Wellington Series 2

by Kris Pearson

  A bathroom—functional but dated. And a big moonlit front bedroom with a three sided bay window and Bren’s truly awful suite, just as described, sitting on splayed brass-ferruled feet.

  He shuddered to think anyone had once considered such a design beautiful, and dropped down to sit on the bed for a few moments in the dim light.

  Ballentine Park Mews. So close now he could taste it. Paved forecourts in front of the ground floor garages, with narrow gardens and low walls separating each. Color-schemed for individuality, built fast and efficiently, and finished with flair.

  He lay back and stretched his arms above his head, tired but satisfied. His hands hit the old headboard—certainly not big enough for his bed, and absolutely not to his taste.

  He closed his eyes and imagined what he’d really like ornamenting his bed. She looked surprisingly like his challenging firecracker of a cousin.

  Impossible of course, but no less desirable.

  *

  Jetta paid off the cab and limped up the path in her too-high heels. Anton had left the hall light on for her. Good—that’d make it easier to find the right key in the bundle.

  She bent and felt under the pot. Nothing.

  A prickle of unease raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

  They’d joked about burglars earlier that evening. Surely the house wasn’t being done over right at this instant? She’d heard a funeral notice in the newspaper could act as a signal for undesirable visitors.

  Empty house now—come and rob me late at night.

  Oh, please no. Even though there was very little to take, the violation would be the final insult on a shocking day.

  She put a cautious foot on the lowest step. It was probably silly to go in on her own. Was Anton awake? She glanced next door in the faint hope he might still be up. Total darkness—no help there.

  She climbed a further step and cocked her head to one side, listening intently. There were no sounds apart from distant traffic and her own thudding heartbeat.

  Up the third step. She reached across to the door and with the utmost caution tried the handle.

  It turned.

  Her pulse kicked up another notch. At least she had access, but what was Anton thinking, leaving the house unlocked after his earlier lecture on security?

  She stepped inside, grateful the lights were on. Nothing seemed amiss—then down the far end of the hallway she caught sight of the repainted kitchen cupboards. Her jaw dropped and she clutched her bag to her chest.

  She tiptoed toward them, silent on the old carpet, still wary, but intensely curious. He’d done them while she was at the movies! How was it possible to achieve that in half an evening? Where had he found paint?

  She gazed around, transfixed. What a difference the paler doors and plain timber floor made. If she took the kitten calendar down and replaced it with the big avant-garde one Modus Textiles had given her for Christmas, things would look good.

  Then she caught sight of the gateau, carefully centered on the table.

  Anton?

  Who else, you fool? Bren and Hallie were both at the movies with you.

  Tears stung her eyes, and she tried to blink them away. He’d done this for her after all her harsh and disbelieving words, all her bitchy behavior?

  She drifted across to the table, pushed the ribbon aside, and lifted the plastic box. Very professional and delicious-looking cake. Very amateur placing of candles... Her lips quirked.

  Unable to resist, she pinched off the end of the slice and popped it into her mouth. The rich chocolate icing and moist crumbly cake melted on her tongue. Heaven.

  But why was the house unlocked? She saw now that he’d tossed the keys onto an old black paint-rag on the nearest chair. Satisfied the place wasn’t being ransacked, she grabbed them and walked along the hallway to secure the door.

  Level with the front bedroom she froze.

  A noise! A soft sighing sound. Definitely human. Oh God—was her imagined burglar real after all?

  The sound came again, but it was quiet, almost soothing. There were no shadows to indicate movement, and her commonsense told her if anyone lurked in the bedroom the combination of moonlight and the nearby streetlamp would throw their silhouette onto the opposite wall.

  She crept across and peered through the narrow gap by the door hinges. On the bed was... an almost naked man. Making snuffly, sleepy noises.

  Every hair on her body slammed upright. Every nerve pinged to full alert.

  She tried to get a better view through the small space. He sprawled out as though he owned the place.

  Anton?

  She sharpened her attention even further. One arm lay flung out to the side, and the other shielded his eyes from the streetlamp.

  It had to be Anton.

  Even though she couldn’t see his face, she could see plenty else. He was bare-chested, long-legged, male, and terrifying.

  She dropped the keys and clapped a hand across her mouth to keep herself silent. Violent trembles raced up and down her spine. Her knees did their jellifying act again, but this time she had no handy chair to drop onto. She sagged against the doorframe instead, eyes tightly closed, trying not to vomit up the movie popcorn and her white wine and the mouthful of delicious cake.

  Would she ever, ever, ever conquer the fear?

  For maybe sixty seconds she remained cowed and terrified, eyes averted, clutching the woodwork.

  Breathe in. Deep and slow. Breathe out. All the way, just like Doctor Julia Menzies taught you.

  In again.

  Out. There’s nothing to be scared of.

  It’s not Uncle Graham. You’re not nine years old.

  It’s Anton. He’s not going to touch you, not going to hurt you. Breathe in. Breathe deep. Relax your fingers.

  Let go of the doorframe. It’s not Uncle Graham.

  Gradually, gradually, the frantic hammering of her heart slowed until it was down to an uneven and throat-filling thump.

  Slowly the nausea passed, and she regained control of her stomach.

  One hand continued to hold the doorframe in a vise like grip, but the other relaxed enough to scrub over her sweat-beaded face. Her fingers still trembled, vibrating against her skin as she rubbed at the nervous wetness that had sprung out across her forehead...over her top lip...on the back of her neck.

  Not Uncle Graham. Not Uncle Graham.

  She wobbled down to a crouch and retrieved the keys from the carpet, fingers numb and fumbly. Did she dare to lock herself in with him? She walked the few steps to the front door, tried the wrong key first, sliding it into the lock, and then finding it wouldn’t turn. Cursing under her breath, she pulled it out and inserted the next. The bolt moved into place. Now no-one from outside could get in—but could she make a dash out to safety if she needed to? She hoped she could.

  She retraced her steps to the bedroom doorway.

  Heard deep regular breathing, and then a small snore.

  He’s sound asleep. You’re safe.

  Another small breathy snore. More like the whicker of a horse, really. Her lips curved up into a smile, even though she still felt very far from calm.

  Had he been so tired after all his work that he’d needed to crash? And wouldn’t he get cold wearing so little?

  Jetta slipped off her tall shoes, picked them up, and padded along the hallway to her room. She swapped the stilettos for a pair of old sandals, twitched her favorite mohair blanket from the wardrobe shelf, and took a couple of slow deep breaths for bravery.

  At least two more minutes passed before she dared creep right in to the front bedroom. He was quiet again now—still lying in exactly the same position. His feet were flat on the floor. Big feet in old sports shoes. No socks that she could see. Had he been sitting on the end of the bed and collapsed sleepily backward?

  His long thighs were meatier than she’d expected for such a tall man, but maybe it was because they were pressing down against the mattress? They looked strong and streamlined, and in th
e moonlight she could see the faint haze of hair covering them.

  Perhaps if she could bear to be as close as this tonight she might manage to overcome her fear. Some day.

  Flicky panic waves tweaked at her nerves, calling her a coward, an inadequate woman, a cry-baby.

  Uncle Graham had called her a cry-baby.

  She stood statue-still, fighting her old terrors. She had never been so close to a semi-clad man. Not on her own.

  She could manage being part of a group at the beach or pool where friends acted as the buffer she needed. Where she could edge away if she got too uncomfortable.

  She was fine at dinner parties. Or at movie outings when there were at least two couples. Unbothered at work, even when visiting a male client at his home for a design consultation. That was business, and let’s face it, he was often gay if there was no wife present.

  This was not business. This was as personal as it got.

  A bed, a man, and way past midnight.

  A big handsome man who was sound asleep. Who didn’t know she was there, wanting so much to look, and to learn, and to test herself.

  She shook the blanket out and stepped closer.

  He had shorts on. Proper outdoor shorts, not underwear, she saw with relief. And although the fabric bulged at his groin, it was nothing like the shocking big lump that used to stick out in Uncle Graham’s trousers.

  Jetta knew what went on in men’s trousers, and she was careful never to put herself in the situation where a terrifying lump might rear up.

  So far, so good. She advanced a cautious half pace and let the blanket settle beside him on the bed. If he woke she had her excuse right there. But he continued to breathe deeply and slowly. His chest rose and fell, and the deeper breaths sometimes made his belly rise, too. His long, flat, smooth, golden belly.

  Suddenly she wanted to touch. Wanted to know how warm he’d feel. How smooth and firm. How nice. He was so much nicer than Uncle Graham; the small hot ripples of pleasure between her thighs made that abundantly clear.

  The memory of the morning returned. She stood in front of the drawing board with him, aware of herself as a woman—confused but strangely thrilled. She bit her lip. Her mouth was watering! She swallowed, and felt the saliva begin to pool again.

  Anton drew a much deeper breath, tensed, sighed and relaxed. The arm flung up over his eyes slid sideways. Now she could see his face, but was he going to wake up?

  She moved the blanket closer in case she needed to pretend she was covering him, and was pleased when his breathing slowed and his eyes remained shut.

  Finding untold courage from somewhere deep inside, she reached a cautious finger down and laid it on his nipple. The small flat disk made such a tempting target. A warm smooth target, soft as velvet. She moved her fingertip lightly to and fro, and gasped as it changed shape and pushed up, almost as though searching for her. She pulled her hand away, astounded. So his did it too?

  Perhaps I shouldn’t touch him again, even though I really want to.

  She lowered her face close to his chest and sniffed instead. She smelled the soap from his earlier shower... the biscuity aroma of hardworking man... the underlay of male musk.

  She straightened, and touched his hair—the lightest brush over the top of his head. At dinner, her fingers had wanted to wander there, and it felt exactly as she’d imagined it would. Springy and thick; as vital as he was.

  More daring now, she stroked again, and then again—this time touching his brow before traveling slowly backward.

  His nearest hand gave a sleepy swat at her as though brushing away an annoying insect. His fingers curled and clamped around her wrist, warm and inescapable.

  The panic came sweeping back, and Jetta did her utmost to remain silent and calm. Why had she started this? She had no right being here, touching him…using him as an experiment, if she was honest.

  Anton turned slightly in his sleep. His lips nuzzled her hand and he muttered something she couldn’t decipher. His breath warmed her skin, hot, damp and thrilling.

  With a stealth she didn’t know she possessed, she extricated her hand from his in tiny increments. She stepped away and looked down—only to find that somehow in his sleep he’d sensed the presence of a woman. The fabric of his shorts now strained upward in a tent that rivaled anything Uncle Graham had ever shown her. She couldn’t help the anguished moan that burst from her throat as she flung the blanket into the air and dashed from the room.

  “Hmmmmph? Anton muttered as it landed on him. “Hmmmm?”

  *

  Jetta woke to blinding sunshine, positive she’d never been asleep. But somehow the whole long night had passed. Somehow she’d relaxed enough to doze off—even if it had only been to see Anton again and again, stretched out half-clad, or unclad, or so rampant her thighs jerked with fright and longing.

  All night she’d thrashed around, trying to find a cool, calm place in her bed. Trying to find a cool, calm place in her imagination too, but it was smoking hot in there.

  The pictures in her brain had become ever more vivid. Ever more lustful.

  Uncle Graham was nowhere to be seen; it was all Anton. Anton who was due any minute to start painting again—if he’d ever gone home. Maybe he was still in Gran’s room?

  Shocked by that thought, she scrambled from bed, pulled her most concealing robe around her, and yanked the belt tight, but when she cleared her throat loudly in the hallway and called his name, there was no reply. She peered around the doorframe. He’d left her blanket neatly folded, but he’d gone.

  *

  Anton took another gulp of coffee, set the cup down, and broke a second egg into the spitting frypan. The bacon smelled fantastic, and he was starving.

  He’d woken an hour ago in a room he didn’t recognize, under a blanket that smelled like Jetta. Hard as hell inside his shorts, and totally confused. What was he doing there?

  The previous night slid slowly back into his head. The impromptu birthday dinner. Jetta’s curvy butt in those black leather trousers. Hallie and Bren’s cheerful ribbing. The cupboard doors.

  And something else that couldn’t be for real; Jetta bending over him like a guardian angel, stroking his hair, holding his hand, and then disappearing in a puff of smoke.

  He knew she’d found him asleep sometime after she returned home. The sweet-smelling blanket proved that.

  The rest made no sense at all. She was hardly going to caress him in his sleep. Throwing a bucket of water over him was a lot likelier.

  He flipped the eggs and shoveled the bacon onto a plate, still speculating. The ethereal angel had seemed much more real than the raunchy dreams that followed. He knew them for what they were—total fantasy.

  The toast popped up and he threw the hot slice beside the bacon, slid the eggs on top, and took the plate outside to the sunny courtyard.

  His mother had always cooked bacon and eggs for Sunday breakfast, even when her money must have been terribly tight.

  With the wisdom of hindsight, he saw it might have been an attempt to stop his Saturday night dates lasting through into snoozy Sunday mornings in girlfriends’ beds.

  Clever woman, Isobel Scott. Not that he hadn’t spent plenty of snoozy mornings…

  He grinned to himself, and then wondered how she and her sister were getting on. Would they soon be eating bacon and eggs on their holiday island off the Australian coast? No, much more likely they’d be on some sort of sisterly diet thing and getting into guilt-free bowls of mango and pawpaw and melon.

  He finished breakfast and leaned back against the trellis for a few minutes, savoring the sun on his skin, knowing he’d have to start the wall-painting again soon.

  Jetta was up. Water was running at number fifteen and he presumed she was showering. Not hard to imagine her wet, slippery and covered in soapsuds, so he did that for a few pleasurable minutes. When the sound ebbed away, he pushed his knife and fork aside with a clatter, picked up the crust of his toast, and wiped it around the plate to gathe
r up the last smears of egg yolk. It was time to see if his efforts with the cupboard doors had made any difference to her prickly temper.

  *

  Jetta paused, spoon halfway to her mouth, when Anton knocked on the door. How would she ever be able to look him in the eye after what she’d done—what she’d seen!—the previous night?

  Had he known it was her doing the looking and touching?

  Resigned to getting it over with, she padded barefoot along the hallway and pulled the door open, inspecting her jeans and feet with great interest as he walked in. She dared not glance directly at him in case she saw condemnation in his vivid blue eyes.

  “Great morning,” he said, as if nothing had happened.

  “Lovely,” she agreed as he walked past. As fast as that the trembles hit her again.

  He wore the same old khaki shorts and sneakers she’d found him in the night before, but the morning sun showed her more than the moonlight ever had. He was utterly frighteningly male.

  Even though a dark T-shirt covered his upper body, just seeing his muscular legs striding along set all her nerves on edge. He was so much bigger and more powerful than her. How could she possibly risk living in the same house with him?

  The self-defense course that Dr Julia Menzies had insisted she took seemed like a joke. The fancy throws and tricks she’d been taught counted for nothing. Anton would overpower her in seconds.

  She tried to appear cool and calm, but behind that façade she burned with tension and terror.

  He sent her an enquiring grin as he crossed to the corner where he’d left his toolbox.

  “You’re very quiet,” he said. “Did I get the color somewhere near right?” He nodded toward the cupboards.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, shaken out of her silence. “I should have said thank you the instant I saw you. The change is amazing.”

  “Just a temporary job, but it’s a definite improvement on the pink.”

  She nodded, recalling the slice of cake as well. She should thank him for that, too, but she didn’t want him thinking a few favors would change the situation between them. Mercifully, he started to speak again before she did.