by Susan Napier;Kathryn Ross;Kelly Hunter;Sandra Marton;Katherine Garbera;Margaret Mayo
‘It’s about the gem-buying trip next week. I’m going to have to bail.’
‘What?’ Her voice rose. ‘Why?’
‘New task orders came through this morning. We leave for Sumatra in three days’ time.’
‘Dammit, Rory. I knew this would happen! Why you? Why now? What about the leave they approved two months ago?’ Erin paced the length of the car, turned, and paced back. Rory was an Army Engineer and wedded to his work. Questioning his choice of career or the Army’s decision-making was pointless. ‘Scratch those questions. Does Mum know?’
‘We’re only rebuilding infrastructure, Erin. It won’t be dangerous.’
‘So she doesn’t know.’
Rory sighed. ‘I’ll tell her tonight. At dinner. You will come, won’t you?’
‘No!’ She ran a hand through her hair, knowing full well that her refusal to go to dinner would be short-lived. Rory always took them out to dinner whenever notice to move orders came in. It was a family tradition. Her father, a Rear Admiral, always took them out to dinner whenever his deployment orders came in too. Hell, the defence forces probably had a protocol booklet outlining exactly how to deliver such news to loved ones. It probably said, Make sure you’re in a public place and feed them first. ‘Dammit, Rory, it better be somewhere expensive because you owe me big. My collection’s due in a month. I need those stones!’
‘I’m sorry, Erin. If you can find someone else to go with you, preferably a eunuch with the protective instincts of a Rottweiler, you can still take the car.’
‘Gee, who to ask? The list is so long.’
‘I see your point,’ he said. ‘Okay, you can widen the search criteria to include females. But she still has to be capable of covering your back.’
‘I could go alone.’
‘Only if you intend paying by card and getting the stones shipped to you. That could work.’
‘Don’t do this to me, Rory.’ He knew as well as she did that the best stones were found in the most unlikely places—the one-man mines where you could forget bank cards and delivery options. Out on those claims they traded stones for cash and that was it. ‘There’s no one in your unit staying behind who you could con into coming with me?’
‘Absolutely not!’
Erin sighed. She had an ironclad resistance to military men. Why Rory felt the need to protect her from them was a mystery. ‘Maybe I’ll put an ad in the paper.’
‘Over my dead body,’ he said. And then, ‘Dinner’s at Doyle’s. Just so you know.’
Harbourside views and the best seafood selection in Sydney. He did have guilt. ‘What time?’ she countered. ‘Just in case I can make it.’
‘Seven-thirty, and if you’re not there I’m coming to find you,’ he said, and hung up.
Great, just great. Erin scowled as she ended the call and tossed the phone on the front seat. Her passenger had retrieved his bag and was regarding her with a tilt to his lips that told her he’d found the show amusing. Lucky him.
‘Problems?’ he murmured.
‘Yeah, but I’m working on a solution.’ She had other options. She could buy stones at auction or off the Internet. But she wouldn’t get value for money and her chances of finding something that little bit different would be slim. No. Not good enough. The design competition she’d entered was a prestigious one. Reputations were made there. Careers forged. She needed six perfect pieces of jewellery and for that she needed perfect stones. ‘You’re not a eunuch, are you?’
‘I’m not even going to ask where that question came from,’ he said.
‘It’s just that I need a co-driver,’ she said in a rush and his gaze slid to the chauffeurs cap on the front seat. ‘Not for the taxi. For a gem-buying trip out west. And not just any driver. He has to be built like, er, well, like you. For bodyguarding and safe gemkeeping purposes. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in coming along?’
He looked surprised.
And then he looked stern.
‘You should be more careful,’ he said. ‘What would your brother say if he knew you’d just asked a complete stranger to accompany you on this trip?’
‘I really don’t want to dwell on it.’ Desperation obviously did strange things to a woman. She had no idea who he was or what he did for a living and absolutely no idea what had possessed her to ask him on this trip. So she was impulsive, always had been. She wasn’t normally this impulsive. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Bad idea. Forget I asked.’
‘I wouldn’t recommend an ad in the paper, either.’
‘You’re not alone.’ Ten to one he had a sister stashed away somewhere. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’
‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Nothing. The meter wasn’t running.’ He had that look about him, a stubborn slant to his chin that told her he was going to be difficult about this. ‘Okay then. Answer a question for me and we’re square.’
‘You want to know what I do?’
‘What makes you think that?’ He levelled a look at her that made her want to laugh. Damn, but he was appealing when he wasn’t being melancholy. ‘I’d rather know your name.’
The silence that followed was awkward, to say the least.
He didn’t want to tell her.
‘Never mind,’ she said with a rueful shake of her head. She should have known better. Did know better. There was just something about him that made her want to know more. ‘Slate’s clean. Have a nice day.’
‘Tristan,’ he said gruffly as she went to get in the car. ‘Tristan Bennett.’
There was power in a name so carefully given. Erin halted and stared at him in silence. Those marvellous toffee-coloured eyes of his were guarded and the expression on his face was wry, as if he’d surprised himself with his revelation. Such a small, everyday thing, the giving of a name. Except that now that she’d won it from him she had no idea what to do with it.
‘Well, Tristan Bennett,’ she said finally. ‘Welcome home.’
Chapter Two
TRISTAN didn’t want her to go. Maybe it was curiosity or maybe it was just that he was putting off stepping through that front door and into his childhood, but now that she was on the verge of leaving he was looking for ways to keep her there. ‘What do you need the gems for?’ he asked.
‘When I’m not driving taxis I make jewellery,’ Erin said. ‘There’s a competition coming up in four weeks’ time, a prestigious one, and for that I need good stones.’
A jeweller? He wouldn’t have picked it. ‘You’re not wearing any jewellery.’
‘Company policy. There’s less to rob.’
Good policy, he thought. ‘So when were you planning on making this trip?’
‘Next Monday.’
One week away. ‘Well, if you can’t find anyone you know to go with you, let me know. Maybe I can help.’ What was he saying? Why was he offering to help her? He wasn’t that good a Samaritan. Obviously he was more jet-lagged than he thought.
She was looking at him with her head cocked to one side. ‘You’re very sweet, aren’t you? Underneath it all.’
Sweet? No one had ever called him sweet before. He tried the word on for size, found it an uncomfortable fit. ‘No.’
‘Suit yourself,’ she said. ‘Anyway, better get going. Places to go.’
She was leaving. ‘You haven’t told me your name yet.’
‘You don’t want to know my name.’
‘I don’t?’
‘No. Not really.’ Her smile was rueful. ‘But I’ll tell you anyway. It’s Erin. Erin Sinclair.’
It took Erin five days to admit defeat. Friends, cousins, distant cousins…they were all busy. Maybe if she’d been able to give them more notice she’d have had better luck, but she didn’t have that luxury. The competition pieces had to be ready in a month. She was running out of time, almost out of options. Almost.
There was still Tristan Bennett.
He was everything she needed. Tough, protective, and determined to keep his distance. He’d said
he might be able to help.
Maybe it was time to find out what he meant.
Erin debated hard over what to wear. She wanted her dealings with Tristan to be businesslike so she decided on beige trousers, flat sandals, and a collared shirt. Never mind that the shirt was a deep, vibrant pink and that the neckline dipped low. To her way of thinking, creamy skin and cleavage was simply a backdrop for more important things.
Like jewellery.
She opted for one of her favourite necklaces: a slim column of polished jade with a freeform platinum swirl oversetting it. Erin knew the history of jewellery all the way back to Mesopotamia. The materials, the motifs, the meanings and the making of them. Her designs were good. Different. In her more confident moments she even thought she had a shot at winning this competition.
With the right stones, the right design, flawless execution…
One step at a time.
To make a tough job easier you carved it up. You set goals and time frames, and attacked it systematically. Her father had taught her that when he’d tried to instill in her a respect for military ways and military ideals. He thought she hadn’t listened, thought he’d failed her when she’d told him she wanted to design jewellery rather than weaponry, but he was wrong. He hadn’t failed her and she had listened. First things first. One step at a time.
She needed the right stones. And for that she needed Tristan Bennett.
One-ninety-two Albany Street looked different with the lawn mowed and the garden tamed. He’d let the climbing rose have its way along the verandah, and he’d left the autumn leaves beneath the old oak trees, but it was big-picture tidy and all the more appealing for those things he’d let be.
It wasn’t until Erin pulled into the driveway and brought the car to a halt that she saw him. He was on a ladder braced against the side of the house, scooping leaves from the gutter. Man at work. And then his gaze connected with hers as she got out of the car and the leaf scooping stopped.
‘Erin Sinclair,’ he said as she came to a halt not far from the ladder and Erin smiled up at him. He’d asked her her name out of pure politeness but at least he remembered it.
‘You’ve been cleaning,’ she said. ‘You do good work.’
‘You’re back,’ he countered. ‘I wondered if you would be.’
‘You’re a hard man to forget.’ Easy to dream about though.
‘You couldn’t find anyone to go with you on your trip out west, could you?’
‘No,’ she admitted as he came down the ladder, first his boots and then the rest of him. ‘But you are hard to forget.’ He was bigger than she remembered him, his skin a touch browner. A sun-kissed dark angel, she thought, and wondered if every woman who saw him got that little bit breathless or if it was just her. He slipped his heavy-duty gloves off and slung them over a rung of the ladder, revealing his strong, square hands. Hands that would know their way around a woman’s body.
‘I still need a co-driver,’ she said, trying hard not to think about how those hands would feel rushing all over her. ‘And I was wondering if you’d be interested in the position. I’ll pay for your meals and accommodation, of course, and maybe we can come to some arrangement regarding payment for your time. It wouldn’t be much, but if you’re currently, er, looking for work, every little bit helps, right?’
‘I don’t need your money,’ he said. ‘Save it for your purchases.’
‘So you’re not out of work?’
‘I’m currently on leave from my work.’
Whatever that was. Not exactly forthcoming when it came to talking about himself, she’d noticed that before. ‘I’m expecting the trip to take four or five days, depending on what I find and when. The first stop is Lightning Ridge for opals. After that I want to head over to Inverell to look at the sapphires.’
‘I can manage a few days.’
‘You can? Just like that?’
Her smile was like sunshine, her warmth drawing Tristan in even as he moved away. She was too open, far too trusting. Everything he wasn’t.
‘There’s just one problem,’ she said. ‘I don’t know you all that well. I’ll need to run some sort of check on you.’
Maybe not that trusting, he amended, applauding her good sense. ‘How?’
‘I’m thinking of taking you to dinner.’
Dinner? Tristan stared at her in disbelief. ‘You call a dinner date a foolproof method of taking a man’s measure?’
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It needs tweaking. We’ll have it at my mother’s.’
‘Your…’ What? ‘Oh, no. No.’ He shook his head for emphasis. ‘I don’t do dinner with other people’s families.’
‘It’s just my mother,’ she said soothingly. ‘Possibly my grandmother as well.’
Two mothers. ‘Absolutely not!’
‘Well, I can’t very well go haring off with a complete stranger for a week without someone in my family knowing who I’m with, can I?’
‘You should meet my sister,’ he said darkly. ‘What about your father? Can’t I meet him instead? Or your brother?’ Brothers he could deal with. He had three of them.
‘They’re out of the country. Besides, they can be a little overprotective about these things. Mothers are far more reasonable. Say seven o’clock tonight?’
‘No.’
‘When, then?’
Never. ‘What if I gave you my driver’s licence?’ he said. ‘You can discover a lot about a person from their driver’s licence.’
‘Like what? That they can drive?’
‘Their full name and address. Their date of birth. With that you can access other records.’
‘You’re not a criminal, are you?’
‘Not yet.’
She looked at him through eyes that were clear and thoughtful and not nearly as guileless as she would have him believe. ‘Okay, I’ll cut you a deal. Sunday brunch but it’s still at my mother’s. In the interests of fairness you can bring your mother too.’
Tristan shook his head. ‘My mother died a long time ago.’ He’d been twelve.
Startled silence greeted his statement and Tristan waited warily for her reaction. This wasn’t information he usually offered up. He hated the sympathy that came with it; that soft, nurturing look women got in their eyes when they found out. He was thirty years old. He did not need mothering.
‘Guess that’s out of the question, then,’ she said at last. ‘What about your sister?’
‘She lives in England.’
Erin Sinclair sighed and the pretty little pendant dangling from the chain around her neck seemed to sigh right along with her. ‘I don’t suppose you have a spinster aunt nearby who loves nothing more than to talk about your childhood escapades?’
‘No, but the next-door neighbour’s cockatoo remembers me. I could bring him.’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ she said. ‘Bring the neighbours as well.’
Relentless wasn’t usually a word he applied to whimsical women with laughter in their eyes, but in this case it seemed to fit. ‘Couldn’t you just trust your own judgement?’
‘I am. It says never trust a man who refuses to meet your mother.’
She had a point.
‘Last chance,’ she said. ‘Brunch tomorrow morning. You can even set a time limit. Say, half an hour?’
Still he hesitated.
‘If I have to find someone else to come with me on this trip, I will.’
‘You’re bluffing.’
Her hands went to her hips; her gaze was steady. She bluffed very well. He found, disturbingly, that he kind of liked the idea of a week out west, hunting down gemstones with Erin Sinclair. ‘How many mothers?’ he said at last.
‘Just the one if it makes you any feel better.’
It did. Surely he could manage one mother for half an hour. It wasn’t as if they were dating. No. All he had to do was meet the woman, reassure her that he’d look out for her daughter, thank her for the coffee, and leave. ‘One mother, half an hour,’ h
e said firmly. ‘Maximum.’
‘No problem.’ Her smile was warm. ‘I’ll pick you up at ten o clock?’
‘Give me the address and I’ll meet you there.’ His father’s car was in the garage. It could use the run. Although…He turned his attention to the five-point-seven-litre, eight-cylinder, factorymodified Monaro sitting in his driveway. Now that was a very sweet ride. ‘Yours?’
‘Rory’s,’ she said and started towards it. Tristan followed willingly. ‘I don’t have a car. He offered to let me take it on the trip but I figured if I did, the sellers would take one look at it and triple the price of the stones. I’ve decided to take my mother’s Ford instead. She can drive the Monaro.’
‘I think I’m going to weep.’
‘You would if you had to put fuel in it.’
‘You see, that’s where you’re wrong. We’re talking sledgehammer acceleration and a top speed guaranteed to make your eyes water. The price of fuel is secondary.’
‘You sound just like my brother,’ she said as she fished a cardboard drink coaster and a pen from the Monaro, set the coaster face down on the roof of the car, and started writing on it. ‘What is it with men and fast cars?’
Tristan winced. ‘Mind the duco.’
‘I swear, it’s like an echo,’ she muttered, her attention still on her task. ‘Why do you think I’m using a coaster?’
‘This is a good idea, right?’ asked Erin the following morning as she set a packet of freshly ground coffee and a bar cake down on her mother’s kitchen bench. She hadn’t lived at home for over two years but she’d never quite kicked the habit of visiting her mother’s kitchen on a regular basis. It was the perfect place to sit and chill and, when necessary, grill potential travelling companions. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’
‘Very sensible, dear.’ Lillian Sinclair regarded her daughter over the top of a pair of purpleframed reading glasses. The glasses bordered on the theatrical; the eyes behind them were shrewd. ‘What was his name again?’
‘Tristan Bennett.’
‘I knew a Tristan once. He was a dance choreographer. Darling man.’
‘I don’t think this one’s a dance choreographer.’ Not that she knew for sure, but the thought of Tristan Bennett mincing the floorboards in tight tights and a V-necked T-shirt didn’t really work for her. ‘Tristan’s a misleading name for this particular man.’