Which brought him back to square one—he had no choice but to stay put and to grin and bear Lizzie Green’s presence here.
It was ten o’clock when he left the truck’s innards lying in pieces on the machinery shed floor and went to the laundry to scrub off the worst of his grime. The laundry was a simple wooden lean-to attached to the back of the house—a very basic and functional bachelor affair. Tonight, however, it was filled with white linen clothes soaking in sparkling suds, and wispy bits of lingerie dangled from a tiny line suspended above it.
Jack groaned as the fantasies fuelled by those scant scraps of fabric caused a whole new set of problems.
CHAPTER THREE
THE strident laughter of kookaburras woke Lizzie. Disoriented, she lay still, staring about her, taking in the soft grey morning light that crept through an unfamiliar window. Slowly, she remembered her arrival at Savannah yesterday, and why she’d come here.
She smelled bacon frying, which meant Jack was up.
Dismayed, she washed and dressed and hurried to the kitchen. It would be her turn to cook dinner this evening and already the task was looming in her mind as The Great Kitchen Challenge. She wanted to catch Jack before he took off for some far-flung corner of the property, to ask him about the contents of Savannah’s pantry.
He was still at the stove, fortunately, tending to a frying pan, and looking far more appealing than any man had a right to look at such an early hour.
He was wearing a blue cotton shirt, faded from much washing, and old jeans torn at the knee. His fair hair was backlit by the morning sun and his skin was brown and weather-beaten, and he looked astonishingly real, and vitally alive. Impossibly attractive.
But I don’t want to be attracted. I can’t believe I’m reacting this way. It’s bizarre.
He turned and smiled, and Lizzie’s insides folded.
‘Morning, Senator.’
‘Good morning, Jack.’ Good heavens. She sounded ridiculously breathless.
‘Hope you slept well?’
‘Quite well, thank you.’
She cast a deliberately cool glance at the contents of the frying pan and suppressed an urge to enquire about Jack’s cholesterol levels.
‘You’re welcome to share this,’ he said.
‘No, thanks.’ She gave a theatrical shudder. ‘I usually have yoghurt and fruit.’
‘Suit yourself,’ he said smoothly. ‘The fruit bowl’s on the table. Feel free to take whatever you like. I’m pretty sure Bill keeps yoghurt in the cold room.’
‘The cold room?’
With a lazy thumbing gesture, Jack pointed to a door in the opposite wall. ‘Through there.’
Good heavens. What kind of host expected his guests to hunt for their own meals? Lizzie was distinctly put out as he turned off the heat and loaded up his plate, leaving her to march into the huge cold room in search of yoghurt.
Admittedly, the cold room was very well organised, and she found, not only a small tub of biodynamic berry yoghurt, but the cuts of meat she needed for the evening’s meal.
‘I’ve made coffee,’ Jack said, sending her a smile when she returned. ‘And there’s still plenty in the pot.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t drink coffee.’
His eyebrows rose high. ‘You don’t like it?’
‘Not—at the moment.’ The doctors had warned Lizzie to avoid coffee while she was pregnant. ‘I’ll make tea,’ she said, guessing he was unlikely to offer. Then, ‘So what are your plans for the day?’
‘I’ll be bleeding the brakes on the old truck we use to cart feed around the property.’
‘Bleeding brakes? That sounds tricky.’
‘It is, actually. I decided to give the truck an overhaul while the men are away, and I started last night, but the brakes are even worse than I thought.’ His green gaze held hers. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to need a hand.’
Lizzie frowned. ‘But there’s no one left here to help you, is there?’
Across the table, he flashed a grin. ‘That’s why I was hoping you’d offer to help.’
‘Me?’ Lizzie’s jaw dropped so quickly she was surprised it didn’t crack.
‘I’d really appreciate it.’
Stunned, she shook her head. ‘I can’t help you. I’m far too busy, and I don’t know the first thing about trucks. I’ve never even changed a tyre.’
‘You don’t need to know anything. You just have to press the brake pedal a few times.’
Clearly, Jack was one of those people who thought politicians only worked when parliament was in session. Lizzie was used to colleagues who treated her heavy workload with due reverence, but Jack didn’t give a hoot about her investigations into fairer private health incentives.
‘I have a mountain of important documents to read through this morning.’ And I have to spend this afternoon cooking.
‘You could spare a few minutes.’
Shocked, Lizzie stared at him, angry at his lack of respect. That is, she wanted to be angry. She intended to be angry, but his naughty-boy smile was like sun thawing frost.
She heard herself saying, feebly, ‘I—I suppose I might be able to spare ten minutes. No more.’
Which was how she found herself in the machinery shed a quarter of an hour later, balanced on the front bumper of a rusty old truck, breathing in diesel, while she stared helplessly at a bewildering tangle of metal cylinders, knobs, pipes and rubber hoses.
‘I have to get fluid through the system and air out of the lines,’ Jack said.
‘So what do I have to do?’
‘I’ll need your help just as soon as I’ve poured this fluid down the brake line.’
‘Where’s the brake line?’
‘Over there to the right, next to the carburettor.’
Lizzie hadn’t a clue where the carburettor was, but she couldn’t help admiring the concentration on Jack’s face as he poured the fluid, very carefully, not spilling a drop.
That done, he told her to hop behind the wheel, ready to work the brakes, and then he promptly disappeared beneath the truck.
Fine prickles darted over Lizzie’s skin as she watched him. There was something so very earthy and unsettling about seeing a grown man—a gorgeous, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped grown man, no less—on his back, on the ground, easing himself under a mass of machinery.
Jack’s head and shoulders disappeared first, and she found herself staring at his torso and legs…at the bare tanned skin showing through the tear in his jeans—not a designer tear, but a proper work-worn rip—at the battered leather plait threaded through his belt loops…and the very masculine bulge beneath the zip in the centre seam.
Her mouth went dry as she actually imagined lying there beside him, on top of him, under him, their bodies intimately entwined.
‘Right,’ Jack called. ‘Press the brake down steadily with an even force.’
‘Oh.’
Caught out, she had to scramble to get into the truck’s cabin.
‘OK,’ she called, a flustered minute later. ‘I’m pressing the brake now.’
‘Sing out “down”, when you’ve pressed it as far as it will go. And then take it off when I call “up”.’
It wasn’t easy to depress the brake fully. Lizzie had to sit on the very edge of the seat, but at last she called, ‘Down!’
It was ages before Jack called, ‘OK. Up!’
Relieved, she let the brake off, but then Jack called, ‘Can you do that again?’ And the process was repeated over and over, while he patiently tested and retested the first brake, and then the brakes connected to each of the truck’s wheels.
She couldn’t believe he’d dragged her all the way down here just to call out ‘down’. The process took much longer than ten minutes, and she was angry about the precious time she was wasting…
And yet, to her immense surprise, she actually enjoyed the strange back-and-forth communication with his disembodied voice. She liked the sense of teamwork…and she had to admit that brakes were
vitally important… Men’s lives relied on them.
Besides…she kept picturing Jack on his back beneath the massive vehicle…kept remembering how breathtaking he’d looked down there.
Oh, no. Not again.
How could she be obsessing about a man who was at least ten years younger than her? A man who had no idea that she was pregnant?
It was all very disturbing. And surprising. This time yesterday she’d been chairing a last-minute face-to-face meeting to discuss the Renewal Energy Amendment Bill. Today she was perched behind the wheel of a truck in an outback machinery shed, breathing in diesel fumes, and having a disjointed conversation with a man lying beneath the vehicle.
It was almost as if she’d been teleported to another planet.
Finally, Jack shouted, ‘OK, that’s it. All good.’
Relieved, Lizzie scrambled down from the truck, and Jack slid out from beneath it, wiping blackened hands on an old rag. He jumped to his feet with easy grace.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t have done that without your help. You were brilliant.’
He was looking into her eyes and his smile was so genuine, Lizzie became flustered and dismissive. ‘Don’t be silly. It was nothing.’
Jack laughed. ‘I suppose you’re used to putting your foot down.’
Her smile stiffened. ‘It’s a very necessary part of my job. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get straight back to that job.’
‘By all means, Senator. I’ll walk with you to the house. I need to make a phone call to Kate Burton.’
Walking with Jack hadn’t been part of her plan. She’d been hoping to escape his knowing smile, and those ripped jeans, the rumpled shirt, and the smear of grease on his jaw.
As they left the shed and emerged into dazzling sunlight Jack asked in a conversational tone, ‘So how long have you known Kate?’
‘Oh, for quite a few years.’ Lizzie couldn’t help smiling. ‘Kate’s hard to miss. She’s involved in so many organisations. Quite a mover and shaker. On the national board of several charities. She got me onside to help with funding for additional places in aged care.’
Jack grinned. ‘That sounds like her cup of tea.’
‘Actually, it was a tall order. We needed to increase the budget for the aging by a third, but Treasury was blocking it. In the end I had to get support from both houses to allow the passage of a new bill. Kate was very grateful.’
‘No doubt.’ Jack’s voice was strangely rough, and his mouth had twisted into a complicated smile.
‘What about you, Jack? How long have you known her?’
He shrugged. ‘Since I was a kid. She and my mother have always been friends.’
Lizzie expected further explanation, but they’d reached the homestead steps.
‘I’d better let you get to work,’ he said, moving ahead of her, taking the steps two at a time, then swiftly disappearing inside, and leaving Lizzie to wonder if she’d said something wrong.
In his study, Jack raked a shaky hand through his hair.
He picked up the phone, dropped it down again, paced to the window and looked out, shocked by the confusion churning inside him. He fancied Lizzie like crazy, but she was the last woman on the planet he should chase.
Why would he want to? It didn’t make sense. Why would an outback cowboy even dream of getting together with a high-profile federal senator, who had the power to affect the course of their nation?
She wasn’t remotely his type. She was ambitious, and driven. The kind of person he’d always steered clear of. Too much like his father.
Jack’s stomach clenched tighter as he thought about his old man.
Ambition, boy. That’s what you need. A man’s nothing without ambition.
Sure, Dad.
To please his old man, Jack had chosen his life’s goal at the age of six. Together they’d watched Air Force training exercises—sleek, super-sophisticated monsters ripping across the outback skies—and Jack had decided that as soon as he finished school, he would be in the cockpit of a fighter jet.
To impress his dad, he’d spent his boyhood trying to excel in the usual outback activities, but no matter how many pony races or calf-roping events he’d won, his father had always found something to criticise.
Just remembering the boxing lessons he’d taken sent a wave of resentment through Jack. He’d never satisfied his old man. He was constantly criticised for not having the killer instinct, for standing back if an opponent slipped, or for holding back on a knockout.
He’d put up with it all, however, because he knew that one day he’d finally make his father proud.
Then he’d sat the recruitment exams. Jack had known he had the necessary co-ordination and fitness, and he’d scored good grades in the required subjects, so he’d gone into the final tests brimming with confidence.
He’d come out devastated.
He’d passed every section with ease, except the most important of all—the psych test.
The recruiting officers had been diplomatic, but Jack got the message. He wasn’t cut out to fly their devastating weapons into battle. They wanted someone with a ruthless streak, with hard arrogance and a get-out-of-my-way attitude…
The kind of man his father had pushed him to be… The kind of man he could never be…
It had taken Jack years to accept this, and to finally be comfortable in his own skin. Now, his awareness of his strengths and weaknesses only made it plain as day that he and Lizzie were polar opposites. He had no doubt that she’d trampled on people as she scaled the heights of parliament.
She was pushy and powerful. She had to be. OK, maybe she was driven by an urge to help people, but maybe she was also just hungry for success.
Bottom line—they had nothing in common. He was a strumming guitar. Lizzie was the whole brass band. Why was he lusting after a woman like that? And why the hell couldn’t he simply talk himself out of it?
By six o’clock, Lizzie was ready to crawl into bed. Instead she had to face a mountain of washing-up.
She was out of practice at this cooking caper, and she’d gone overboard, of course.
Inspired by fond memories of her Grandmother Rosa’s ossobucco in a heavenly vegetable sauce, she’d thrown herself into the task. She’d been so sure it would be the perfect meal to impress Jack, so she’d hunted on the Internet for a recipe that closely matched her memories of Rosa’s dish, and she’d followed it to the letter.
The first part hadn’t been too bad. She’d already found the meat she needed in the homestead’s cold room and she’d tied string around each ossobucco, then lightly floured them on both sides, but not around the edges.
While they were browning, she’d cut zucchinis, carrots, onion and celery—all of which she’d found in a surprisingly well-maintained kitchen garden at the back of the house.
With the casserole in the oven, however, Lizzie had begun on the special vegetable sauce that had made her grandmother’s dish out of the ordinary. Four different vegetables—peas, beans, carrots and celery—all had to go into separate bowls of cold water and soak for half an hour. Each vegetable then had to be boiled in its own pot, then they were blended together before being added as a smooth sauce to the casserole.
Honestly, Lizzie knew it was ridiculous to go to such lengths for a simple evening meal with Jack Lewis. He’d managed to throw together last night’s meal with a minimum of fuss, and he’d only used one pot, for heaven’s sake. She, on the other hand, had used practically every saucepan and dish in the kitchen.
With too much to fit in the dishwasher she was still up to her elbows in detergent suds when she heard Jack’s footsteps approaching.
‘Honey, I’m home!’ he called in a pseudo-American accent, rippling with humour.
She spun around, outrageously pleased to see him fresh from the shower, damp strands of dark blond hair flopping onto his forehead, and smelling of sexy aftershave.
He was smiling and he looked so genuinely pleased to see her that her heart s
eemed to tilt in her chest.
‘How’s the truck?’
Jack smiled. ‘I took it for a test-drive this afternoon and it runs as smoothly as a sewing machine. The brakes are perfect.’ He sent a curious glance to the stove. ‘I’m faint with hunger, and that smells amazing. Is it Italian?’
‘Yes.’ Lizzie took a breath to calm down. ‘It’s ossobucco.’ Oh, dear. She sounded far too proud of herself, didn’t she?
‘Ossobucco?’ Jack’s eyebrows lifted. ‘That’s authentic. Did you have any trouble finding everything you needed?’
‘Not at all.’ She wondered how he could look at her with such thrilling intensity and discuss food at the same time. ‘There are so many different cuts of meat in the cold room, and all sorts of vegetables in the garden.’
‘All thanks to Bill,’ Jack admitted.
‘Is he the cook who’s out with the mustering team?’
‘The one and only.’ Jack saw the huge pile of dishes in front of her. ‘Hey, you knew you only had to cook one meal tonight, didn’t you?’
Lizzie bit her lip. ‘You weren’t supposed to see this mess. I wanted it all cleared up before we ate.’
‘But what have you been up to? Cooking for a whole week?’
‘No,’ she said tightly, turning back to the sink, highly embarrassed by the amount of mess she’d made.
Jack snagged a tea towel. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’
‘No!’ This time she almost snapped at him. ‘Please, don’t bother. I—I’ll have these dishes done in no time. Dinner won’t be ready for another ten minutes, or so. Why don’t you go and—and—’
‘Count kookaburras?’ he suggested with a knowing smile.
‘Watch a bit of television,’ she supplied lamely.
Shrugging, he crossed the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and selected a beer. ‘I’ll feed the dog,’ he said as he snapped the top off the beer.
Lizzie felt strangely deflated when he left the room. Lips compressed, she finished the dishes and set the cleared end of the table, took the casserole from the oven, and cut the strings from around the meat before setting it aside to rest.
Executive: Expecting Tiny Twins Page 4