by Anne Oliver
His eyes fused with hers and she knew they were both remembering... She knew what he meant even if she didn’t understand why he’d left. ‘But without saying goodbye?’ They’d shared the shock and grief of losing a parent who’d never looked back—he knew how deeply that had hurt. He owed her. ‘We deserved that much, your father at the very least.’
‘Dad?’ Something like anger or regret or both flashed in his eyes as he yanked open the top button of his shirt. ‘He said what he had to say.’
She gulped, her eyes riveted to the glint of gold chain at his neck. The crudely shaped medallion nestling in that tempting V of chest had been one of her first attempts in metal-working class in high school.
He still wore it. Something fluttered at her heart, but she fought it down. ‘He was your father, Jack. You treated him less than a stranger.’
‘You more than made up for it.’
The sharp edge to his voice stung. Did he resent her for that?
‘Speaking of parents,’ he continued in a more reasonable tone, ‘I didn’t see your mum downstairs.’
Relieved at the switch in topics, Cleo nodded. ‘She met someone through work and got married again.’
‘Good for her.’ He undid his belt, dropped it on the bed with his tie. ‘She deserves some happiness.’
‘I agree. They went to New Zealand to meet his family and stayed. She sent her condolences. By the way, I moved out of the flat to be nearer to Gerry since Mum’s no longer around.’ And neither were you.
His brows shot up. ‘You cared for him yourself? Here?’
‘Of course. When he wasn’t having chemo.’
‘Did you have help?’ One hand shot up and rubbed at the back of his neck, the way she remembered he did when he was unsure of something. ‘For God’s sake tell me you didn’t have to go through his...’
The ‘death’ word hung unspoken between them. ‘I did have a carer help out at the end.’ She wanted to reach out, but he deserved to suffer as she had. ‘I did what I had to do. Death’s part of being human.’
He nodded, still rubbing his neck. ‘Big responsibility to take on.’
As if he would know about responsibility. ‘Not at all. He was my father in all the ways that count.’
‘The Dastardly Duo didn’t know what they were throwing away when they left you behind.’
‘That was fifteen years ago. I’m over it.’ In a familiar but now almost unconscious reaction, she folded defensive arms across her breasts. Despite her plea to the contrary, she’d never been able to come to grips with her own father and Jack’s mother running off together.
‘Their loss, Goldilocks.’ His voice mellowed, a warm, aged-whisky kind of sound that seemed to flow over her. She could almost feel her bones melting under his temperature-elevating gaze. She didn’t even care that he’d used her old nickname.
Then he laid a hand on her shoulder, a move obviously neither of them had expected because she felt his fingers tense and heard her own soft inhalation. His hand moved to her neck, the rough edge of his fingertip catching on the silky fabric of her dress. Heat from his hard palm warmed the flesh of her exposed shoulder.
What was she thinking, letting him touch her as if he cared, as if he were absorbing the feel of her skin against his, searching her eyes for her deepest, darkest secrets? Simple. She wasn’t thinking. Oh, my, but she was feeling. Her senses were so acutely tuned she swore she heard the air sigh. Or perhaps it was her. Or him.
It would be too easy to imagine that touch was more than what she knew it must mean: brotherly support. But his hand slid down, closed around her upper arm. Then both hands, both arms. Not brotherly at all.
A thunk downstairs followed by loud male laughter broke the sensual spell that had settled around them. Jack dropped his hands as if he’d touched molten metal. ‘You’ve still got guests.’
The sudden loss of contact was a cold dash of reality. ‘Correction—we’ve still got guests.’ Rubbing her arms where the imprint of his hands still tingled, she said, ‘This is your home, Jack, whether you like it or not, and those people downstairs came to say goodbye to your father.’
‘With the exception of Ben, I didn’t recognise a soul down there. Where’s Jeanne? And Scotty said he’d be here.’
‘Jeanne left early and Scott’s performing a duty you should be doing. He’s taking Moira home. Your second cousin once removed,’ she reminded him, when he looked at her blankly.
‘Ah, the bird lady. The one who talks like her galahs. Thank you, Scotty,’ he murmured with a visible shudder.
She shook her head. ‘I know more about your relatives than you do.’ And that, she thought, said a lot about Jack’s attitude towards family.
‘You always did. Okay, I’ll be down in ten minutes. Right now I’ve got a date with a hot shower.’
He yanked his shirt-tails out of his trousers and began undoing the rest of his buttons. The sight of that tempting strip of masculine skin had her stomach jigging in anticipation. What would happen if she touched him now, there? With her hands, her lips. With her tongue.
Reality check. Jack was off limits, for her own protection, and that included the scenery. She jerked her eyes back to his.
‘So...if you’ll excuse me?’ Jack had paused, hands on the open sides of his shirt.
‘Right.’ Turning her back on him, she steeled her mind to blank out all thoughts involving skin and hands and heat and said, ‘I’ll see you downstairs.’
* * *
The moment the last guest departed, Cleo kicked off her shoes before clearing up while she waited for Scott. He was coming back to check on her before heading home. Ben Hargreaves’ son, Scott, and Jack might be best mates from high school, but Scott had been there for her from day one. Which made him the number-one hero in her books.
Forty-five minutes later she swung around as Scott’s hands settled on her shoulders. She smiled. ‘Hi.’ This was more like it. No awkward silences, no shivering nerves getting in the way.
‘Sorry I took so long. Moira wanted to show me the aviary. I’m not sure it’s legal—all those cockatoos.’
‘Galahs. She’s lonely. Thanks for taking her home.’ Cleo patted his cheek. ‘Jack’s back.’ She heard the breathless sound of her own voice. To compensate, she moved briskly to the bench and busied herself covering leftovers with foil.
‘Jack?’ His voice brightened. ‘Where is he?’
‘Upstairs, said he was going to take a shower.’ She glanced at the ceiling. ‘That was more than an hour ago.’ The thread of anxiety that had wound its way through her system tightened. She’d managed to ignore it until now, but, ‘Perhaps I should go see if—’
‘He’ll show when he’s ready—or not. You know Jack.’
She hesitated. ‘You’re right. It’s just that...’
Scott leaned forward, cupped her chin in his hands. Concern darkened his pale grey eyes, turning them pewter. ‘You okay?’
‘Fine. Why wouldn’t I be?’ But she pulled away, irritated to find her chest tight.
‘Because you’ve always been hung up on him. Seeing him again is bound to be a bit of a jolt after all this time.’
Was it so obvious to everyone but Jack? With a harsh metallic swoosh she ripped more foil from the roll. ‘Hung up on him? Is that what you think? You’re wrong.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes.’ On a crazy impulse, she tossed the foil roll on the bench and grabbed his shirt front. ‘Kiss me, Scott. Really kiss me and I’ll prove it to you.’
‘Whoa, there.’ He smiled and ran a thumb over her lips, presumably to take the sting out of his rejection. ‘That’s pure emotion talking.’
Of course it was. Jack and emotion went hand in hand. Her cheeks hot, she stepped back, picked up a platter of mini quiches and took them to the fridge. ‘I’m so
rry. That was stupid.’
‘Forget it.’ His smile widened fractionally. ‘Another reason is self-preservation. I bet Jack’s still protective of his little sister.’
‘I’m not his sister.’ She slammed the fridge door as irritation niggled through her. ‘And I’m not so little any more.’
‘Hey. Fine, sorry.’ He raised his palms. ‘You’re not his sister. And you’ve got a thing for him.’
Thing. As in an itch? She shook her head. ‘If only it were that simple.’
‘The last time you saw him you were a kid. That would have made a relationship between you impossible—from Jack’s point of view, at least. Now it’s different and you don’t know how to deal with it.’
‘Is that why you never put the moves on me? Because you knew?’ Way to go, Cleo—put Scott in a no-win situation. ‘Sorry, personal question. Forget I said that.’
He nodded. ‘Forgotten.’ He picked up his keys, jingled them. ‘You still on for tomorrow night?’
‘On?’
‘As in basketball.’
‘Oh.’ She pasted on a smile. ‘Right.’
‘We’re playing the bottom team; it should be a walkover. I’ll let myself out.’ But he didn’t give her his customary kiss goodbye. ‘See you tomorrow.’
‘Bye.’ She leaned one burning cheek against the smooth fridge until the sound of Scott’s car faded. Cricket song filtered through the open window. She heard a dog bark against the background of traffic, felt the cool dampness of evening on her heated skin.
Only an idiot would yearn half a lifetime for a playboy like Jack over a steady, dependable guy like Scott. A sigh slid from her lips. Scott had been there for her when Gerry’s time had come. Jack was his son; where had he been?
If the clipping at the bottom of her underwear drawer was any indication, he’d been living the high life in Italy. She knew the words by heart. ‘And in Milan, Mr Jack Devlin, up-and-coming fashion photographer, escorting Ms Liana Kumova, a stunning, new...’
Cleo snorted, unsure who she was more disgusted with—Jack or herself for allowing it to still hurt.
What else had Mr Jack Model-a-Minute done in the past six years?
And how long would he stay this time?
Copyright © 2006 by Anne Oliver
ISBN-13: 9781460344507
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