‘Positive.’
He scanned her face and then nodded, as if satisfied with what he saw, but for a fraction of a moment his gaze lingered and the moment lengthened and slowed. She felt as if she were being tugged towards something unknown...something that promised richness and depth and meaning.
But then he blinked and dropped her hands, stepping back so quickly that instead of drifting along on a warm current she found herself having to plant her legs to keep her balance.
‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’
His words emerged clipped and terse, and she automatically shook her head and pulled herself into straight lines.
‘No, thank you. I don’t need anything else.’
Drifting along on a warm current...? Had they been making eyes at each other? Surely not!
He glanced away, the muscles in his jaw bunching. ‘I should take you out to dinner tonight...’
Except he didn’t want to. That much was obvious. And she wasn’t a damn charity case.
‘No, you really shouldn’t. Thanks for the thought, but no. It’s been a hell of a day and jet-lag is catching up with me. I just want some quiet time to process everything that’s happened.’
As she spoke, she moved towards the door, hoping he’d follow and leave. The absolute last thing she needed in her life was another complicated man.
‘A quiet night in is exactly what the doctor ordered. I have your card. Why don’t I give you a call sometime in the next couple of days and we can catch up over a coffee or something?’
Given his earlier desire to leave, he was now moving with studied reluctance. At the last moment he diverted to the kitchen, held up the apartment key, and set it on the counter.
She nodded her thanks. ‘Like I said earlier, I appreciate all your help today.’
‘It was nothing.’
They stood there for a moment in agonising awkwardness. What was the correct way to say goodbye to him? Kissing his cheek would be far too familiar, and yet shaking his hand felt too formal and wrong.
Eventually he nodded. ‘Take care, Callie. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.’
‘Thanks.’ She dug out a smile and offered a dumb little wave. ‘See you.’
He turned and set off down the stairs and she closed the door, leaning back against it and blowing out a breath.
Even with their misunderstanding cleared up, she and Owen mixed like oil and water. It might be wise to spend as little time in each other’s company as possible.
* * *
The sixteen-hour time difference between Sydney and New York didn’t make for a restful night’s sleep, even given Callie’s exhaustion. At three a.m. she woke, ravenous enough for a three-course meal, but forced herself to remain where she was. She didn’t fall back to sleep until after six, and then woke groggy and disoriented at nine.
A shower helped her feel halfway human, but before she could sally forth to find herself some breakfast and buy a phone charger a knock sounded on the door.
‘Grocery delivery for Callie Nicholls.’
Owen had organised groceries for her? She’d been too beat to head out yesterday and find a store. She’d simply heated up a tin of soup she’d found in the pantry and made do with that.
The deliveryman set several bags on the kitchen bench and left again with a cheery ‘Have a nice day.’
She made coffee and toast, and was flicking through the newspaper when a second knock sounded. Another delivery—one she had to sign for. When she opened the package she found a phone charger.
For all his reserve, there was no denying that Owen was taking his duty to assist her seriously. She pulled her phone out and started to call him—and then stopped.
He’d probably be at work by now. She texted him instead.
Thanks for groceries and charger. Dinner on me when new c card arrives.
He replied promptly with a thumbs-up emoji. She waited, but that was it.
‘What more do you want?’ she murmured, shaking her head and setting her phone on the charger, doing what she could to push thoughts of Owen from her mind.
Last night she’d decided to spend the day at the New York Public Library. She was a researcher, she wanted to find out all she could about her family, and where was the best place to research anything? A library.
She fell in love with the Fifth Avenue building the moment she stepped inside its grand marble foyer. And it was a love that only grew as she climbed the grand staircase to the third floor and the Rose Reading Room—a room the size of a football field, with arched casement windows that flooded the space with light, row upon row of antique wooden desks, and murals on the ceilings she stared at so long her neck started to ache.
She happily lost herself in its depths for several exhilarating hours.
Frances’s family—her family—had links she could easily trace to sixteenth-century Europe. The family of Thomas—Frances’s first husband and Callie’s grandfather—was going to take a little more work, but she could already tell it wasn’t going to be impossible.
She wasn’t in the least interested in Frances’s second husband Richard, as he had no blood ties to her, but it was impossible to avoid the headlines and photographs of them in the social pages—especially of their wedding and subsequent divorce. The wedding pictures showed a lavish affair, with the happy couple beaming at the camera. Frances looked absolutely ravishing, and much younger than her forty-six years of age. While Richard Bateman, twelve years her junior, was movie-star-handsome.
Callie fanned herself. Way to go, Grandma.
The divorce, though, had been an acrimonious affair. From all accounts, Richard had been fundamentally incapable of fidelity. Callie winced at the far from flattering photo of Frances snapped only four years later, looking every inch her fifty years.
Maybe falling for jerks ran in the family.
Stop it. Her grandmother’s first marriage sounded rock-solid. Everyone was allowed one or two romantic mistakes in their lifetime. Unfortunately, Frances’s mistake had cost her several million dollars in the divorce settlement. At least Callie had only lost her job.
She stuck out her jaw. But not for long. Soon she’d have an even bigger, better, shinier job, and Dominic would be gnashing his teeth in envy.
And that would be perfect.
Returning to the apartment block mid-afternoon, she pushed open the door and a pint-sized dog, all cute honey-coloured fur, bolted from the foyer inside.
‘Oh, no, no, no...little puppy, wait!’ She pulled the door open wider, expecting to see the owner hurtling down the stairs after it, but nobody appeared.
‘Don’t even think about escaping,’ she told the dog in her sternest teacher voice, not relishing the thought of chasing it all the way across New York.
But no sooner had the dog relieved itself against a nearby railing than it dashed back past her and inside again to race up the stairs. Oh, well. At least it was toilet-trained.
A door on the next landing opened, but the dog didn’t pause. Callie called out a greeting as a woman emerged, but she only sent Callie a glare and returned inside, slamming the door behind her.
‘Wow, so the locals are friendly, huh?’ she muttered, setting off up the stairs. Still, this was a big city, not a country town where everyone said hello to each other.
She pulled up short when she reached the top floor and found the little dog sitting right outside Frances’s door.
‘Who do you belong to, little guy? Because you sure as heck don’t live here?’ There’d been no dog basket or water bowls in the apartment. He looked clean and well cared for, though, and he wore a collar. Someone in the complex must own him.
‘You’re lucky I like dogs,’ she told him. ‘Come in and have a drink and then we’ll see if we can find where you live.’
It was time to introduce herself to
the neighbours anyway.
He drank deeply from the bowl of water she set on the floor, and groaned in delight when she scratched his ears and rolled onto his back for a tummy rub.
‘You’re a little charmer...’ she read the tag on his collar ‘... Barney.’ There was no accompanying address or phone number.
She unpacked the few things she’d brought home with her from the library—a book and some printouts—before turning back to her four-legged visitor.
‘C’mon, Barney. Let’s see if we can find out who you belong to.’
She scooped him up from where he’d settled himself on the sofa. Rather than squirm or struggle, he licked her hand and happily settled in her arms.
‘You’re so good,’ she cooed, tucking the key into the pocket of her jeans.
She decided to start on the fourth floor and work her way down. ‘Hello,’ she started brightly when a man answered the first door, ‘I’m just wondering if this little guy belongs to you? I’m staying in the apartment upstairs and—’
‘No, it doesn’t.’ The man glared at her. ‘You got something against pets?’
‘Of course not. It’s just—’
But she found herself talking to the door that had been closed in her face.
‘Did I hear Claude say you’ve got something against pets?’ demanded the occupant of the other apartment on this floor.
‘No, I—’
‘Wanna kick me out ’cos I have a cat?’
She stilled. ‘Do you know who I am?’
‘We all know who you are.’ And the woman shut the door in her face too.
She continued down to the next floor. The woman who hadn’t returned her greeting earlier didn’t even answer the door, though Callie could’ve sworn she was at home. She turned to find the door of the apartment opposite open, and a man glaring at her.
‘Not my dog,’ he growled.
‘How did you—?’
‘Heard you upstairs.’
Were the walls that thin around here?
‘You coming down here to tell me you’re increasing the rent?’
She moistened dry lips. ‘Nope.’
‘You expect me to believe that?’
Her spine stiffened. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, I don’t. And don’t go disturbing Jilly in Number One. She works nights and needs her rest.’
‘Right. Thank you. I—’ She rolled her eyes. ‘And I’m talking to another door.’
By the time she reached the basement apartment she was feeling ragged. She raised her hand and knocked, not sure if she hoped to find the resident at home or not. A firm tread sounded.
She pushed her shoulders back. No matter how glaring and bad-tempered this person might be, she would not turn tail and run. She lifted her chin, determined to give as good as she got.
The door opened, she hiked up her gaze...and her jaw dropped.
‘Owen!’
* * *
Callie Nicholls stood on his doorstep, and at the sight of her something low down in Owen’s gut sprang to life. He tried to stamp it out, exterminate it. For pity’s sake, if he concentrated hard enough he would conquer the inconvenient heat flooding his veins. He just had to try harder.
A glance at her face, though, and all that was forgotten. The corners of her mouth drooped, her shoulders were hunched up towards her ears, and tiny lines fanned out from her eyes. She looked dragged down, worn thin...exhausted.
‘What’s up?’
‘You really don’t want to know...’ The bitter edge to her words made him stiffen. ‘But maybe you can answer a few questions for me.’
‘Right, hit me with them.’ He’d meant the words to sound rallying, encouraging. Instead they’d emerged clipped—like a command—making him wince internally.
Get a new hotel.
Treat your grandmother with respect.
Tell me your questions.
Way to woo a girl, Owen.
Not that he had any interest in wooing this girl. He had no interest in wooing any girl. He might find her attractive, but he wasn’t making a play for her.
She stuck out a hip and his mouth dried.
‘One: why does everyone in this building hate me?’
Ah.
‘Two: does this dog belong to you?’
He glanced at the little dog cradled in her arms, but before he could answer she powered on.
‘Three: why didn’t you tell me you lived in the basement apartment of the block I’ve inherited? What’s the big secret?’
It took all his strength not to fidget.
‘And four,’ she continued after a short pause, ‘are you going to invite me in?’
In answer to her last question he pushed the door open wider and waved her in. ‘But before you put the dog down, let me close my office door.’
His office was the first room off the hallway that led to the rest of the apartment, and the door stood wide open. He’d been working when she’d knocked.
Her eyes widened when she glanced past him and caught sight of his computer equipment. ‘You have some fancy-schmancy computer gear there, Owen.’ She ruffled the dog’s ears. ‘And we sure as heck don’t want you getting in there and causing havoc, Barney.’
‘Most of the equipment belongs to my company.’
‘The company you work for?’
‘Yep.’
He omitted the salient fact that he owned the company. He wasn’t ready to trust her. He tried telling himself that who he was and what he did was no concern of hers, but it didn’t ring true. Whatever. It had no bearing on their current conversation.
‘You can put Barney down now. It should be safe.’
Her lips twitched. ‘Fingers crossed—but I refuse to give any guarantees. Barney and I aren’t all that well acquainted yet.’
They followed the little dog as he trotted down the hallway and into the open-plan living room.
‘Oh!’ Callie pulled up short when she saw it. ‘I thought it’d be dark and poky down here, but it’s...’
‘Not?’ he finished for her, moving towards the fridge.
‘It’s amazing.’
It was. Light flooded into the room from the French doors that led outside to a small private courtyard. The living room walls were painted a warm cream, and the pale furniture reflected back the light, making the room appear airy and spacious. He could afford something much grander these days, but he didn’t want grander. Not at the moment.
‘Beer?’ he said.
‘Beer?’
She swung from surveying a picture on his wall, her eyes widening and her lips curving in a way that chased away all the shadows.
Don’t focus on the lips.
‘Yes, please!’
Her enthusiasm made him grin. ‘I forgot. Aussies and beer go hand in hand, don’t they? Or is that an outdated cliché?’
‘Nope, it’s pretty much a national standard. Trying American beer is on my list of must-dos while I’m here.’
‘If it’s not up to scratch I can point you towards a couple of local liquor stores that probably stock Australian beer.’
She stared at him, and then she smiled, and for a moment the world tilted.
‘That’s kind of you.’ She hiked herself up to sit on one of the stools at his breakfast bar.
He handed her a beer. And then remembered his manners. ‘Glass?’
She shook her head, glancing back behind her to see the dog lay sprawled in a patch of sun, completely at ease. ‘This little guy has a habit of making himself at home wherever he is. So...?’
She turned back, eyebrows raised. He ordered himself not to stare.
‘How about I answer your questions in reverse order?’ he said.
She sipped her beer, her eyes not leaving his.
He didn’t move to
take the stool beside her, but remained leaning back against the kitchen bench, the breakfast bar between them. Cool, casual, unruffled—those were the things he needed to be.
‘First up—yes, I am going to invite you in.’
A current of electricity surged through him when her lips twitched.
‘Thank you. I’m honoured.’
‘I didn’t mention the fact that I live in the same building as Frances because it slipped my mind. And it didn’t seem important. I moved back into the block eight months ago, but it’s only a temporary measure.’
She set her beer down carefully. ‘You didn’t tell me you live down here because you don’t trust me. That made sense when you thought I’d been mean to someone you loved, but it’s still the case now...’ She stared at him. ‘I suppose that means your natural default position is suspicious?’
He straightened. ‘No, it’s not. I...’
The denial petered out and he forced himself back into an attitude of casual slouchiness. The little dog trotted over to sit at his feet, staring up at him. He welcomed the change of focus.
‘You thirsty, little guy?’
He set a bowl of water down for the dog, but Barney rolled onto his back instead, begging for a tummy rub. With a low laugh, Owen obliged before forcing himself upright again.
‘It never used to be my default position,’ he made himself say. Before Fiona it hadn’t been. But now...
‘So I shouldn’t take it personally?’
‘You shouldn’t take it personally,’ he agreed.
They stared at each other, neither moving, and in that stillness something changed—stirred and unfurled, charging the air. A fist reached into his chest and gently but inexorably squeezed the breath from his body. Panic fluttered at the edges of his consciousness and he had to wrench his gaze away before he did something stupid. Like walk across and kiss her.
What the hell...?
His heart pounded and Callie’s dazed expression, the way her fingers tightened about her beer, the way her jaw tightened, told him she’d recognised what he hadn’t been able to disguise—that he found her attractive...that he wanted her.
She took a long pull on her drink, looking everywhere but at him. Had he made her feel uncomfortable? Or—worse—unsafe?
Secret Billionaire on Her Doorstep Page 5