by Anne Oliver
‘Jack, wait up.’
He turned, noticed his legs wobble, and squinted at Scott striding towards him with an armload of shopping bags. ‘Thanks.’ He took the bags, and, full of good cheer, gave him a hug. ‘You’re an okay guy.’ Then he gazed up at her window again. ‘Beam me up, Scotty.’
Scott’s eyes followed. ‘Not a good idea, my intoxicated friend.’
‘I guess you’re right.’
‘I know I’m right. Can you make it upstairs yourself? The traditional way?’
‘Sure. Just like old times, eh?’
‘You got it.’
‘Later.’ Jack raised a hand in farewell as he leaned against the verandah’s stone pillar and watched Scott climb into the cab and disappear down the drive and into the night. Yep, just like old times.
Except... This afternoon everything had changed. Jack sucked in a lungful of the heat-drenched evening to clear the alcohol-induced haze. The one thing that hadn’t changed was how he felt about Cleo. Always that gut-churning, heart-grabbing reaction, an ache so familiar it had become a part of him. He fumbled the key in the lock.
And seeing her again...the instinctive urge to reach out and touch that petal-soft skin, to drag her against him and bury his nose in all that fragrant hair, hadn’t faded.
It had just grown stronger.
He heard a rustle in the bushes as he opened the door. ‘Evening, Cont...Constantine,’ he managed around a rubber tongue. ‘An evening out with the ladies?’
Con prowled over and wound his way once around Jack’s legs before shooting inside. Jack thumbed on the hall light to see his way upstairs and followed the huge furry shape. Con stopped at Cleo’s room, flicked his tail, obviously irritated to find the door shut.
‘You and me both,’ Jack muttered. She must have taken a shower—he could smell the fresh scent on the air mixed with the familiar smells of polish and wood.
The light in the stairwell threw long shadows down the hall. He was inebriated enough to consider opening her door and finding out if his fantasy about her preferred sleeping position was true, but—sadly—not inebriated enough to carry through. So he stood a moment breathing in her fragrance while Con sat watching the door, his mismatched eyes expectant.
‘If I can’t, you can’t,’ he told Con. No way was he going to open that door, even for a cat. Especially not for a cat. Royally ticked off, Con rose and stalked on down the hall, tail bristling.
‘Okay, time for bed.’ The floorboard creaked beneath him. Leaning against the wall, he toed off his shoes. ‘Sh. Mustn’t wake Cle...’
The almost inaudible click of the door froze him in place. The door opened and a cloud of tousled hair glinted in the light, then an elegant bare shoulder.
Holding his breath, he watched from behind while thousands of forbidden thoughts played through his mind, all of which involved that bare flesh. Starting with sliding his hand under that skinny strap and easing it down...
‘Bastard,’ he heard her mutter quietly. Then she turned his way.
She wore a tiny pair of pale panties that flared at the hem, exposing the tops of her smooth, creamy legs, and a matching top that stretched over her breasts like opaque cling-wrap. In the soft yellow light the colour blended with her skin, making her appear naked. God help him.
Her hand flew to her throat. ‘Jack! What are you doing here?’ She didn’t look pleased to see him.
He thought he felt a grin spread over his face. Or a grimace. ‘Loitering?’ When she simply gaped at him, he straightened—or tried to. ‘Chain me to your bed. Make me confess, I—’
‘Shut up, Jack,’ she said, between clenched teeth. ‘If you have to bring your playmates here, at least have the decency to keep it discreet.’
He frowned. ‘Say what?’
‘The woman you brought home with you.’ She glanced up and down the hallway. ‘The one you were talking to.’
‘The one I...uh...Con. I was talking to Con.’ Perhaps that was why his tongue felt thick and furry.
On cue, the fluffy feline padded out of Jack’s room towards them.
‘Oh.’ She flushed and lowered her head. ‘There you are, you naughty boy,’ she said as Con disappeared into her room. She raised her eyes to Jack’s. ‘I apologise... I shouldn’t have jumped all over you like that...’
All over you. ‘Like honey over hot fudge.’
‘What?’
Had he lost control of that thick, furry tongue too? ‘Nothing. No need to apologise, s’okay.’ He took a step, tripped on his own damn shoes that he’d forgotten he’d removed. Uh-oh. Fighting inevitability, he stumbled forward, trapping her against the wall.
Her breasts collided with his chest. Her eyes flew to his, wide and almost green in the light. He could see the pretty pulse beating fast against her throat, matching his.
His hands had connected with her shoulders. He wanted to slide them down her arms, to feel that warm, silky skin and the firm muscles beneath, to watch her eyes widen with awareness while he did, but opted for the wall on either side of her head.
He should step away now, go to his room, but it was as if he were encased in stone. He sucked in air, immersing himself in the fragrance. ‘You smell like a garden.’
‘Can’t say the same for you; you smell like a brewery.’ Her breath whispered over his skin. His gaze dropped to her full, sensuous lips, slightly parted. She remained as she was as if waiting.
Thunder rolled across the sky. Through the open window in her room a layer of humidity swamped them, making her skin dewy and slick.
She moved oh-so-subtly, so that he felt her nipples rise like two little beads against his shirt. And felt the hot, liquid slide towards total meltdown. Sweat broke out on his brow; his arms were beginning to tremble. Her mouth was a whisper away. He was hard and hot and only human.
That first contact was like laying his lips on a live wire. The sensation sizzled along nerve endings and spun through his head. He tangled his hands in her hair as he’d always imagined doing, let the silky strands caress his fingers, and shifted nearer.
In response, she moved her hips lightly against him, a soft noise coming from her throat, like a purr. He felt her mouth soften and give and took instant advantage, plunging deep, dancing his tongue over hers.
He’d known how she’d taste without the bitterness of anger. Exquisite. Sweet, dark and rich, like the imported cherry liqueur his father kept for special occasions.
Coming home.
This was what he’d wanted all these years. What he’d never found with any other woman. This connection, this rightness.
Then he couldn’t think, didn’t want to analyse. His thumbs moved to her face, exploring the satin softness of the skin beneath her jaw, her neck, the little hollow above her collar-bone where her pulse jittered.
He felt her arms slide around his waist, the heat of her hands burning a trail up his spine as she stroked him. She shifted, arching towards him.
Wanting more, he slid his own hands lower, over soft cotton and feminine curves. His thumbs whisked over taut nipples beneath the cling of fabric. With something close to reverence he filled his palms with the firm but luscious weight of her breasts.
Her quick intake of breath, the moan from her throat, brought him up and out of the grip of his sensual haze. What in hell was he doing? Clutching for some shred of sanity, he jerked himself away. His lungs burned, his lips were on fire. And his rock-hard erection throbbed like a wound.
She blinked at the sudden movement, those thick gold lashes sweeping her cheeks, then stared up at him, eyes glazed. Something dark and passionate simmered in their depths, and something more: shock.
And no wonder. The scene was like an old movie rerun. Except that this time he’d not stopped at a kiss; he’d groped her like a randy teenager. His drink-hazed mind rejecte
d the knowledge that she’d done her own groping.
Cleo. The kid who’d smeared jam on his bike when she’d been too young to ride with him, the one whose knee he’d tended when she’d sneaked out to road test that same bike.
The girl who’d always been there, in his life, in his thoughts. The girl he’d never been able to touch.
And he still couldn’t touch her because he’d made a promise to himself.
Because they were shaking, he lowered his hands, forced them into fists at his sides. Took a step away. Futile to hope she hadn’t felt his arousal.
She wouldn’t know it went so much deeper than sex—after all, he’d done it before with much the same result. Pain clawed viciously around his heart. ‘I’m sorry.’
Pathetic. He wasn’t sorry. Already he wanted to do it again.
Her eyes widened and the limpid pools hardened to glacial ice. The mouth that he’d all but devoured thinned. Then one hand shot up and he felt the sharp sting of her palm against his cheek.
The slap echoed like a gunshot in the muggy stillness. Then she hugged her shoulders as she backed towards her bedroom doorway. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears; her lips still glistening from their kiss, trembled.
‘Cleo...’
She flapped a hand and he had to stop himself from reaching for her. ‘Just so you know,’ she said, her voice husky, breaking. ‘That’s for the apology.’
Before he could get his head around her words the door slammed shut, rattling the trio of watercolours on the wall.
He stood watching it a moment, rubbing the hot, stinging spot on his cheek. The apology?
He’d changed their relationship yet again. One thing hadn’t changed: his feelings towards her. But now, whenever he looked at those lips, he’d remember how they’d felt in the bloom of passion.
And want it again.
Scott was right. Jack Devlin was going to hate himself in the morning.
* * *
Cleo sagged against her door. She barely registered the flash of lightning through the window. Barely noticed the first big drops of rain plopping on the leaves outside.
Her whole body felt as if it were on a knife’s edge. Weak, helpless, burning... She lifted trembling fingers to her mouth and a whimper escaped. Oh, she burned all right, from the tingling in her still kiss-sensitive lips to the wave of liquid heat low in her belly, to the soles of her bare feet.
He’d wanted her. He’d wanted her as a man wanted a woman. She’d seen it in his eyes, smouldering and ready to ignite. She’d felt it in his unsteady breathing, the way he’d tensed his muscles as he’d leaned into her.
And most telling of all: he’d been big and hard and all male. She might not be too familiar with male arousal, but she’d known exactly what she’d felt nudging her belly. She shivered at the thought of that impatient masculine part of him sliding inside her.
And the memory of his hot, restless hands cupping her—her breasts felt full and heavy beneath her pyjama top. Her nipples, still tight and erect, prickled.
Her jaw tightened. The impact of what he’d done seeped through the heat haze and her anger resurfaced. He’d apologised. He’d denied what they had, denied both of them.
He’d lifted that lid on her Pandora’s box, shown her the delights inside, then slammed it shut. And apologised.
How dare he? The jerk. Was he sorry because he was drunk or because he’d kissed her?
She hadn’t waited to find out. She’d had control over that small action at least. But the rest... Her breath whooshed out. Unable to think beyond the moment, she’d been all but molten metal in his hands, letting him mould her to his will with his clever fingers, his mouth, his body...
She needed to lie down.
Her legs felt weak as she crossed to the bed. The inside of her thighs felt chafed, sensitised from the rough weave of Jack’s trousers.
Con swatted an impatient paw when she pushed at him, and stalked to the foot of the bed—typical male, wanting it all his way.
Punching the pillow, she flopped backwards and lay in the murky evening-scented stillness, gazed at the ceiling. ‘I’ve got news for you, Jack. Tomorrow you pay.’
SEVEN
Cleo was awake with the dawn’s first streaks of crimson and gold. The night’s storm had blown away, leaving the clear blue sky of another hot day. Thanks to Jack she’d tossed all night, but she rolled out of bed with a plan.
She hadn’t discussed the mutual project idea she’d come up with yesterday but the sundial and memorial garden she’d intended creating was something they could work on together.
Dragging on her gardening shorts and jersey top, she rooted in her closet for her old sneakers. Something to focus on might ease the awkwardness she knew she’d feel when she saw him again.
All Jack’s fault. And what did she have to feel awkward about? She paused in her task of tying her laces. But, ooh, could the man kiss when he put his mind—and lips—to the task. No wonder he had females lined up. He could make a woman feel as if she were the only one in the world. A dangerous skill, she decided, glaring up the hallway at his closed door before descending the stairs to the kitchen.
She fed Con, then grabbed a peach. As she bit into the fruit she tried not to imagine the same body that had plastered her against the wall last night sprawled on the bed upstairs. Reckless thoughts like that could sway her from her intention to make him pay this morning. She hoped he felt like hell when he woke. Apology not accepted.
She grabbed a mug and herbal tea bag, slammed both on the counter and poured boiling water over, nearly splashing herself in the process. Would he agree to her idea?
She shrugged it away. What was not to agree? He had nothing but time on his hands. Might as well put those hands to good use. Her nipples sprang to attention when she remembered the use he’d put those hands to last night.
Clenching her teeth against the traitorous tingle, she twisted her hair into a knot, shoved it under an old baseball cap and let herself out into the fresh morning air.
She was not going to think about it. He probably wouldn’t turn a hair when he saw her again.
She needed to maintain an it-happens-all-the-time façade. So she would not let him see how embarrassingly inexperienced she was. She’d managed to carry it off at sixteen; she could do it now. He didn’t need to know that, apart from one not-so-memorable night months after Jack had gone, she’d not let any guy past first base.
She headed for the gardening shed, anxious to get a head start before the day grew hot. The door opened with a scrape of wood on stone, and a musty, earthy smell met her nose. Selecting tools, she dumped them in the wheelbarrow.
The spot she’d chosen for the garden was in the centre of the front lawn. Using stakes and twine, she marked out a circle, then dug a groove with the tip of the spade.
She leaned on her spade and swiped at her brow. She’d made the sundial and gnomon using scrap metal and an old piece of iron lace she’d salvaged at a demolition site. She would ask Jack to help select the flowers, and, if his shoulder was up to it, he could plant them. That way, they both had a hand in creating a lasting memory.
But his injury had her thinking again. What had he been involved in to get himself shot? She’d have to pry it from him the way she tackled her metalwork—slowly and sensitively.
But slow and sensitive wasn’t the way she intended waking him this morning. She checked her watch as she headed for the house, mentally rubbing her hands at the prospect of rousting him out of bed and seeing him suffer the effects of his overindulgence. Or his underperformance?
Squeezing her eyes shut, she mentally counted to ten. In Chinese. She was thinking about it again. The thing she wasn’t going to think about. The lip-smacking, hip-grinding thing. If they were going to complete this project, she was going to have to stay cool
—a problem if Jack was going to look at her the way he’d looked at her last night. That hot, hungry way.
Last night had not been the act of a man in control. A man recovering from God knew what—he hadn’t let her in on his past. A past he was going back to. Didn’t that tell her anything? He didn’t want to be a part of her life.
So it suited the mood she’d talked herself into to rap once then push the door open. She stood a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the semi-darkness, trying not to inhale the not-so-subtle smell of stale booze and male sweat.
Jack was flopped on his stomach, one sinewy arm hanging over the bed. The sheet was scrunched at the bottom of the bed. A surge of heated excitement raced through her body, and pooled between her legs. She was right—Jack Devlin slept in nothing but a tan.
The acre of bare bronzed back and the long dimpled spine had her palms itching to touch. But she was powerless to resist following the tight curve of his slightly spread muscular buttocks with its shadowed cleft, to the darker hint of male anatomy between two firm thighs... The moist heat between her legs intensified and her pulse rate soared. The fact that she was viewing something forbidden only added to the mix. Her common decency seemed to have deserted her.
She licked her lips. The urge to trail her tongue over all that taut, hot skin overwhelmed her. And how was she going to keep that emotional distance? She’d never be able to look at him again and not remember.
Finally, reluctantly, she dragged her gaze to his pillow. His mouth was full and gorgeous and relaxed in sleep. She remembered only too well how it had felt against hers, how persuasive that mouth could be.
Scowling, she huffed out a breath, stuck her itchy hands in the back pockets of her shorts and said, ‘I knocked.’ The dark lashes didn’t so much as flicker. ‘Wake up, sleeping beauty, time’s wasting.’
She moved to the curtains. They slid apart with a swift whoosh. Air that had been trapped behind the drapes wafted fresh and cool through the window and over her skin. Sunlight flooded the room.