sat opposite Kate, and picked up his knife and fork. ‘Eat,’ he told her, pointing to her plate with the tip of his knife.
‘Not hungry.’
He studied her while she studied her glass of wine. Please eat, he wanted to say. He shook his head. It wasn’t his place to worry, and he didn’t want to have to worry.
His eyes burned, even now, when he thought about Megan and what she’d gone through.
‘So how come you’re taking time off from your fashion business and holing yourself up in the country?’ he asked.
‘That, Mr Master Builder, is none of your business.’
Dead right. And if it wasn’t for the discomfort still veiling her eyes Jamie shouldn’t have cared less. Shouldn’t, but did.
‘What’s the name of your business?’ Maybe some general conversation would calm her down.
‘Singleton’s Sassy Sensations.’
Jamie couldn’t help his roar of laughter that sounded like a crack of thunder, even to his own ears.
She looked instantly affronted, her brows drawn and her rosy mouth crimped. ‘It’s not funny. It’s my business. And I’ll have you know it’s a successful business due to my brains.’
‘And sass?’ he asked. ‘How much of the sassy part of you can I expect to see while you’re here?’
‘You might be a master but let me tell you right now, I’m a mistress.’
Her dark blue eyes shone dusky and dangerous and Jamie had a sudden vision of the mistress side of her. Wearing a corset and killer heels. A white corset, with a couple of neat white bows down the front — and maybe a pair of bold, red, four-inch man-killers on her feet.
‘I am sassy,’ she told him. ‘And Singleton’s young designers are sensational. Hence the business name.’ She picked up her wine and sipped. ‘I mean, you called your business Knight Works. I doubt that means you work at night.’
‘Not if I can help it.’ Except for on his own property. This property. The one he’d bought on a whim. And why the hell was he contemplating that all over again? Hadn’t he decided it was just one of those things?
‘Do you think my Chardon
nay will be cold by now?’ she asked. ‘Your Shiraz is good and all that, but I don’t usually drink red.’ She picked up her knife and fork, cut into the potato and raised a piece to her mouth. ‘Not that I’m a creature of habit,’ she told him after swallowing, and, Jamie was pleased to see, slicing off another piece of cheesy potato. ‘So don’t start making remarks about any contrariness you might think I possess. Because I don’t.’
Katie, Katie quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells and cockleshells…
And a temperament he was going to have to watch out for.
‘I hope you didn’t poison my baked potato,’ she said as she raised a third forkful. ‘Because it’s really rather delicious.’
For no particular reason he could think of, apart from maybe compassion for the city woman lost in the country, Jamie started liking Katie Singleton.
‘If you’d like to, Contrary-Katie, you can stay the whole twelve days.’
She paused, fork halfway to her mouth, and stared at him.
Jamie’s heartbeat pummelled his ribcage. Where the hell had those words come from? Take it easy, pal. He hadn’t cooked his goose yet, he’d simply made her an offer. One she’d probably refuse. ‘Pass the salt, would you?’
****
‘Right. This is the bedroom.’ Jamie opened his bedroom door. ‘You can have it. I’ll sleep in the spare room.’
‘Where’s the spare room?’ she asked, turning full circle on the upstairs landing.
‘Behind you.’
‘I’ll take it.’ Her heels clacked on the wooden floorboards and Jamie winced. Good job they were hardwood jarrah. The weight of her discontent would put serious dents into pine.
He let her open the door to the spare room and watched as she gasped. It was small, no more than a store room and it was also currently stacked with the boxes and crates he’d carted from the family home in Sydney but hadn’t yet got around to unpacking.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Lovely.’
‘You can have my room.’
‘No thanks. This will do.’
