by Anne Oliver
Giving up, she pushed the bowl towards the two eyes glinting in the dimness amongst the dust bunnies. ‘I hope he finds the litter tray, he’s not used to being inside all the time.’
‘He’ll find it,’ Scott said, stepping away from the door. ‘Come and sit down. We have to talk.’
Shifting an assortment of clothes to one end of the sofa, she let out a half sigh, half laugh. ‘You mean I’ll talk and you’ll lend a sympathetic shoulder.’
‘No, I have some things to say too and you need to hear them.’
Her attention snapped to the grim-faced stranger standing in the middle of the room. Scott had never sounded so terse. Not the same guy who’d turned up with banana caramel pie a couple of hours after Jack had left and saved her from herself. Suspicion nar-rowed her gaze. ‘Jack put you up to this afternoon’s tea party, didn’t he?’
‘He was worried about you.’
She snorted. ‘Not worried enough to stick around or let me in on his plans.’ Straightening, she said, ‘I’m imposing; I’m sorry. I’ll ring a cattery and book into a motel—’
‘Your choice, but you’ll hear me out first.’ He jabbed a finger in her direction, his pewter eyes brooking no argument. So not Scott’s manner.
Her surprise morphed into anxiety and some of those knots in her stomach tightened. She sat down. Scott remained standing. Okay, no sympathetic shoul-der to lean on. ‘All right, what’s this about?’
‘It’s about Jack.’
She threw up a warning hand. ‘If he wanted me to know, he would’ve told me.’
Scott shook his head. ‘No. He wouldn’t.’
His voice changed, making her super aware of the vice squeezing her heart. Whatever Scott had to say, she didn’t want to know. ‘The trouble with Jack is—’
‘Shut your mouth, Cleo.’
Reacting out of pure shock, she did.
‘For once in your life listen to Jack’s side.’ He paced away towards the window where twilight was settling over the suburbs. ‘It started about thirteen years ago...’
* * *
Cleo wrapped her hands around her knees, hugging herself in a dismal effort to contain the heartache. She felt the sofa dip as Scott sat beside her. He’d said plenty and now he didn’t seem to have any words left. Nor could she get her own words out over the lump in her throat.
The man she’d loved as a father wasn’t the man she thought he was. She felt numb, as if she were having the nightmare where she was running from something, only she couldn’t move and it was dragging her down. She’d hit rock-bottom this time and there was no waking up. Today she’d lost not just one man she loved, but two.
She clenched her fingers till her nails bit into her palms. She wanted to lash out at someone. Anyone. Mostly she wanted to lash out at blind Cleo Honeywell. ‘I should have seen it.’
‘Don’t blame yourself, Cleo.’ She felt Scott’s arm squeeze her shoulders in an attempt to comfort. It didn’t. Nothing would.
‘I should have known something wasn’t right.’ That Jack’s bruises weren’t always from backyard brawls, but something so much more sinister.
His father.
The man had abused his own flesh and blood.
‘No one knew—Jack made sure of that. So did Gerry,’ Scott finished.
All those years Jack hadn’t let on. Cleo felt the burning sting of tears for what Jack had put up with. He’d stayed to look out for her. For the rebellious girl who’d given him grief at every turn. And when he had left—and she understood why now—he’d used Scott as back-up for her. Because he cared about her.
She’d been so wrong about him.
And like his father, she’d told him not to come back.
Cleo pushed off the sofa, rubbing her upper arms. She felt chilled to the bone despite the warm evening. ‘You know where he is. Tell me, I must make it right between us.’ Even if it’s only to say goodbye.
‘I can’t. I gave my word.’
Defeated, she closed her eyes and nodded. Scott would never betray a confidence. She had no choice but to accept it.
‘Give him the time he needs, Cleo. He’ll be back when he’s ready.’
‘Will he?’ Why hadn’t he let her in? Even in his pain he’d held her at arm’s length. Heart cramping, she gazed beyond the window, watching a jet’s lights wink high in the sky. Perhaps because his heart now lay an ocean away on another continent. She thought of the café date he’d arranged. Or he’d found someone closer. She struck her palm against her thigh. ‘I feel so powerless.’
‘You love him.’
She continued to gaze out the window. ‘I’ve waited for Jack more than half my life. Waited to grow up, waited for him to look my way, waited for him to come back. It’s no secret to anyone but Jack.’
‘Tough, isn’t it? The waiting. The wanting.’
Cleo turned at the subtle undertone. Scott was hunched forward, forearms on his knees, his eyes unusually intense...and focused on her.
Uh-oh. Scott? How had she missed this? But he looked away, down at his hands. He made two fists, rubbed them together. ‘You looked, and maybe you missed seeing Jack’s response for a few years back then, but he was looking back.’
She felt those words all the way to her soul.
A corner of his mouth kicked up in a semi-grin as he finished, ‘Discreetly, mind you.’
‘Scott, I...’ She mentally closed her eyes remembering Jack’s first night back when she’d tried to kiss Scott to prove Jack didn’t mean anything to her. Stupid, stupid. ‘You’re the big brother I never had. Something Jack could never be, because of how I felt about him.’ How she’d always feel about him.
And not once in those six years had Scott made a pass at her. He’d never tried to be more than her perfect Sir Galahad.
Why not?
Somewhere in her brain a light switched on. Scott wasn’t talking about waiting for her, about wanting her... A mix of disturbing emotions knifed through her. A strange heat danced through her belly. ‘You... wanted...Jack.’
Their eyes met with new awareness and he nodded. ‘Jack never knew, and I wasn’t ready to deal with my own sexuality. I spent the past few years in denial. Then five months ago I met Jason.’
‘Jason. Oh, Scott.’ She knelt before him and grasped his hands still clenched on his thighs. ‘Does Jeanne know?’
When he didn’t reply, she tightened her hold. ‘These days it’s no big deal, and I know Jeanne will accept you and...Jason.’
He nodded, blew out a breath. ‘Seems like now’s a good time to bring it out in the open. You and I have both learned the painful lesson that secrets don’t do us any favours.’ His hands turned palms up and linked with hers. ‘Enough for now, you’ve had a rough day. Jase’ll be back soon and I’d rather not have him walk in on our conversation.’
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t want to go home, Scott. Those terrible secrets are embedded in that house. I don’t think I can face them alone. At least not yet.’ She laid her head on their joined hands.
‘I invited you here, didn’t I?’ Dropping a kiss on her hair, he said, ‘Take the main bedroom; it’s got its own bathroom. You’ll be more comfortable and it’ll give you privacy. Jase and I’ll take the spare room. Just give me a moment to grab our toiletries.’
She was too tired and wrung out to argue. ‘Thanks.’
He tightened his grip on her hands briefly before releasing them and rose. ‘Sleep in as long as you like. I’ll see you tomorrow after work.’
* * *
That night Cleo lay in the dark, breathing the earthy, masculine scents of the room and listening to the muted TV on the other side of the wall.
Her world as she knew it had come apart. Her trust and her beliefs about family, life and love had been shattered. Her eyes had been opened and h
er innocent view of the world had altered for ever.
But Jack... Her heart squeezed tight, so tight she wondered that it didn’t crumble. Jack’s own beliefs had been shattered more violently, more personally, years ago.
No wonder he didn’t trust family.
No wonder he wanted nothing to do with love.
* * *
Between spring-cleaning Scott’s apartment to channel that nervous energy, checking job vacancies—because she’d need a job when she signed the house over to Jack—and talking Jeanne’s ear off in the evening, Cleo should have been exhausted. But over the next couple of nights fragments of her life intruded on her dreams. Images of Jack’s bruised body kept her awake and pacing the floor.
Somehow she had to show Jack that love and trust and family didn’t have to be a lie. In her newly awakened view of the world, the one thing she could be sure of was her love for Jack. Everything else would grow from there.
That didn’t mean she wasn’t angry with him for keeping everything to himself. Before they sorted out their relationship one way or the other, she was going to set him straight—sharing was non-negotiable.
As dawn lightened the sky on the third day she took a shower and spent a long time letting the soothing spray massage her skin. Not bothering with a bra, she pulled on one of Scott’s comfortable flannel shirts over her panties.
Creeping into the kitchen to make a hot drink, she noticed the microwave clock flashing five-thirty. She made a cup of chamomile tea and took it back to bed.
Slivers of pink and purple were streaking the sky when she stretched out and willed herself asleep.
* * *
As the aircraft dipped below the clouds on its final approach into Melbourne, Jack’s gaze shifted from the early-morning glow to the small dog-eared photo in his hand. The man looking at the camera could have been him. Dark hair, olive skin, dimpled chin. Steve Jackson.
His father.
Regret churned through him for what he’d lost. But Steve Jackson had been killed before Jack had been born. His mother had named him for the man who’d given him life. She just hadn’t bothered to inform Jack, or Gerry, as it turned out—he almost felt sorry for the man. Almost.
His mother had looked frail and weather-beaten from years out in the field, so he hadn’t told her about the abuse that had begun after she’d left. His fingers tightened on the photo. Seeing her again had dredged up an inconvenient surge of emotion from some deep forgotten corner of his heart. Something of the same had reflected in her eyes as, out of some warped sense of duty, he’d kissed her goodbye.
He hadn’t looked back.
She’d chosen her life, let her live it. It was time Jack Devlin chose his. A new determination coursed through him as he thought of Cleo. She’d probably still be asleep when he arrived, which would give him an opportunity to sneak in and wake her for once, instead of the other way round.
His blood pounded in anticipation as he thought about how he might accomplish that. His loins grew heavy just thinking of those long lashes fluttering open, her husky morning voice. That erotic feline way she’d arched her back and stretched as if waiting to be petted the last time they’d woken together.
But his heart tumbled over in his chest as he thought of the whole woman. A woman that got to him on every level. With every layer he’d peeled away, he’d discovered something new or long forgotten, from the creative way she stacked the unwashed dishes, to the soft core she guarded beneath all that attitude.
She could freeze him out with just one look and have him melting with another. She had drive and tenacity and, once she made up her mind, she let no one steer her off course. She also had compassion and empathy and put her needs on hold to help others—Gerry and himself for starters.
And he wanted it all, the complete package.
Family, Jack. But you wouldn’t know about that. He looked at the photo in his hand again, before slipping it into his pocket. Perhaps he did now. He did know he was going to give it his best shot.
She’d been spitting mad when he’d left, understandably so. He’d been hurting too. Cleo had always been feisty and up front—another aspect that he loved about her. Scotty understood her too. His buddy would reassure her.
She knew how he felt about her. Hadn’t they made mad, glorious love only hours before? She’d know he was coming back; he’d told her. He’d kept it low-key because of possible complications, but she didn’t know any of that. Like any woman, she’d overreacted.
She’d wait. She’d told him she loved him. Rather, she’d spat it at him. A smile touched his lips and he let his head fall back on the headrest and closed his eyes. His whole body brimmed with something close to awe. Everything would be fine when he explained.
Rubber hit the tarmac with a thud and the aircraft roared as it slowed, then taxied, the low sun glinting bronze on the glassed terminal building as they neared.
A frustratingly slow hour later he paid off the cabbie and stared at her bedroom windows. One was open as usual, but the curtains were closed. Yes, still asleep.
He could almost believe he was nervous. He’d detoured to a florist for a peace-offering, and the scent of the long-stemmed carnations mingled with the familiar scent of morning-damp grass. Magpies warbled in the eucalypts. He had to force himself not to sprint to the front door.
This homecoming was so different from the one he’d faced a few weeks earlier. He wasn’t coming home to a house. He was coming home to a woman. To family—his family. The warmth of that rightness seeped through his blood like the early-morning sunshine and settled comfortably in his bones.
A freeze-frame of Cleo, round with his baby, stopped him in his tracks. Their baby. He let out a breath. Whoa. Back up. One step at a time. Apologies and explanations first.
Letting himself in, he dumped his bag in the hall. He noticed it immediately. The stillness, the emptiness. No Con, no inviting breakfast smells.
Quick as spit, his buoyant mood evaporated. This didn’t feel good. I won’t wait for you again.
His heart lurching, he took the stairs two at a time. The unslept-in bed confirmed it. His fist tightened around the flowers. She loved this house—she owned it, for God’s sake.
So where the hell was she?
He all but leapt down the stairs, snaffled keys from the hook in the kitchen and headed for Gerry’s Daimler, praying there was enough fuel. Think. Where would she go? He didn’t have Jeanne’s phone number handy, but he keyed in Scott’s mobile number. Voice mail. He swore, left a message and tossed the phone onto the seat.
Tyres screeching, he swung out of the drive and headed for Scott’s apartment five minutes away. Jeanne would already be at the salon—Scott’s place was closer. He saw Scott’s flatmate Jason’s car pull out as he turned into the apartment building’s parking lot.
He leaned on the doorbell, tried the door. Finding it unlocked, he shoved it open and followed the smells of burnt toast and sounds of activity to the kitchen.
‘Jack.’ Scott was wiping what looked like the remains of cat food off the floor but he tossed the cloth on the sink when he saw him. ‘I expected you to call—’
‘I did; you didn’t pick up. Where’s...’
Scott’s bedroom door opened off the L-shaped entertaining area and a sleepy-eyed woman stumbled out. In a too-big flannel shirt, and nothing much else by the looks of it. ‘...Cleo?’
He took in her quick indrawn breath, the wide, stunned eyes. ‘Jack!’
His fleeting relief turned to something hot and sharp that slashed through him like a knife. He kept his eyes pinned to hers. He wanted to read the truth in those eyes. More, he wanted to avoid the bare legs and the ample show of cleavage that told a story he didn’t want to hear.
A story that told him she didn’t love him enough to wait. That she’d carried out her threat. That she’d
turned to Scott, his mate. The stab of the twin-pronged betrayal had him itching to pound...something. Anything. Instead, he tightened his fist around the flowers, and, still watching her, he planted them firmly, squarely, on the coffee-table. ‘Surprise.’
For a moment she seemed confused at the venom in his voice, which he hadn’t tried to disguise. Then she glanced down at herself, one hand rising to fumble with the single closed button. ‘I was...asleep...I...’
That husky morning voice that always turned him on scraped over his already raw emotions. Jack took a step back, still unable to comprehend the scene that was playing out right in front of him, like something from a soap opera. He glared at Scott, then Cleo, back to Scott again. ‘What the hell is going on here?’
Scott moved to the table, stuffed some papers in his briefcase. ‘You’re jumping to the wrong conclusions, Jack.’
Jack’s glare swung to the sofa. No evidence that anyone had spent the night on it. ‘Am I?’ The fact that Cleo stood between them prevented Jack from crossing the room and doing something he’d possibly regret later—or would he? ‘Only one other bed... You telling me you’re gay now, Scotty?’
Jack’s ex best buddy exchanged a covert glance with Cleo as he snapped his briefcase shut. ‘I’m due in court in an hour,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ He paused at the door. ‘Tell him the truth, Cleo. All of it.’
And the door closed with a click.
The truth. How far back did that truth go? A chill settled over Jack’s body like a shroud, almost suffocating him. Double-crossed by the two people he’d trusted above all others, who meant more to him than anyone.
He’d learned the rules young. Putting your heart out there on the landscape that was life was asking for it to be trampled on. Which was why he preferred the role of spectator, viewing life through the lens of his camera. Detached, alone, heart intact.
He hadn’t learned a bloody thing.
‘The truth then, Cleo,’ he said at last, hearing the bleak sound of his own voice. Or perhaps it was the sound of his heart being torn apart. Irrevocably, finally.