by Susan Napier;Kathryn Ross;Kelly Hunter;Sandra Marton;Katherine Garbera;Margaret Mayo
‘Oh? What name would you have given him?’
‘I’m thinking Lucifer.’
Her mother’s eyebrows rose. ‘That’s quite a name.’
‘He’s very handsome.’ She thought her mother needed at least some advance warning.
‘What about wicked?’
‘I hope not.’ Erin hesitated. ‘Instinct tells me he’s a good man. It also tells me he’s no stranger to the dark side.’
‘A man doesn’t have to be part of the darkness to walk through it.’ Big fan of Chinese poetry, her mother. ‘What does he do for a living?’
‘No idea.’
‘You should have asked.’
‘I intend to ask.’ Erin slit the packet of coffee open with a knife. No more waltzing around the subject. She needed to know. ‘He’s just so…elusive.’
The doorbell rang. It was ten o clock. ‘Punctual, though,’ said her mother. ‘I like that in a man.’
‘How do I look?’
‘Fresh. How do you want to look?’
She was wearing casual green trousers and a sleeveless cotton top in pale pink. A dozen thin Indian-style gold bangles danced along one wrist. ‘I was aiming for businesslike with a twist.’
‘I think you overdid the twist,’ said her mother. ‘Do you want me to answer the door or will you?’
‘I’ll get it,’ she said with a sigh, and headed up the hallway.
He was wearing a white business shirt. The top two buttons were undone and the sleeves were rolled to his elbows, but it was a business shirt. The rest of his clothes were what she’d come to expect: comfortable-looking cargo trousers, wellworn boots…
There was sulphur-crested cockatoo sitting in a cage at his feet.
‘This is Pat,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately the neighbours had to go to church.’
O-kay. ‘Come on through.’
He picked up the birdcage, followed her through to the kitchen, and Erin watched with fatalistic resignation as her mother took one look at Tristan and Pat and fell in love with them both. When the introductions had been made, when Tristan was sitting at the breakfast counter with Pat sitting next to him, and Erin was brewing up the coffee, Lillian Sinclair sat opposite Tristan and favoured him with a long, assessing look from over the top of her glasses.
‘Cake?’ she offered.
‘Thank you.’
She cut him a thick slice. Pat got wholegrain bread with a slather of honey.
‘No swearing,’ said the parrot by way of thank you.
‘Not in my kitchen,’ said Lillian affably. ‘So, Tristan, Erin tells me you’ve been living in London.’
‘Yes.’
He looked uncomfortable, Erin decided. He hadn’t touched his cake. She brought the coffee pot over to the counter, found mugs for everyone. ‘Black, two sugars, right?’ she said as she poured the coffee.
‘Right.’
‘Eat,’ said Lillian, gesturing towards the cake. ‘You look like you could use some nourishment.’
With an oddly defenceless glance in her mother’s direction, Tristan picked up his piece of cake and ate. ‘It’s good,’ he said after a man-sized mouthful.
‘It should be,’ said Erin. ‘I bought it from the corner deli.’ There were shadows in his eyes this morning. Shadows under them. ‘You look like you could use some sleep as well.’
‘I sleep fine.’ He finished his cake, reached for his coffee. ‘I eat plenty.’
‘Hell,’ said Pat. ‘Purgatory.’
‘He’s Catholic,’ said Tristan.
‘He’s forgiven,’ said her mother. ‘What brings you back to Australia?’
Tristan shrugged. ‘Whim. I had some leave owing. I decided to come home.’
There was more to it than that, thought Erin. Maybe he’d been worked over by a woman. ‘How long will you be staying?’ she asked him.
‘Six weeks.’
Six weeks was a lot of time to be away from a job. Any job. She knew it was rude to ask a person what they did for a living, but she had the feeling that if she didn’t ask him outright he’d evade the subject for ever. ‘What exactly is it that you do?’
‘I work for Interpol.’
Erin stared at him, open-mouthed. Not what she’d been expecting. ‘Paper pusher?’ she asked finally.
‘No.’
No.
‘Damnation,’ said the parrot.
‘Now, now, Pat. It’s not that bad,’ Lillian told the bird. ‘He could have been Navy.’ That would have really annoyed her.
‘An Interpol cop,’ said Erin flatly. ‘You.’
‘Why? Is that a problem?’
‘Only for your future wife.’ He was watching her intently. Her mother was eyeing her with something very close to sympathy. Tristan Bennett was a cop. Serve and protect and all that went with it. Another man with secrets to keep and a job that came before family. Why on earth hadn’t she seen it sooner? All the signs had been there. The strength, the aloofness, the quiet authority…
‘At least you’ll be safe on your trip,’ said her mother.
‘Yeah.’ Damn him. Why couldn’t he have been a stockbroker or a tax accountant? ‘Why police work?’
‘I like justice,’ he said quietly. ‘I enjoy the chase.’
‘Do you always get your man?’
‘No. Not always.’ He looked away but not before Erin had seen the frustration in his eyes, along with an underlying anguish that clear took her breath away. Ditch the failed-relationship theory. Tristan Bennett had been worked over by his work.
Great, just great. Now she wanted to comfort him. So did her mother. Her mother cut him another piece of cake. Her mother had been married to a military man for twenty-eight years; her firstborn had followed in his father’s footsteps. Taciturn, soulwounded warriors were Lillian Sinclair’s speciality.
‘Here’s where I need to get to,’ said Erin, fishing a map from a pile of papers and spreading it out on the counter. She knew a thing or two about distracting wounded warriors herself. ‘I was thinking we could take the inland road.’
‘You’ll be driving straight past the Warrambungles, then,’ said her mother. ‘You could go climbing.’ She eyed Tristan speculatively. ‘You’re about Rory’s size, give or take a couple of kilos. You can use his gear.’
‘You climb?’ asked Tristan, looking from her mother to her.
‘Sinclair family sport. I’ve been climbing since I could crawl.’ It wouldn’t hurt to pack the gear in the back, just in case. ‘Do you climb?’
‘No.’
‘Would you like to? We can go as easy or as hard as you like. Your call. I figure you for the vertical limit, do-it-or-die-trying type, but I could be wrong.’
‘Wonderful sport, climbing,’ said Lillian. ‘Challenges the body, clears the mind, and then there’s all that spectacular scenery thrown in for free. I don’t know why it isn’t more popular. More cake?’
‘Who are you people?’ said Tristan.
‘Hey,’ said Erin indignantly. ‘You’re the one who brought the parrot.’
Half an hour with Erin and her mother passed quickly. Lillian Sinclair had a knack for making even the wariest of people relax, decided Tristan, even if she had been persistent about feeding him. Sandwiches had followed the cake. Thick crusty Vienna loaf sandwiches with rare roast beef, salad greens, homegrown tomatoes, and mustard. She’d made him two of those and he’d made short work of them. He’d been hungry. Hungrier than he thought.
Oh, they’d grilled him. Lillian Sinclair knew of his father through some art gallery who’d consulted him on Chinese pottery pieces so they talked about him for a while. He’d told them of his three brothers, all of them older, and his younger sister. They’d talked about London and Kensington Gardens, the River Thames and the gentrification of Chelsea, where he had his apartment. Rock climbing, yoga, children’s book illustrations, and the merits of super-sharp kitchen knives. All had been touched on and considered.
Not your average family.
‘See?’ s
aid Erin as she walked him and Pat out to the car. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’
‘It was bearable.’
‘Nah, you liked sitting in my mother’s kitchen. Everyone does. You just won’t admit it.’
She was right. But he still wasn’t going to admit it. ‘So you’ve taken my measure. What now?’
‘Pack for a week and I’ll pick you up in the morning,’ she said as he bundled Pat into the passenger seat. ‘Unless you’ve changed your mind.’
‘I haven’t,’ he said, but he thought she might have. ‘Have you?’
‘No.’
She looked pensive. He thought he knew why. ‘You don’t much like what I do for a living, do you?’
‘I’m sure you’re very good at what you do,’ she said coolly.
She smelled of sunshine and lemons, and her slim little body seemed tiny when compared to his, but he had her measure now, just as she had his. She was pure steel. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’
Her eyes grew stormy. ‘Arrest me.’
She had a smart mouth. Lush, unpainted, sexy. He liked looking at it. He was looking at it now. ‘What is it that you don’t like?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said with a toss of her head. ‘I only want you for your gem-guarding skills. I’ve decided against wanting you for anything else.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. You’re an intriguing man, don’t get me wrong. But you’re not my type.’
‘Are you quite finished?’ he asked silkily.
‘I think so.’ She tucked a stray strand of shiny brown hair behind her ear and nodded. ‘Yep. All done.’
‘Good, because I have this theory.’
‘Scientists have theories.’
‘Cops have them too. You see, I think you’re attracted to me. Lord knows, for some strange reason I’m attracted to you. Want to test my theory?’
‘No.’
But her cheeks were flushed, and when he traced her lips with his fingers they parted for him. Soft, so soft, he’d known they would be. The pulse at the base of her neck was beating frantically, he found the spot with his fingers and watched with no little satisfaction as her lashes fluttered closed and her breathing grew ragged.
‘I don’t want you,’ she said.
‘I can see that.’ He gave her every opportunity to move away as he slid his hand around the back of her neck and closed the gap between their lips. She didn’t move towards him, not one little bit, but she shuddered when his lips touched hers and that was all the encouragement he needed. Once. Twice. And then again.
It was the third time that did it.
He thought he was in control. Just a quick taste of her, that was all he’d take. Just to prove that she was no different from any other woman, certainly no sweeter. That it was all in his imagination. He was still in control when she slid her hands to his shoulders. Still coherent when he pulled her towards him. And then their bodies touched and fire streaked through him as her lips opened beneath his and then he knew.
She wasn’t sweet.
She wasn’t like any other woman he’d ever known. And his control deserted him.
Deeper, she took him there and he thought he might drown in her desire. More, she gave it to him and he shuddered at the extent of her generosity. She reached up and sank her fingers into his hair and offered him more again. Nothing mattered but the woman in his arms and the magic they created. Nothing.
He’d been kissing women for half a lifetime, but not like this. Never like this.
Abruptly he released her.
Her lips were swollen, her eyes bewildered, as they stared at one another in shocked silence.
‘Hell,’ he muttered, taking a giant step back and shoving his hands in his pocket to stop himself reaching for her again. ‘You’re not my type either.’
Erin made it back to her mother’s kitchen without her legs giving way. That was the good news. The bad news was that her mother took one look at her and just plain knew what she and Tristan Bennett had been up to. ‘I think I just had an epiphany,’ she said as she slumped down onto the stool Tristan had vacated. ‘Seriously. The earth moved, fireworks lit up the sky, and I’m pretty sure I heard harps playing in the heavens.’
‘That’s interesting,’ said her mother. ‘Tristan hear them too?’
‘I don’t know. He left in a hurry.’ Nought to sixty in three seconds flat. In a Corolla.
‘I liked him,’ said her mother.
‘He’s all wrong,’ countered Erin. ‘I should ring him and cancel the trip. I’ll just have to buy stones at auction, that’s all. There’s one on Friday.’
‘Good idea,’ said Lillian. ‘You might even find stones you like that you can afford this time round. Not that you ever have before.’
Erin sighed heavily. ‘He’s a cop.’
‘An elite cop. A Criminal Investigation Officer, I think you’ll find.’
‘Go on. Rub it in.’
‘The trouble with you is you can’t see past his occupation.’
The trouble was she’d been intrigued by him from the start and his occupation didn’t seem to matter a damn. Now she was even more fascinated by him, and that was a bad idea for a girl who wanted a husband who came home every night and wasn’t compelled to keep secrets from his family. ‘Is it so bad to want to fall in love with a man whose work doesn’t take him all over the globe hunting down bad guys?’
‘Not at all,’ murmured Lillian. They’d had this conversation before. ‘I’m the first to admit it can wear thin at times. But a passionate crusader won’t be satisfied with menial work, Erin. The two just don’t go together.’
‘I don’t want a passionate crusader.’
‘Sweetie, you imprinted on them at birth. I doubt you’ll settle for anything else.’
‘I’ll marry a doctor, then. At least they get to stay at home while they save the world.’
‘Yeah. Those doctors have it so easy. Eighteenhour days, life or death decisions to make, needy patients…Their wives have it easy too. Special occasions are never interrupted by a call from the hospital and their husbands are always home at six every night, bright, cheerful, and ready to help cook dinner.’
‘Okay, so maybe that wasn’t such a good example.’
‘Life’s a balancing act, Erin. You have work that you’re passionate about too. Find the right man and the balance will come, no matter what he does for a living. As for Tristan Bennett, he’s available, suitable, and willing to help you achieve your goals. He’s exactly what you need. Make sure he eats.’
Oh, please! ‘He’s a grown man. He’ll eat when he’s hungry.’ Erin frowned and drummed her fingers on the counter. There was something else bothering her about Tristan Bennett apart from his incredible kisses—something big. ‘He’s running from something,’ she said finally. ‘A botched case. A bad call. He’s hurting.’
‘I noticed that.’ Her mother eyed her steadily. ‘He responds to you.’
‘Reluctantly.’
‘But he does respond.’
Chapter Three
HALF an hour. That was all it had taken Erin and Lillian Sinclair to unravel him, thought Tristan darkly as he wove his way home through the leafy suburban streets. Hell, the last time he’d been played so skilfully was in his Interpol recruitment interview six years ago; back when he’d been naive, idealistic and a whole lot more malleable than he was now. He liked to think he’d matured a little since then. He liked to think he’d grown smarter. Not that the last half-hour was any indication. Anyone witnessing that little debacle could be forgiven for thinking he wasn’t smart at all.
He thought back, tried to pinpoint how they’d slipped through his guard, but he came up empty. He’d sat down on that stool, Lillian had looked at him, Erin had dumped two loaded spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee cup, and he’d been history. ‘See what stress does to you?’ he told the cockatoo. ‘You don’t eat, you don’t sleep, and you say yes to things you’d never usually agree to.’ Like brunch and
week-long gem-buying trips. ‘Then you go and kiss a woman who doesn’t like cops, mainly to annoy her, and end up misplacing your mind.’ Tristan slowed for a roundabout. ‘Stay away from women, Pat. That’s my advice to you.’
Pat ignored him completely. Pat was busy preening feathers. It occurred to him, belatedly, that Pat might just be a female cockatoo—which meant that from the tender age of nine he’d been spilling all his innermost secrets and no few kissing fantasies to a girl. ‘Patricia?’
Pat stopped preening feathers to look at him with a beady eye. ‘Hallelujah, brother.’
Whoa! Definitely a female. How could he have missed it? All of a sudden, Tristan’s world had tilted off course and it didn’t seem to matter which way he looked, nothing was what it seemed.
He’d been looking forward to this road trip. Opals, sapphires, miles of road, and the company of a beautiful woman with a smart mouth and an easy smile…He’d wanted the distraction, wondered where it might lead, and he’d fanned the spark between him and the pixie deliberately. Hell, he was only human.
But he’d been thinking light-hearted. A pleasant diversion, for heaven’s sake, not full on enslavement.
She didn’t like what he did for a living.
Snap. Right now, neither did he.
He lived in London.
In a two-bedroom flat with the city all around him and no room to breathe. If he quit his job there was nothing keeping him in London. He could go anywhere, do anything. He could come home.
He was scared witless of giving his heart to a woman and then losing her.
There was that.
Sometimes a man’s fear was buried so deep that it couldn’t be reached and it couldn’t be conquered. It just was. It certainly didn’t need a reason for being, although Tristan figured his was tied up with losing his mother and watching his father crumble. Oh, his father had rallied, they all had, but there was no denying that the loss of his mother was engraved on his heart. Then he’d watched Jake marry young, watched his brother struggle to keep his dream alive and Jianna happy, only to have her leave him six months later. Sweet, loving Jianna, who’d been a part of their lives since before he could remember, had turned tail and fled, taking the best part of Jake with her.