Harlequin KISS November 2014 Box Set: Behind Closed Doors...Fired by Her FlingWho's Calling the Shots?Nine Month Countdown

by Anne Oliver

  ‘Nothing. Not a thing.’ Nothing you’re not prepared to give willingly. And, desperate not to give any outward sign of her turmoil, she turned away again before he could answer and fled upstairs to his father’s old room.

  Closing the door to the room she’d become so familiar with over the past couple of years, she leaned back against it. She could still feel the heat of Jack’s hand on hers, could still feel that potent gaze on the back of her neck.

  A hint of Gerry’s Old Spice cologne, which he’d used till the day he died, clung to the fixtures. For a moment time ran backwards and he was there again, on the silk-covered sofa, his gaunt face turned to the window, eyes fixed on the world beyond. Just as she’d watched through her own window as seasons and birthdays had come and gone.

  Waiting for Jack.

  Pain sliced through her. Tears clogged her throat. Two people whose stubbornness had cost them one of life’s most precious moments—that last chance to say goodbye. Jack had to be wrong. Gerry hadn’t meant what he’d said about not wanting his only son to come home.

  Though the air was balmy, she rubbed suddenly cold arms. She needed work. Hard, physical work would ease some of the frustration that had built up inside her till she felt ready to explode.

  Gerry’s bathroom. Not that it needed cleaning—she’d scoured the whole house in the last few days—but working with water always smoothed the rough edges of her mood.

  An hour and half a bottle of shower scrub later, she peeled off her latex gloves. She smelled of rubber, probably sweat too, as she pushed a damp tendril of hair from her face. The rest was shoved haphazardly into an old scrunchie she’d found in the vanity. Her eyes caught her reflection in the mirrored wall. And didn’t she look like something the cat had dragged in? Thank God she was alone.

  As she re-entered the bedroom, the absolute stillness, the emptiness, struck her like a physical blow. To compensate, she switched the CD player on low and let the Beatles sing about ‘Yesterday’. Then she walked to the window and pushed it up.

  A snappy breeze fanned her overheated face and neck. As she lowered herself to the sofa her fingers closed over the lambswool throw-over and she drew its softness to her cheek. ‘You’re free now. Free from the pain.’

  She hadn’t cried at his bedside when Gerry Devlin had breathed his last breath though the grief had cut to the bone. Nor at the funeral; he’d wanted a celebration. But now those tears sprang to her eyes and she let them come. They spilled down her face, cooled by the breeze.

  Her hiccoughing breath caught at the sound of the door knob turning. She swiped at her damp cheeks. She could picture Jack standing just inside the doorway, one arm propping up the door-frame, those knobbly toes curling into the carpet, dark eyes watching her.

  Watching her lose it.

  She tightened her grip on the wool and closed her eyes. Ashamed, embarrassed. Frustrated. ‘Go away, Jack.’ When he didn’t answer, she waved a hand behind her. ‘Can’t you see I’m having a private moment here?’

  He switched off the CD, once again filling the room with silence. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’

  The air stirred, but he wasn’t leaving. Now, when she wished him a thousand miles away... Wasn’t it like Jack to be contrary? Her attempt to draw breath came out like a snuffle.

  She jumped like a rabbit at the touch of his hands on her shoulders. Awareness sharpened as those hands tightened in a brief squeeze. His heat, his scent, the sound of his breathing washed over her. She felt the sofa dip as he sat down behind her.

  ‘I should’ve been here for you, Goldilocks.’

  ‘Well, you weren’t, so get over it. I have.’ And you’re such a lousy liar, ‘Goldilocks’.

  ‘You think things will go on for ever the way they are,’ he said. ‘That people in your life will always be there, then bam! You wake up one day and everything’s changed and it’s too late to say all those things you wanted to say, share those thoughts, relive the good times.’

  She buried the naïve but romantic thought that he’d wake up one day and realise all those things could belong to them. And where would she be then? In a nursing home, most likely.

  His hands slid from her shoulders, down her arms, and locked in front of her so that she was enveloped in the hard warmth of his body. She gazed down at the sinewy forearms with their sprinkle of cinnamon hair over her own and wondered if she was dreaming.

  Her head fell back against the soothing pad of his shoulder as if it had been made for that express purpose. For now she needed his simple offer of comfort. ‘I never had a father I want to remember,’ she said. His fingers tightened again, and she snuggled deeper into the circle of his arms. ‘Not the kind who makes time for you, who loves you for nothing more than for who you are. Your father gave me that.’

  ‘I know.’

  She felt the subtle change in his posture. So the reason Jack had dubbed her Goldilocks and said it in that derogatory way of his was a kind of payback.

  ‘We both know he drank too much. The woman he loved was gone, his son...’ What could she say? Gerry had seemed indifferent to Jack in the early days, which had developed into open dislike over the years. ‘You were rude, always out with your mates. Or some girl or other.’

  ‘You weren’t much better.’

  She knew he was referring to the rough crowd she’d hung around with—to get his attention. Any attention had been better than none. ‘I was pretty obnoxious, I admit it.’

  ‘We were a pair, you and I. Your own father didn’t give a second thought as to how his actions affected his daughter. And I lost the mother I loved to him.’

  Bitterness flavoured his words and she twisted around in his arms to look up at him. And saw an echo of her own bitterness in those eyes for what their parents had done.

  ‘Jack.’ In an automatic response she reached out to his face, wanting to give a little back, to show she understood, that she shared the memories, and the pain.

  At the first touch her heart leaped. She absorbed the wonder of the warmth of his skin, the soft stubble beneath her fingers. But his eyes reflected the same shadowed mystery that told her he might have allowed this moment of togetherness but he hadn’t lowered his guard.

  ‘I lost a parent too.’ Wanting to soothe, she traced her fingertips lightly down his cheek to the line of his jaw. She felt it tighten as he sucked in a harsh breath. Something dangerous flashed in his eyes.

  The sweet fledgling elation that had swept her up took a dive. He didn’t want her. The stinging heat of rejection rushed to her cheeks. The old, familiar brush-off. Jack didn’t like being touched. Leastways not by her. Not home-grown Cleo Honeywell, almost-sister. Six years hadn’t changed that.

  Blinking back tears still lurking behind her eyes, she curled her hand and fisted it against her breasts. ‘I swear, Jack, you wouldn’t know if your arse was on fire.’

  ‘Cleo—’

  ‘Don’t say it.’ She punched the space between them. ‘I don’t want to hear it.’ She could have socked him one for the humiliation alone, but right now that jaw looked as ungiving as granite.

  ‘The back door was open...’

  The familiar voice had them both turning towards the door. Cleo wasn’t sure who sprang up and apart first. ‘Scott.’ She forced stiff lips into something resembling a smile. ‘Hi.’

  Scott stood in the doorway, his business shirt unbuttoned at the neck, tie loose. ‘Hi.’ Jingling his keys, he glanced from Jack to Cleo, back to Jack. ‘If this isn’t a good time...’

  ‘It’s the perfect time,’ Cleo said. Hugging her arms. Achy and embarrassed. How much had Scott heard? She was careful not to look at Jack, but she could feel the tidal waves of tension emanating from him.

  ‘Hey, Scotty.’ Jack’s voice, all husky and deep and not quite steady.

  ‘So...you two got plan
s for the evening?’

  ‘No,’ Cleo shot back. Not with that sensual scene fresh in her mind. She could still feel Jack’s skin against her fingers, his scent filled her nose. His rejection was a raw, throbbing wound that needed attention. Alone. ‘I’m going to have a bath and pamper myself. No males allowed.’

  ‘Actually, it was Jack I was after,’ Scott said. ‘You won’t mind if I steal him for a few hours?’

  Cleo stifled an almost-laugh. She wasn’t invited in any case. ‘Go ahead, steal away.’

  From the corner of her eye she saw Jack hunch his shoulders, stick his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and heard him say, ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Thought it was time you lost the struggling-photographer look and bought yourself some new clothes. It’s late-night shopping in the city. We can take a taxi, grab a meal and a few beers after. Like old times.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Sounds like a plan. I’ll get my wallet.’

  As soon as Jack left the room Scott said, ‘I interrupted something.’

  ‘You interrupted nothing. Have a good time.’ Not. Avoiding his penetrating eyes, she moved to the door.

  He touched her shoulder as she slipped past. ‘Don’t wait up,’ he said softly.

  ‘I don’t intend to.’ She hadn’t fooled him—not best buddy Scott, now Jack’s best buddy Scott. She’d been passed over for a guy—how much more depressing did it get?

  In her book, depressed equated with a long hot bath, a glass of wine, and a mountain of chocolates. And she had plenty of time to wallow in both the mood and the water.

  In Cleo’s own bathroom, ferns spilled from hanging pots, towels of peach complemented a wall papered with forest green leaves. It was too early to light candles with the sky still bright with twilight. Said who? In defiance of her own rules, she lit five then steeped the water with a blend of rosemary, lavender and geranium essence. She stripped and sank into the fragrant warmth with her fluted glass and bowl of chocolate truffles.

  She’d told Jack she’d forgotten him when he’d left. But she’d kept Pandora’s little box of hope tucked away deep in her heart. Believed he’d come home one day and tell her he’d missed her and how she’d grown up and what a big mistake he’d made.

  Well, he’d come back, hadn’t he? But the rest... She’d almost succeeded in telling herself she didn’t care, but seeing him again had undone all that hard work.

  It was she who’d made the mistake.

  She tossed the glass of bubbly down her throat. And now she was tied to this house by love for his father and a duty to abide by his last wishes.

  When the water cooled and the chocolates were gone, she dried off and reached for her pink shortie pyjamas. The soft airy cotton was comforting as she slipped it over her skin.

  She padded to her bedroom window and pushed it higher. Outside, the humid, cloud-heavy evening had darkened to indigo. She watched the city lights blinking in the distance, breathed in the scent of damp foliage and frangipani, then switched off the light and climbed into bed.

  It was only nine-thirty and she knew she’d not sleep. Not with her traitorous imagination straying to that long, hard body that would be warming the sheets a few feet away when he came home. What would it be like, warming her instead? Her body tingled with the imagined heat, a low throbbing began to pulse in her lower abdomen. She shoved the cover down with an angry sigh. A frustrated, angry sigh.

  If he came home. With two unattached, attractive men out on the town, she had to face the possibility he might not come home till morning.

  SIX

  ‘I walked in on something back there.’ Scott settled back in the cab, a genuine concern etching his brow and an obvious readiness to listen.

  Jack turned to the view beyond the window. He didn’t want to discuss it. ‘Family politics—a difference in perceptions,’ he muttered. Storm clouds were smudging the crimson glow over the city skyline. Inside, the cab’s air-conditioning cooled his face if not his body. Somehow Cleo had slipped under his guard.

  He’d intended leaving her alone, should have left her alone. But he’d had to go find her, hadn’t he? After all, he’d laid some heavy-duty information on her this afternoon. But those few moments on Dad’s sofa hadn’t been about his father so much as comfort. It had nearly cost him his hard-earned self-control. Jeez, if Scott hadn’t turned up...

  He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable as a surge of remembered heat swamped him.

  ‘I take it you mean your father?’ Scott asked quietly.

  Jack nodded. ‘He meant a lot to her. I can’t just hit her with the truth. I don’t think she could deal with it. Nor should she have to,’ he finished harshly.

  Scott squinted into the sun setting below the band of clouds and the silhouettes of Melbourne’s approaching skyscrapers then turned to him. ‘What are your plans for...after?’

  ‘You mean after probate’s granted? I’ve unfinished business overseas.’ Nothing had changed. His job as a photographer was still open; he could resume it if he chose. Or he could return to the town he’d been helping rebuild before he’d been shot.

  ‘Unfinished business,’ Scott repeated, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Anyone special we should know about?’

  Anyone special. Cleo’s scent still clouded his mind, the imprint of her hands were still fresh on his face. Needing a distraction, Jack inched the window down a fraction. Air laden with exhaust fumes and hot bitumen rushed past his ears. He laughed without humour. ‘You know me—too many to count.’

  ‘I do know you, Jack, perhaps better than you know yourself. If you get close and personal with Cleo then skip out on her, she’s going to hurt.’

  ‘I haven’t laid a finger on her.’ Yet. ‘That’s why I want this over. She doesn’t need me screwing up her life.’ He shrugged at Scott’s intense scrutiny. ‘I’m surprised she’s not already attached. She must have men in her life. You, for instance.’ And as much as it pained him, if Cleo and Scott had something going, at least Jack could rest almost easy knowing she’d be okay.

  ‘Me?’ Scott shook his head. ‘She doesn’t look at me that way.’ He cocked a brow. ‘But she looks at you. She’s always looked at you.’

  A strange but powerful sensation steam-rolled through Jack, leaving him feeling bruised and breathless. He’d seen it today, in the photos, on the sofa—a woman’s eyes, a woman’s desire. But no matter how much he yearned to fill the empty space inside that he’d always held for her—only her—he must discourage any feelings she had for him. He covered his regret with a dismissive gesture. ‘I’m never in one place long enough, Scotty, you know that. Cleo wants a home and family. She deserves it. But after what I went through as a kid, family life’s not for me.’

  ‘Give it time, Jack.’

  He smothered the sigh that came from his heart. ‘I won’t be here long enough.’

  Jack was still brooding about that two hours later as he drew wet circles on the buffed wood-grained table with his moisture-slick glass of beer. His fourth, or was it his fifth? He shrugged, took another gulp. Its yeasty taste slid down his throat. Who the hell cared? If he wanted to get plastered, that was his business.

  Laser lights swirled, bass thumped. The music was hot, the entertainment hotter. His eyes might be directed at the dance floor but his mind was fixed on the distressed woman he’d left in the hallway.

  He shouldn’t be staying in that big old house alone with Cleo. Yet he had no choice with his father’s mess to tidy up.

  She’d looked at him. And he’d felt the intensity all the way to his soul. Even half-crazed with jealousy and liquor, it hadn’t been disgust he thought he’d seen in her eyes that night six years ago—she’d wanted him. And he’d hurt her. Even then she’d not given up on him.

  She should have.

  It would only lead to heartbreak. He wasn�
��t ready to settle down, and if he ever was it wouldn’t be in that house, with those memories.

  ‘Scotty, go get us a couple of shots of Jack Daniels each, would you?’

  While Scott fought his way to the overcrowded bar, Jack scowled some more while the action played on around him.

  ‘Admiring the talent?’ Scott said, setting the drinks in front of Jack.

  He poured a shot of the potent liquid down his throat.

  Scott laid a hand on Jack’s shoulder. ‘You’re going to hate yourself in the morning.’

  ‘Might as well make it worthwhile.’

  ‘Time to go, pal.’

  He pushed out of his chair, slung an arm round his mate’s neck. ‘Let’s go home.’

  Scott steered him towards the exit. ‘We’ll swing by my office on the way and pick up your shopping. Perhaps you’ll have sobered up some by the time we get there.’

  * * *

  Jack wasn’t sure how many drinks he’d consumed but it annoyed the heck out of him that Scott was still ostensibly sober when they arrived home. He’d always been able to drink Scotty under the table. A side-effect of surgery? He patted his dressing; at least the booze had dulled the ache in his shoulder, if nowhere else.

  The house loomed ahead in the sweep of headlights. What the hell time was it? Apart from the security light that winked on as the taxi approached, the house was in darkness.

  He hauled himself out, and, swaying a little, stared up at the second storey windows. One in particular. The warm evening breeze stirred the leaves and caressed his face. The way Cleo had caressed his cheek this afternoon.

  She must be in bed. He imagined that compact little body warming the sheets, hair spread like a golden fan, and fantasised a moment about what she’d be wearing. Silk, lace, cotton? Or nothing at all.

  His whole body went tight as a bow string. Did she sprawl, those slender, creamy arms and legs tangling with the linen, or did she like to curl up? He wished he didn’t want to know.

  He dug in his pocket for his keys as he made his winding way up the path. No stars tonight. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The air was thick and still.