by Amy Andrews
Chapter Six
Ethan rose at five-thirty the next morning after a restless night thanks to the awful couch and a bright pink vibrator called Dennis. He walked the six blocks to the police station, his brain mulling over his list of things to do today. Because if he didn’t he was going to start thinking about other things.
Like missing Connie.
Like Delia coming back from Paris ready to screw him over one more time.
Like JJ. Her touch, her taste, her smell. The noises she made when he kissed her. How damn good she’d felt clamped hot and tight around him.
And Dennis.
Ethan was a great believer in not borrowing trouble and as such he needed to concentrate on the things he could do something about.
Missing his daughter there was no cure for.
Delia doing her worst hadn’t happened yet.
JJ … Well he didn’t even begin to know what to do about JJ and how much he’d screwed up there.
But he knew in the way a cop always did—in his gut—that having Shane Gallagher in town was going to end badly.
And that he could do something about.
A young police constable called Carl Stevens was manning the desk as Ethan strode into the station. His shift was due to finish in an hour and he was obviously struggling to stay awake. He snapped to attention, though, the second his sluggish brain computed who had just walked through the doors.
“You’re in early, Chief,” he said.
Ethan, preoccupied, gave some non-committal grunt and headed straight for the shower. A cold one. A very cold one. Then he turned his hand to some paperwork. There was always so much freaking paperwork, especially when you were the boss. When the clock hit eight he picked up the phone and started dialling outlying properties that ran sheep. He knew and had good relationships with every one of the landowners in the area.
And he was counting on that.
It took him three phone calls to locate the property where the shearing was taking place. He stood from the desk, grabbed his duty belt from its locked drawer and slung it low around his hips, the weight of it and the items it held settling with reassuring comfort.
His Glock, an extendable baton, a pair of handcuffs, a torch, a radio, a taser and some capsicum spray. He always felt a little naked without them at hand and today especially he needed to be every inch the cop—the enforcer—he was.
He walked past the day-shift desk constable on his way out and Ethan greeted him by first name. In a town where half a dozen police officers were the entire force, no-one stood on ceremony. “I’m heading out to the Dowling’s. I’m on five-one,” he said referring to the radio channel, “if you need me.”
Ethan didn’t catch the acknowledgement as the door shut behind him. He was a man on a mission and nothing else registered.
It took thirty minutes to get out to the thirty-thousand-hectare property that had been in the Dowling family for generations. Ethan pulled up in a cloud of dust in front of the low-slung homestead.
Dogs barked and ran towards him as he grabbed his navy-blue cap, pulled it low on his head and stepped out of his marked, solid-as-they-came, four-wheel-drive vehicle. He absently petted the assortment of excited dogs as he made his way around to the yards at the back of the house.
Bill Dowling was in the middle of a fenced-off yard, surrounded by sheep waiting to be shorn in the big shed set further back amongst a stand of towering gums. His faithful blue heeler was at his side, an akubra shaded his eyes. But he still spotted his visitor and waded through the livestock, hauling himself up over the horizontal fence struts and down the other side.
“Chief,” he greeted as he leapt to the ground and offered his outstretched hand to Ethan.
Ethan shook it. “Bill. Got your work cut out for you I see.”
The older man nodded. “Busy week.” And then, in the way of the bush he just came right out and asked. “What brings the long arm of the law out this way?”
Over Bill’s shoulder Ethan could see activity in the shearing shed through the big open doors, but it was too far away to make out individuals. “One of your shearers. Shane Gallagher. I want him gone.”
Bill regarded him for a moment, waving his hand in front of his face to shoo a persistent fly. “That’s not up to me Ethan. I just hire the contractor. The shearers are his responsibility.”
“He’s JJ’s ex.”
Ethan didn’t have to say more. Everyone who’d lived in these parts long enough knew what had happened to JJ that night and who was to blame. Including Bill.
“Right,” Bill said, his jaw clenching and unclenching, obviously uncomfortable at the situation. “Well, you can go ahead and have a word with the contractor—he’s at the shed right now—and I’ll back you all the way. But I don’t like your chances. Shearing teams are a dying breed, bloody hard to come by these days and they’re a militant lot. Sack one and the rest are just as likely to down tools. And I need my sheep sheared, Ethan.”
Ethan nodded. He understood. Times were tough and things were just getting back on track after the bushfire that had gone through the area just over a year ago. Bill couldn’t afford to have a strike on his hands. Nor could the rest of the outlying properties, whose shearing season would also be jeopardised by industrial action.
Being born and bred in the country, Ethan didn’t need to have the subtext explained to him.
A trail of working dogs accompanied him on his walk to the shed, the morning sun already hot on his neck. Ethan spotted Shane in standard shearing clothes—jeans and a singlet—bent over a kicking sheep as he approached the contractor, Richie Abrahams. Shane looked up and their gazes clashed. There was a curl to his lip and defiance in his eyes that hardened Ethan’s muscles to steel.
Richie, who looked like a has-been jockey, was, as Bill had predicted, unhappy about Ethan’s demand and not having a bar of it, quoting workplace law at him. Ethan found himself wishing, not for the first time, that he wasn’t wearing this uniform. That he could mete out some street justice—the only kind people like Gallagher really understood.
But that wasn’t the Weston way. His father had never done an underhanded thing in his twenty-plus years on the force and Ethan wasn’t about to bring his good name into disrepute because his knuckles itched to dish out a lesson.
Shane Gallagher wasn’t worth his reputation. Or career.
With Richie refusing to budge, Ethan knew his hands were tied, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still throw his weight around and put the fear of God into the weaselly little contractor.
Ethan took a step right into Richie’s personal space and lowered his voice to that growl he’d perfected when dealing with criminals over the years. “You keep Gallagher on a leash, you hear?” he said, poking him in his chicken chest for effect. “I’m holding you personally responsible for his every movement. Understand?”
Richie gulped and nodded.
“So help me, if anything happens, I’m going to come after you too—do you hear me?”
The little guy swallowed. “Aye, aye Chief.”
Ethan stared hard for good measure. “Good,” he growled. “I’m glad we understand each other.”
He flicked his gaze over Richie’s shoulder to where Shane stood watching the confrontation. Ethan shot another hard glare at the man, making a V out of two fingers and pointing them towards his own eyes then turning them around to jab them in the air at the level of Shane’s eyes.
I’m watching you.
As he turned and walked away he could feel the burn of Gallagher’s gaze right between his shoulder blades.
“Three beers, luv. Make them frosty, no head.”
JJ knew that smart-ass voice anywhere and she rolled her eyes as she turned around to face Marcus Weston. Jarrod and Lacey were also in tow.
“We don’t do head at The Stockman,” she said, falling into the same old patter as she pulled two on-tap beers. “We’re a classy establishment, we are.”
Marcus, the Weston family co
median, quick with a laugh and a joke, gave a loud hoot. “Absolutely. The Ritz of Jumbuck we always say.”
It was good to see Marcus back to his old self. As a paramedic, he’d suffered from PTSD after the fires last year. Thankfully a temp psychologist called Juanita had made him see he needed help. He was back at work and heavily involved in the footy club again and had also managed to put a sparkly ring on Juanita’s finger.
They were loved up, shacked up and planning a New Year wedding. Lacey, Jumbuck Spring’s very own fashion designer, was currently designing the wedding dress.
JJ plonked the beers on the bar mat and they all took appreciative swigs.
“Damn, that’s good,” Marcus said.
“Sweet,” Lacey agreed.
Jarrod nodded. “Nectar.”
JJ looked at Ethan’s siblings. The brothers were alike in that big, broad, country-boy-capable way, but so different in others. Marcus was the image of his handsome father, where Jarrod, with his red hair and green eyes, took after their mother. His wedding band flashed in the overhead light as he took another sip. Selena was a very lucky woman.
Lacey, their little sister, was a combination of all of them. She’d thrived since leaving college and coming back to live in Jumbuck Springs last year, and was practically cornering the market in wedding dresses for the rural crowd. She was engaged to Coop, an ex-cop and friend of Ethan’s, but hadn’t set a date yet.
“So,” Marcus said after another swig of his beer, “We were all just wondering if you’ve seen Ethan around?”
JJ fumbled a little as she wiped the bar down. Crap. What was she supposed to say to that?
“We’ve called by the last two nights,” Lacey added, “to check he’s not missing Connie too much or hating being alone in that big old house, but he hasn’t been home.”
JJ shrugged nonchalantly. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s finally getting laid while Connie’s away?”
It was a running joke between her and Marcus and Jarrod that Ethan needed to cut loose a bit more. Lacey had been too young to be involved in such speculation over the years, but at the age of twenty-two had been included in the fun.
Marcus eyes grew dramatically large. “Laid? Hmm, that’s interesting, isn’t it Jarrod? Lacey?”
“Why, yes,” Jarrod said, playing along with deliberate sarcasm.
“So interesting,” Lacey agreed.
Marcus grinned, obviously enjoying himself. “You wanna know why, JJ? Because,” he said not giving her a chance to respond, “Ethan told us he’d been here, at your place the last two nights? Is there something you want to confess? Are you sleeping with our brother, Jemima Jane? Cos I gotta say, he has some pretty impressive scratches down his back.”
JJ narrowed her eyes, looking first at one Weston then the other, then the other. She folded her arms, refusing to answer for a moment, until she thought of an answer that didn’t incriminate her. “It’s not what you think,” she said lamely.
“So he’s not getting laid then?” Marcus pushed. “Cos you know if anyone needs it, it’s Ethan, right?”
JJ paused again as images of Ethan getting well and truly laid undulated through her head in erotic technicolour. “There is nothing going on between your brother and me,” she said evasively, keeping her voice low, aware that nobody knew how to mind their own business in this place.
“Really?”
“Really,” JJ nodded, her voice steady, her gaze unwavering as she lied straight to Marcus’s face. JJ knew she could bluff her way out of the situation. She’d been putting one past the Weston brothers for a lot of years.
And that should have been the end of it. Would have been. If only Ethan hadn’t chosen that moment to walk into the pub and assert his claim. He strode towards them in that easy way of his, the perfect combination of his father’s height and looks and his mother’s poise and presence, a gleam of purpose lighting his brown eyes.
Marcus, Jarrod and Lacey all turned to watch. “Here he is, the man of the hour,” Marcus grinned.
But Ethan ignored him, his gaze fixed solely on his quarry as he grabbed the edge of the wooden bar and vaulted over the top of it, landing with style and grace on her side. JJ was vaguely aware of every head swivelling in their direction as he grabbed her round the waist, yanked her against him and kissed her hard on the mouth.
Every cell in her body melted at the contact. Her brain short-circuited as it overloaded with conflicting signals. How right it was. How wrong it was. But her lips responded—softened. Moved. Sought. Opened.
Then just as abruptly he pulled away and smiled down at her. “Hi honey, I’m home,” he said just loud enough for everyone to hear him in the absolute silence that had fallen inside the pub. “Don’t be too late tonight, I have plans for you.”
And then he gave her ass a squeeze and let her go, saluting his siblings as he headed for the door that led to the stairs. That led to her room.
Their room.
JJ stared after him, watching him go as did everyone else. She turned back, all eyes now on her. “Alright, show’s over,” she said. “You can all stop gawping.”
The curious locals returned reluctantly to their drinks and conversations, but there was no such luck with the remaining Westons. “So, you were saying?” Jarrod asked.
JJ’s brain was too scrambled to deal with them. “Isn’t there a fire somewhere you could be putting out?” she said.
Jarrod shook his head. “I don’t know. Reckon you’re looking pretty hot and bothered though. Shall I call up the guys and get them to bring the truck around?”
Marcus laughed at her exasperated look. “Relax, JJ. Ethan told us about Shane being back in town and we also know about Delia’s intention to apply for custody. We know you’re faking it,” he whispered as he leaned forward conspiratorially. “We think it makes good sense. That it’s a perfectly symbiotic relationship.”
JJ cocked an eyebrow. “Symbiotic? You swallow a dictionary?”
“Hey, I’m a highly skilled medical professional,” he grinned. “I know symbiotic.”
“But,” Jarrod said, his face growing serious, “we also know you’ve been carrying a torch for our brother for a lot of years and we want to check you’re really okay with it.”
JJ blinked as all three Westons watched her intently. Their eyes held compassion and a frankness she wanted to shy from. They knew she was in love with Ethan?
What. The. Fuck?
Heat flooded to her cheeks. How many other people in the town knew it? “I … don’t know what you’re talking about.”
In the midst of her embarrassment, denial came easily. It was her knee-jerk response every time the good folks of Jumbuck Springs had ever dared speculate about her friendship with Ethan.
“JJ,” Lacey said softly. “It’s okay. Your secret is safe with us. We just don’t want you to … get hurt, that’s all. When it’s over. When Shane leaves town and the custody thing with Delia is sorted.”
JJ thought it was sweet that Ethan’s family were looking out for her, but it was depressing to think that none of them thought their fake relationship could develop into something real. That no-one thought she actually had a shot with him when the reasons for being together no longer counted.
Not good old JJ.
She knew it was because they believed, as she did, that Ethan was still in love with Delia. But it didn’t lessen the sting.
“It’s fine,” she assured them with a smile that made her face ache. “I know what this is. I know it’s a mutually beneficial thing.” She glanced at Marcus. “Symbiotic. I know it’s temporary. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
All three Westons relaxed in the face of her assurances. “You’re a good friend, JJ,” Marcus said gruffly. “He’s lucky to have you.”
JJ smiled. Yup. Good old JJ.
The pub closed at ten on weeknights and Ethan was sitting on her lounge, watching the television in his jeans and no shirt, when JJ made her way up stairs. He turned around when she opened the doo
r.
“Ah, the little woman returning from a hard day’s work to cook my dinner and iron my shirts.”
JJ made a very rude noise. “That’ll be the day.”
“Come, sit,” he said standing and beckoning her over. “Tell me about your day, dear.”
JJ took in the vast stretch of naked skin between his shoulders and his hips and thought sitting next to him sounded like a particularly heinous form of torture.
“Knock it off, Ethan,” she grouched, kicking her shoes off. “I’m tired and my feet are killing me.”
“Just practising,” he said cheerfully. “Come on, I’ll give your feet a rub,” he offered. “I want to talk to you.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Just keeping you up to date,” he said.
JJ wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what he had to say, and frankly she should have been running a hundred miles from his offer, but her feet betrayed her with a painful throb.
She’d kill for a foot rub.
“I’m still not ironing your shirts,” she said, folding her arms.
He held up his hands and waggled them about. “No strings. I promise.”
JJ moved towards him, mollified. But strangely depressed. Maybe she wanted strings. Big, fat strings that tied and pulled tight the longer they were together.
The kind of strings Lacey, Marcus and Jarrod clearly hadn’t thought possible.
Ethan moved down to one end of the lounge and she took the other, propping herself against the arm, one foot extended. He reached for it and tucked it in close to his groin, his fingers automatically finding the tender flesh of the sole and pressing.
JJ bit down on a moan. It felt like heaven. And hell. Exquisite torture. Agonising pleasure. She shut her eyes instead.
“You smell like beer,” he said.
He didn’t. He smelled like soap—her soap—and sweet liquorice. She loved the combination—so familiar. So Ethan.
“Occupational hazard,” she murmured, keeping her eyes shut as his fingers worked magic on her left foot, a sigh escaping before she could drag it back.
“That good?” he asked.
Good? She needed to check if she was drooling. “Mmm,” she said, not trusting her voice, as bolts of pleasure travelled up her foot to her calf and right between her thighs. They fanned higher, snaking through her belly and breasts, brushing fingers of heat over her shoulders, up her neck and spreading delicious tingles through her scalp.
God alone knew how many pressure points he was stimulating, but she was pretty sure he’d found the one for her clitoris and she squirmed against the couch trying to ease the sensation.
She dropped her head back onto the arm as his fingers continued their delicious onslaught. An image of her lifting her foot, trailing her big toe over his abs and higher to his pecs, took hold. Then bringing it down again, burrowing her foot into the snug denim V between his legs. Feeling the ridge of his arousal against the flat of her aching flesh, pushing into the hard length of him. Feeling the throb of his erection pulsing against the throb of her foot.
JJ suppressed another sigh as the heat between her legs intensified. Every stroke of his thumbs arrowed straight to her centre, as if he was stroking there instead. She remembered how hard and hot he’d felt the other night. How long it had been since she’d come apart in a man’s arms.
And a throb located significantly further north than her foot started up deep and low.
God, was it possible to orgasm from a foot massage alone?
And, if so, could she manage it without him knowing?
