by Susan Napier;Kathryn Ross;Kelly Hunter;Sandra Marton;Katherine Garbera;Margaret Mayo
There was laughter in her voice. A warmth that slid straight through him and he relaxed enough to say what was foremost on his mind. ‘I hurt you. We got to the top of that rock and I couldn’t shake the image of you falling. I wasn’t there for you. I couldn’t deal with the thought of losing you. I’m sorry.’
‘You didn’t lose me.’ There was no laughter in her voice now. It was so small he could hardly hear it. ‘I’m still here.’
He needed to see her face. He desperately needed to see her eyes. ‘I’d like to start over,’ he said, his heart hammering in his chest. ‘I’d like to go slower this time and get it right. I’d like to take you to dinner. ‘
‘I’d like that.’ Her voice was slightly stronger now. ‘When?’
‘Tonight?’ No. She only had a couple more weeks to prepare her competition pieces. He didn’t want to jeopardise her chances by monopolising her time. ‘Any time,’ he amended. No, that sounded too casual. ‘But tonight would be good.’
‘Tonight it is. What time?’
‘Seven.’ Seven sounded about right. Except that it was five hours away. ‘Six. I’ll pick you up at six.’ He was as nervous as a teenage boy asking a girl out for the very first time. He didn’t even know where she lived. ‘I’ll need your address.’
She gave it to him. And then she hung up.
It was four-thirty when Erin pulled up in Tristan’s driveway. She’d started cutting two more sapphires, shattered the third, and decided she needed the rest of the afternoon off. She wasn’t sure where they were going for dinner but she’d dressed casually in anticipation of somewhere fairly relaxed. Okay, that was a lie. It had taken her over an hour to decide what to wear and although at first glance her attire could be mistaken for casual, on second glance it was not. Her shirt was a rich and flattering shade of watermelon and clung in all the right places, her skirt was a cool forest-green with a gauzy black undersheath, designer cut to whisper around her calves as she walked, and her shoes, well, they were black and strappy and they weren’t made for walking at all. They were made for seduction. She wore half a dozen slim gold bangles at her wrist for music, a watermelon tourmaline pendant at her neck for luck. She was ready for anything.
She saw Frank’s old Ford, Tristan’s Ford now, off to one side of the garage. The bonnet was up. And then she saw Tristan.
One look at him in his torn work jeans, with his hair tousled and his muscled torso gleaming in the sunlight, and she damn near forgot her own name, let alone what she was wearing. He flashed her a smile and reached for what she thought was a rag, but it wasn’t a rag, it was a T-shirt and he was dragging it over his head and down across his body.
Okay, so he hadn’t known she was coming over early. He’d still heard her pull into his driveway, hadn’t he? She’d driven the Monaro; he’d have to be deaf not to. He could have covered up before she’d stopped the car and started looking for him, but no. He’d waited until she’d seen him without it and then put his shirt on.
He was torturing her deliberately.
She took her time getting out of the car, making sure her skirt rode way up and that he had a clear view before leisurely smoothing it back into place. Two could play at that game.
‘Afternoon,’ he said.
‘Isn’t it. Afternoon, Pat.’
Pat moved along the edge of the car, closer to Tristan, and fixed her with a beady eye. Protective.
‘I cut three stones and got the fidgets so I came on over. I’m interrupting, aren’t I? You’re busy…bonding.’ She eyeballed Pat right back. ‘You do realise that bird is in love with you?’ Tristan looked at Pat. Pat moved closer. The look on Tristan’s face was priceless. ‘Guess not.’
Tristan had never seen anything more beautiful than Erin Sinclair, dressed to stop a man’s heart. That she knew she could stop it didn’t lessen her appeal one little bit. The only thing stopping him from dragging her into his arms there and then was the small matter of him being covered in dirt and grease and smelling like a farm animal. ‘I need a shower.’ He put a protesting Pat back in her cage and all but ran for the kitchen. He pulled a beer from the fridge, cracked it open, and handed it to Erin. ‘I’ll be right back.’
‘Handsome, you just take your time. I’m not going anywhere.’ Her smile was Gidget but her words were pure Mae West.
He managed to saunter down the hallway, at least until he was out of sight.
He hit the shower at a dead run.
By the time he made it back to the kitchen, showered, shaved, and dressed for dinner, he’d calmed down somewhat. Until she went to the fridge, pulled a beer from it, cracked the top, and handed it to him. The beer went on the counter and his arms snaked around her. She came willingly, eagerly, as her lips met his for a kiss that was staggeringly potent. He let her go almost as abruptly as he’d reached for her. He wanted to do this right this time. He wanted to take his time.
He didn’t have a chance in hell.
‘Dinner,’ he muttered. ‘We’re going out to dinner. Now.’
He took her down to Circular Quay and they chose a busy seafood restaurant that overlooked the Quay and the Opera House. It was lively and casual as opposed to intimate and romantic. He was almost certain he could keep his hands off her for the duration of the meal.
‘I love this place,’ she said as she browsed the menu. ‘I never know what to order. I want it all.’
‘What about the seafood platter?’
Her eyes grew dreamy.
He ordered the platter and a bottle of white to go with it. ‘How are your competition pieces coming along?’ he said, and she seemed to come back down to earth with a thud.
‘I hadn’t counted on having so many sapphires, or having to cut them myself,’ she said with a worried frown. ‘I figure if I work day and night for the next two weeks I might just get everything I want to get done, done.’
‘Are you driving taxis next week?’
‘Three shifts.’
‘Can you get someone else to drive them?’
‘Yes, but there’s this small matter of rent.’
‘There’s also the small matter of your future. You need to prioritise.’
‘I am. I will.’
‘I’ll cover your rent for a couple of weeks.’
‘You will not!’ Her eyes flashed fire. ‘But thank you for offering.’
She was as hard to help as his sister, he decided glumly. Women. ‘Okay, here’s the plan. It supersedes my original plan, which was to take you to bed and keep you there for the next twenty years or so.’
‘What about your job?’ she said. ‘You know, the one in London?’
‘I’m putting in for a transfer to Sydney.’
‘Oh.’ She seemed taken aback. ‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’
‘I did. Just then. Do you want to hear the new plan or not?’
Her smile was slow in coming but when it did it damn near fried what was left of his brain. ‘I’m all ears.’
‘The new plan,’ he said doggedly, ‘involves taking you home at the end of the evening and staying away from you until your competition pieces are done.’
Erin sighed heavily. ‘I liked your original plan better.’ She picked up her wineglass, toyed with it. ‘Are you really putting in for a transfer to Sydney?’
‘Cops’ honour.’
They were back at his place by eleven. He didn’t ask her in. Instead, he leaned down and brushed his lips against hers in the briefest of kisses. She had a rainbow to chase. And he had to keep that in mind.
‘What was that?’ she said indignantly. ‘Because whatever it was it wasn’t nearly enough.’
His smile was slow in coming and he hoped it fried her brain. ‘That was goodnight.’
Strawberries arrived from Tristan at breakfast the following morning. The day after that it was bodysurfing with him at Bondi Beach at dawn. He took her home after that. Took her home so she could work.
The days passed slowly. Erin drove taxis and worked on her pieces. Tristan
tracked down car parts and worked on his Ford. His Holden arrived, he told her on one of his brief visits, and he was pulling that apart too. Pat was helping him.
The weekend arrived and Erin finished the earrings for the competition. Tristan took her fishing from a friend’s houseboat on the Hawkesbury to celebrate. They stayed there half the day and he never once looked tempted to move from the fishing deck to the bed inside and make use of it. He was sweet; he was sexy. He was a perfect gentleman.
He caught three fish.
The following afternoon she took him to the Opera in retaliation. Three solid hours of Berlioz. She delighted in the sight of him in a suit almost as much as she delighted in his suffering.
Her need for him grew claws but she didn’t give in to it. She took that shimmering sexual tension he could create in her with a glance and poured it into her work.
She finished the bracelet and the brooch, and the daintiest of hairclips.
She finished the necklace with two days to spare.
She slept for an hour, lay in a steaming hot bubble bath for almost as long, and throwing on some clothes and rolling her finished pieces in velvet and tucking them into her handbag, she went in search of an audience.
She found Tristan and Pat—deep in conversation—as they did whatever it was they were doing to the Ford. They made a pretty picture, it was a pretty spot, but it wasn’t quite the unveiling location she had in mind. She collected them up and with food, love, and an audience of more than mere man and bird in her sights she headed for Lillian Sinclair’s kitchen.
Her mother was painting when they arrived. Erin wasn’t the only one working to a deadline. Today’s illustration was for ‘Tiger, tiger, burning bright’. Erin stared hard at the glowing golden eyes and strong, sinewy lines her mother had created and sighed her approval. ‘He’s so beautiful,’ she said. ‘He’s so…’ Familiar was the word she was looking for. Her gaze slid from the illustration, to Tristan, and then back.
Her mother smiled angelically. ‘Wonderful thing, inspiration. You never know where you’ll find it next.’ She saw Tristan seated at the counter and Pat—in her travelling cage—seated beside him. ‘You look well,’ she told Tristan, studying him from over the top of her purple-framed glasses. ‘You’re getting more sleep. And you,’ she turned her attention to Pat, ‘are positively glowing.’
‘It’s the love of a good man,’ murmured Erin, sotto voce. ‘I should be so lucky.’
‘Was there a reason for bringing us here other than to practise your comedy routine?’ asked Tristan dryly.
‘Indeedy there was.’ Erin delved into her bag for her roll of buff-coloured velvet and rolled it out along the counter. When Tristan studied them intently, her mother’s expression grew reverent, and even Pat looked at them in silence, Erin knew she’d surpassed herself. Win or lose, she was satisfied with her efforts. Of course, she would prefer to win.
‘You finished them,’ said Tristan slowly.
‘So I did.’
‘We need champagne,’ said her mother and headed for the fridge. Grinning, Erin went in search of champagne flutes. A girl had to love a mother who kept champagne in the fridge, just in case.
‘Any news on your transfer?’ she asked Tristan, just in case there was more than one reason to celebrate.
‘It came through a few days ago.’
Erin paused, midway through opening the champagne. ‘And you didn’t think it worth mentioning?’
‘I was waiting for the opportune moment.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘It’s here.’
‘I’m not working car theft any more,’ he said.
‘I’ll be tracking down stolen diamonds.’
‘Get out of here!’
‘Seriously.’
‘Is it undercover work?’
‘Not for me, although there will be men in the field. I’ll be running the show from a desk here in Sydney.’
‘It sounds demanding.’
‘It will be,’ he said, his gaze on hers, intent and searching. ‘But it’s what I do. Part of who I am.’
‘I know that.’ She shot him a smile. Maybe they could open the champagne after all. The cork popped and she reached for the flutes. Pat got a grape from the fruit bowl.
‘You don’t mind?’ he said.
‘Mind? I think I’m jealous.’
‘There’ll be travel involved, particularly at the start,’ he said, and Erin nodded. He would need to be hands on to begin with; she expected no less of him.
‘You like to travel, remember?’
‘I do, but I distinctly remember you objecting rather strenuously to the tyranny of distance when it came to relationships. Not to mention secrets. I may not be working undercover but there’ll still be things I can’t talk about. And there’ll still be things I won’t talk about,’ he said quietly. ‘I know what you want in a partner, Erin. I know I’m not it.’
Her mother was quiet. Even Pat was quiet. They were all looking at her, but it was Tristan she looked to. Tristan who was laying his life out in front of her, warts and all.
‘Yes, well, I’m currently reviewing my criteria with regards to what I want in a partner.’ She looked to her mother and sent her a grateful smile for her wisdom and for the example she set. ‘I’m thinking that if you find the right man the balance will come.’
‘I have to go to the Kimberleys in the morning,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ll be gone for a few days.’
He still wasn’t convinced of her sincerity. But he would be, Erin decided firmly. Eventually. ‘If I’m starting to look a little green don’t be alarmed. It’s just envy.’
‘You could come with me.’
Erin groaned. ‘It’s very, very tempting, don’t get me wrong. But maybe you should go alone this time. Ask me again when there’s less pressure on you to get your operation set up.’ He’d encouraged her to focus on her work when she needed to. She could do no less in return.
He smiled at that. ‘I’ll look around on your behalf. Take notes. Anything in particular you’re interested in?’
‘The flawless whites. No, the cognacs. No…The Pinks.’
‘Jezebel,’ said Pat.
‘Where does she get her vocabulary?’ said Erin.
‘Second book of Kings,’ said her mother. “And the dogs shall eat Jezebel in the portion of Jezreel, and there shall be none to bury her.”’
‘Amen,’ said the bird.
‘Oh, go eat your grape,’ said Erin.
‘Don’t look at me,’ said Tristan. ‘Pat and I don’t talk religion. I only teach her modern language skills.’
‘Moron,’ said Pat affectionately. And gave him her grape.
Tristan drove Erin home from Lillian’s after dinner and she fell asleep on the way. She’d had a glass or two of champagne over the course of the evening but that wasn’t it. She was exhausted. He didn’t know how many hours she’d put in on her competition pieces but he suspected it had been enough this past week to bring her to the point of exhaustion. She was still driving taxis. She’d still managed to spend time with him. But it had cost her.
‘Stay,’ she whispered when he picked her up as he would a sleepy child and carried her to the door.
‘You need sleep,’ he muttered. ‘If I stay you won’t get it.’
‘Stay anyway.’
‘What is it about timing?’ he muttered.
‘What’s wrong with the timing?’ She stifled a yawn. ‘The timing’s perfect.’
‘Just a few more days,’ he muttered. ‘Then it’ll be perfect.’ He set her down, kissed her on the forehead. ‘I’ll miss you,’ he said, and then he was gone.
Chapter Twelve
IT WAS official. Erin Sinclair was not a patient woman. Oh, she could have been a patient woman, thought Erin darkly. If Tristan had come to her bed when she’d asked him and spent the night making wild, passionate love to her she could have been positively saintly when it came to waiting for him to return. But he hadn’t. And boy was she going to make him
pay.
She spent the three days he was away driving taxis and plotting her next step. She submitted her competition pieces and cleaned Rory’s car, polishing and detailing it until it gleamed. She adored the easygoing, laid-back Tristan. She looked at him and saw for ever and it was bright with rainbows and sunshine after rain. She looked at him and saw a man who loved hard and loved deeply. She wanted him to love her like that.
He was staying in Sydney, building a life. He seemed to be building one with room for her in it. He was being such a gentleman and she loved that about him. Really. She did.
But if he didn’t make love to her soon she was going to explode.
He called her the following morning to tell her he was back. He asked if she was busy and when she said she wasn’t he asked her over. It was time to put her plan in motion.
He was sitting on the top step of his father’s verandah when she arrived, drinking coffee and looking sexier than any man had a right to look. She pulled into his driveway with a five-point-seven litre V8 rumble and he smiled and shook his head. When she shimmied her way out of the car his smile grew rakish.
She was wearing a little blue dress that was short enough and tight enough to make a man beg.
And he was going to beg.
‘Welcome back,’ she said when she reached him, leaning over to settle a whisper-light kiss on his lips. It didn’t stay whisper-light for long. His hand came up to cradle the back of her head, he slanted his lips over hers, and unleashed a deep and urgent passion that left her weak and wanting more.
She ended the kiss with a nip to his lower lip and watched his eyes blaze with no little satisfaction. ‘Tiger, tiger, burning bright.’ She was about to pull this one’s tail.
She settled down on the step just below him, making sure he had an excellent view of her cleavage. ‘There I was this morning,’ she said. ‘Sitting there staring at the Monaro—as you do—and all of a sudden I had this hankering to see how fast it went.’
Tristan’s smile widened. ‘You got a speeding ticket, didn’t you?’
‘Not at all,’ she said airily. ‘A girl in my line of work can’t be going around collecting speeding tickets. I’d be out of a job. No, I phoned an old friend of the family who has a dirt racetrack in western Sydney. It’s mine for the day.’