by Amy Redwood
Yes, she liked the idea.
Besides, what else was there to do? She sure as hell wouldn’t fly back home to get married. She studied the garden cottage. “Ada, I saw your sign at the front door. You run a B and B?”
“Oh yes. It’s vacant at the moment because a couple canceled to stay longer on South Island. Honeymoon,” she added with a sly smile.
If this wasn’t a sign… Her own honeymoon would have been to the Bahamas, but who cared?
“Fantastic,” Katherine said, her mind set. “You know, you’re right. I need to do up the house before I get a sale. It would be great if I could stay in your rooms.” Perfect solution. She avoided the hotel, which would have reminded her forever of her night of sin, and she was closer to the villa. She was sure Ada’s small cottage in the garden was as neat and tidy as the rest of the main house.
“’Course you can.” Ada beamed and pointed to her garden, and Katherine knew she had been right about the cottage house. “It’s a sleep out, just one room and a bath, but I make a mean breakfast and you can use my kitchen anytime you want.” Ada got up and opened a door directly leading into the garden. “Go on, have a look.”
———
Katherine stepped over the doorstep into Ada’s sleep out and stood immediately in front of a huge bed with beautiful wrought iron head- and footboards. The comforter was covered in pillows of various sizes, all of them with flower patterns. Next to the bed was a table with a modern, cordless telephone, oddly out of place in front of the old-fashioned tea rose wallpaper.
She sat down on the bed and phoned the hotel to arrange for her suitcase to be sent to Ada.
A small desk with a chair on the long side of the room invited guests to write postcards. A sturdy dresser with a mirror completed the furniture. On the walls hung a few framed photos, and she laughed when she spotted a small cupid statue in the corner. Behind a narrow door, she discovered a bathroom complete with shower, fitted out with golden fixtures.
A honeymoon hideaway if I ever saw one.
With a last amused look, she closed the door behind her, spotted that the cottage even had its own small path leading directly to the main street and walked back through the garden to the door leading into Ada’s kitchen. Turning the handle, the door pushed open from inside and an overly excited Labrador bounced into her.
“Ouch!” she yelped while the dog jumped, barking, onto the lawn. Steadying herself again, she laughed, stepping into the kitchen. “Ada, your dog is—”
She shut her mouth as she looked into a familiar pair of dark eyes. Heat shot into her body, lightning up her nerves. He stood two steps away, a mug in his hand, and she was at a loss for words.
He wore jeans and a tee, and his stance was casual enough, but he gripped the mug so hard that the muscles in his arm corded. He blinked, shaking his head, and sat down at the kitchen table, choosing the same chair she had sat on a few minutes ago.
“Katherine,” he said quietly, her name rolling over his tongue in a way that made the breath catch in her throat. “Christ, Yankee, you just took five years of my life.”
When she didn’t answer, her heart jamming against her ribs, he said, “And I meant that in a good way.”
“How come you know my name?”
“My aunt told me her new neighbor was drinking tea with her.” He took a sip from his mug. “Miss Miles,” he said, a diabolical grin on his face, which clearly told her he had recovered from whatever shock he’d suffered from seeing her again. “You look a bit pale. Didn’t you sleep well last night, Katherine?” he said, again rolling her name over his tongue with obvious pleasure.
Blood rushed into her cheeks and she couldn’t stop the sensual images that flooded her mind, couldn’t stop her body reacting to it. It was as if her skin were too tight and she would burst at the first touch of his hand.
He studied her over his mug, stripped her with his gaze, and she breathed a sigh of relief when Ada walked into the kitchen and broke the tension.
“Good, you’ve met my nephew already.”
“No,” she said out of impulse.
“Yes,” he said at the same time.
She could have smacked her forehead. Ada meant here in the kitchen, not somewhere else. She heard his barely suppressed laugh, and Ada looked confused.
“What I mean,” Katherine said, searching for the right words, “is we don’t know each other. But we met at the airport and shared a taxi.”
“Shared a taxi?” Ada asked even more puzzled. “Why, Trent, didn’t Bill pick you up as usual?”
“As a matter of fact, he did,” he answered, his voice cautious.
“Bill,” Katherine said slowly, looking at him, but he avoided eye contact, finding the contents of his mug deeply fascinating. His presence scraped at her like fingernails on a blackboard. Still, he was the reason her panties were uncomfortably damp all of a sudden. “Ada, can I have the keys, please? I haven’t looked inside the villa yet.”
Ada nodded, crossed the room and fished in an old porcelain sugar bowl. When she found the keys, she placed them into his hand. “Trent, why don’t you go too?” Ada turned to her and stage whispered, “He’s dead useful for house repairs. Maybe he can give you a hand?”
All kinds of dirty images sprang to mind as she repeated Ada’s innocent words in her head. Her gaze turned to him as he left the kitchen without looking in her direction. Stunned, she heard him opening the front door and with a click, it closed again.
Absolutely not.
She went after him and found him at the picket fence, searching for the right key to fit the lock at the gate.
“I don’t need help. My keys, please.”
“You heard my aunt. I can’t say no to her.”
She gazed into his face, transfixed on the curves of his mouth and noticed a faint scar running along his jawline that she hadn’t noticed before.
“You,” she said, “let me make a fool of myself by not telling me that was your cab, your driver to begin with. You are despicable.”
“Yes, I know,” he said with a sigh. “Would you prefer me to be a gay serial killer?”
“My keys, please.”
“My aunt moved into her house about five years ago, and ever since, I’ve wondered about the villa. Such a shame that no one lived there all this time. Let me have just one look inside the house.”
“Nope.”
“You’re just being resentful, Yankee. And you were a pretty cute fool, if that helps,” he said.
“It doesn’t help,” she said, but it was no use. He made her smile, made her stomach flip-flop. And she couldn’t deny it, she was more than glad to have bumped into him again.
She heard the sound of a key breaking in the lock.
“Well,” she said dryly. “I told you to give me back the keys.”
“True.” He jumped over the fence with ease and then held out his hand. “Sorry, I’ll take care of the repair.”
She ignored his help. He’d made her come with his fingers last night. Touching him wouldn’t make her current situation any easier. She was already half on the other side when her shoelace tangled up at the fence. She lost her balance, but instead of falling into the weeds, his hands gripped her waist, holding her like the night before. She steadied herself and looked up into his eyes.
“Hmm, this feels familiar. Have we met before?” he asked, giving her a squeeze before he released her. She couldn’t move a muscle and watched him walk away, unsure if she should be disappointed or relieved that he hadn’t made a move to kiss her.
Slowly, she followed him along the graveled footpath twisting through the garden. He had vanished, and she took in the unkempt mess of wild flowers, shrubs and weeds. Rosebushes were in bitter need of a trim, but the scent of lavender drew her closer to the tiny purple flowers. She let her fingers glide through them, plucked a handful and rubbed them between her fingers.
“You like lavender?” His deep voice behind her startled her out of her thoughts.
S
he didn’t turn around and just nodded. “It reminds me of… I don’t know. I just remember the smell.” The scent of lavender was the only thing she vaguely remembered, besides that, she could have sworn she’d never set foot in this garden before. She turned to him. He was close, and she jumped when he took her hand where she held the crushed flowers. He lifted her hand to his face and breathed in.
“When I was a child,” he said, “I picked a bunch for Ada from her own garden. I ruined the whole shrub with my scissors. She dried them and put them everywhere in my room. The smell lasted for months. I still hate lavender,” he said casually, and let her hand free.
She opened her fingers and let the flowers fall out, wishing she could stop the flutter in her stomach. She shook out her hand, angry with herself, but couldn’t ban the memory of his touch.
He had walked several yards away and called over his shoulder, “Come on. I managed to open a door without breaking it.” Not waiting for a reply, he disappeared into the backyard.
She followed, found him standing on a porch, his face cast in the shadow of a large weeping elm. “After you.”
She hesitated for only a second before she walked through the weathered back door and stepped into a large kitchen. She didn’t remember the room, couldn’t see herself sitting at one of the old wooden benches. Couldn’t see her mom at the sink, doing the dishes, or opening the old oven to cook a roast. No memories, none. She hadn’t expected to, but it still left her oddly sad.
“Hey, Yankee,” he said quietly from behind her. “Did you think of me when you woke up this morning?”
His voice made her stomach tighten and she turned, looked at him as he stood in the doorway. He came toward her, the door swinging shut behind him. It wasn’t hard to guess what was on his mind. She could see it in the swagger of his walk, the glint in his eyes and the bulge in his jeans.
Chapter Four
She shook her head, holding out her hand as if to ward off a wild animal. “You stop right there. This is not—”
“Shut up,” he whispered, pulled her close, backed her up until the sink pressed against the small of her back. “I didn’t plan this, but it’s too damn impossible not to.”
Grabbing his shirt, she pushed against his chest, trying to break his iron grip. He had her so solidly cornered she couldn’t twist free of his hold. When she opened her mouth to tell him no, he kissed her, tongue delving deep as if to reclaim her, his hands shoved into her hair. A rush of sensation, of want and need, flooded her body. She stopped pushing, pulled him closer instead, achingly dizzy with desire. He was hard against her, hard everywhere and smelled of a lemony scent and coffee, and like last night, all heat and power.
He shoved his knee between her thighs while he pulled up her dress. Her panties slipped down her knees as he tugged them down without finesse. He cupped her, his palm pressing against her mound. Her pussy clenched deep inside, the ache painful in its intensity. His palm was wet from her juices and there was no denying that she craved him desperately. She knew it, and he knew it now. She spread her legs and made a low sound as he ground against her slick clit.
“Fuck,” he said in a strained voice, seeking her gaze. “I wasn’t thinking this through.”
Before she could ask what he meant, she sucked in her breath as his fingers started rubbing her clit. She gripped his shoulders, arching into his hand. Round and round he moved, faster, harder, and her head fell back, clinging to him, dimly aware of the noises she made. When she reached for his crotch, feeling his hard cock inside his jeans, he brushed her hand aside, a rough groan in his throat.
She grabbed his neck, pulled him into her. Stabbing her tongue inside his mouth, she bucked against him. She could feel the tension building, climbing with rapid speed as he applied more pressure to her clit. She craved more, craved to feel him thrust inside her and fill her pussy. Fill her cunt with his thick cock like last night. But when he returned her kiss, thrusting his tongue inside her mouth, matching the movements his fingers made on her clit, heat surged, a stroke of white-hot pleasure whipping through her body. She cried out her release, shuddered in his arms, felt sweat slick down her spine.
Her breathing returning close to normal, she relaxed against his chest, closed her eyes because she couldn’t look at him, her emotions too raw. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes, but she held them in, if barely. He steadied her, sank to one knee. He lifted the hem of her dress. She gripped his shoulders, sucked in her breath as he touched the tip of his tongue to her center, licked.
“Goddammit, Yankee,” he growled. “I’d do anything right now for a condom.” He tugged her panties up and rose. “Look at me,” he said, holding her chin, forcing her to look him straight in the eye.
She blinked at him, cheeks prickling hotly, and felt wicked and ashamed and bold at the same time. And very, very sated. “You do that well,” she said, “even though there was so little in it for you.”
Her studied her, took a step back. “You’re not going to cry this time, I guess.”
She shook her head, her chest tight suddenly. “Why would I cry?” she asked, holding her head high, “I’m not engaged anymore. I’m free to do whatever I want.”
“And I’m sure that’s exactly what you told your stripper-loving fiancé,” he said, and walked out of the kitchen into the adjoining room.
She balled her hands, stalked after him into the next room and suppressed the urge to sneeze. “Why do you even care?”
“I don’t, you do.”
“Ah, shut up,” she murmured, drawing in a deep breath, hearing him chuckle. “What’s that smell?” she asked, careful where she placed her foot. There were gaps on the floor and dust and grime so thick she couldn’t identify the floor’s material, though she guessed rotten wood, which would explain the smell.
There was a grand, open fireplace where an old bird’s nest rested and, after a closer look, a very dead rat. She walked around, careful not to touch anything and gazed up to the high ceiling.
“What’s that?” She pointed up.
“Pressed steel ceilings,” he said. “I guess 1890s.”
He knelt and brushed away the dust on the floor. “Look, tongue-and-groove. Matai or Rimu wood.” He got up again, pointing to the windows. “Stained-glass windows.” He stepped over for a closer inspection. One window was broken, and she could see the stains the rain had left on the floor underneath.
“Let’s look at the other rooms.” He disappeared behind wide French doors.
She followed and with each step, her heart sank deeper.
It was worse than she had expected.
Bedroom doors didn’t close or were altogether nonexistent, damaged walls everywhere, and the overall odor reminded her of mildew and mouse droppings. Faded tapestry hinted at better times, but these times had gone a long time ago. No need to look at the bathrooms. She was sure they were a complete catastrophe.
She couldn’t even remotely imagine that she’d once lived here with her mother. She returned to the kitchen, avoiding the skeletal grin of the dead rat in the fireplace.
She felt no qualms over selling this house.
He wore a rapt expression as he knocked hard against the walls. Great, maybe the house would just collapse, saving her from the impossible task of selling the wreck. She could collect insurance instead. Or maybe she should sue the maintenance company, but what a headache that would surely turn out to be. She should have rented out the house instead of leaving it empty all these years.
“This place is a gem,” he said with so much reverence, it turned her stomach.
“This place is horrible,” she replied, eyeing the enthusiastic look on his face and not liking it one bit. “Actually, that’s wrong,” she said. “Calling the house horrible doesn’t come close to the truth.”
He stared at her, smiling. “Don’t you realize, this must be one of the last Victorian villas,” he said, and swept his hand around, “with floors, ceilings, windows and rooms uniquely intact. The house is living his
tory.”
“Completely my point,” she said. “I need a quick fix to get everything in shape, to modernize it.” She swept a hand through the room. “Apart from the disgusting smell and broken walls, your history is dirty and plain rotten. The bedrooms are too small and especially the kitchen…” The house wasn’t worth half of what she’d imagined and she would need a lot more than TLC to fix this mess.
“You are joking,” he said, looking thoroughly bewildered.
“This house is a graveyard for mice and birds, not a place to live. Of course I’m not joking.” She glared at him, willing him to see her point. “Without this hideous fireplace the other room would be open, with more appeal. I want some walls down and why not combine the two small bedrooms.”
She walked back into the kitchen. “These windows…pretty and all, except there isn’t enough light coming through,” she said, stopped in front of him and pointed upward. “Pressed steel ceilings—do you know what century we’re living in? They have to go too. When I’m done with this house, it will be clean-cut and airy and contemporary. I want the highest possible offer.” Who was she kidding, any offer would actually do.
He stared at her, his dark eyes distant and gradually losing the fiery glow she had seen all morning. He took a sudden step toward her, and she took one hastily back.
“Tell me,” he said in a strangely calm voice, “why do you think you can come to my country and plan to destroy a piece of history for profit?” He stood with crossed arms before her, tall and threatening. “I won’t let you do it.”
His anger radiated toward her as he took another step closer. A cold tingle ran down her spine and she moved away until she stood with her back against the sink.
The feeling was familiar, the edge of the sink pressing against the small of her back, but he didn’t lean in to kiss her.
Her shock at his strong reaction ceased. She pushed away from the sink and lifted her head. He had managed to frighten her, something she wouldn’t allow to happen again. Only inches between them, his breath was warm on her face. She didn’t flinch away from his cold eyes.