‘But I can cook like one on occasion.’
‘It is amazing. I mean that in a good way.’ She looked at him and her teasing smile died. ‘Thank you.’
Her heart was beating too hard. She couldn’t remember when someone else had cooked dinner for her. When someone had gone to so much trouble and thought. Someone who bothered to understand what she preferred to eat and not eat. Certainly not her lame ex-boyfriend. The joke died from his eyes too—leaving them warm and gentle and so deep.
She dropped her knife so she had the excuse to break away from that acute, wordless communication. Surely she was reading the wrong messages. It wasn’t caring she was supposed to see in him, it was supposed to be all carnal. But for a weird second there everything had gone upside down and inside out.
‘While I have this out, I want your number,’ he said.
She looked back up at him.
‘Mobile number,’ he elaborated at her blank expression. ‘I’m away for the next week, so I need your number. In case.’
In case of what? ‘I don’t have one.’
‘You don’t have a mobile?’ He leaned forward.
‘Don’t have any kind of phone.’ She chased a bit of patty round the plate with her fork. ‘Don’t need one.’
‘Of course you need one,’ he said, still sounding amazed. ‘Everyone needs one.’
‘Well, I don’t.’ It was an expense she didn’t need. The very few calls she had to make were usually local, so she made them from the gift shop.
‘Roxie, it’s a safety issue as much as anything. What if your ancient car breaks down when you’re on some back country road?’
‘I don’t drive back country.’ She smiled.
‘You know what I mean.’ He didn’t smile back. He growled. ‘You should have a phone.’
She didn’t have a phone because she didn’t have anyone to call. And that was the way it was going to stay.
‘If I hadn’t been here tonight, how would you have gotten hold of a plumber?’ he asked, still holding his phone mid-air as he waited for her to answer.
‘I would have figured something out,’ she answered frigidly. She always had before. Tonight if she’d been alone she’d have turned off the water at the mains and waited ‘til she had the money to deal with it. She stabbed a potato and stuffed it in her mouth. Having to chew stopped her saying too much more about her ability to manage just fine and about her funding issues. She didn’t want him to know all that. He put his phone down and mirrored her actions, attacking his burger as if it were alive and about to scuttle off the plate away from him.
Several minutes later, both meals almost entirely eaten, Gabe spoke. ‘Want to go out tonight?’ His humour-laced attitude was back; so was his sinful smile. ‘I’m guessing you haven’t had nights and nights out on the club scene. I know a couple of places.’
Roxie’s blood burned, but the melt from ice to fire was so rapid it hurt. Maybe dinner with Gabe hadn’t been such a great idea—she felt wobblier now than when she’d first seen the water washing over the garage floor. As if her world were more on the edge of danger in this seemingly easy instant. ‘I went dancing with the Blades after that first game. You know, the night you decided to go home early.’ She matched his light’n’teasy tone.
‘Another time.’ He shrugged, that smile widening. ‘But I confess I saw these poking out from that last box on the garage.’ He bent and picked up something under his side of the table.
‘Oh, I remember those.’ She studied the couple of old records he held up and felt the ice threaten her heart again. She’d played those to her grandfather in the last few days as he’d slipped in and out of consciousness.
‘No doubt you have a player up in that overcrowded antique shop you call your studio.’
‘Somewhere under a million other things.’ She didn’t want to dig it out.
‘No matter.’ He put the vinyl records back by his seat and picked up his phone again. ‘Because I found a couple of tracks online and downloaded them.’ He tapped the screen and the intro started. ‘Come on, you can’t deny me when I cooked you that amazing dinner.’
In the end Roxie pushed her chair out and took his hand because it was herself she couldn’t deny—she ached for the pleasure of his touch. She wanted a return to that simple, mindless, uncomplicated pleasure. Her bare feet were mud-splattered, her ugliest trackies hung shapelessly from her hips and her hair was a tangled mess. But he held her as if she were Cinderella herself in all her finery—only extra firm, as if he wasn’t about to let her run away.
He danced smooth and natural and strong. Clearly not intimidated by her ballet background, he was in charge and not afraid to let her know it. She liked it more than she’d thought she would. She’d danced alone for years, but being partnered, guided like this? It was surprisingly good. The song was a bigband swing number from the nineteen fifties, one she’d always loved, one that brought happy with the sad in her mind’s eye. But there was no room for memory, there was only now. He swept her from one side of the deck to the other, turning her on a coin-sized spot and all with the ease of a professional. Breathless, she pulled back to look in his face.
He shook his head ruefully. ‘You didn’t think I could dance either? Don’t think I’m capable of anything much other than sex, do you?’
There was an edge to his comment that pushed Roxie’s caution button. She thought him capable of a hell of a lot actually—thought he was more magnificent than was good for either of them. She didn’t need to be wowed further by his cooking and dancing talents. It wasn’t fair of him, not when this was supposed to be a trifling fling.
‘Are you fishing for compliments?’ she murmured lightly. ‘You, the doctor who has all those dancers faking injuries to get near you?’
She felt the slight movement in his chest, guessed it to be a grunt of amusement. He pulled her closer to keep her moving. Another song automatically played from his phone. Another swing number, slower this time. She let her lashes droop as he swayed with her, felt the stresses from the flood ease. So easy to lean against him, so easy to let him take all her weight, to take all this and more from him … But he didn’t want to give more. And if she did that, if she let herself depend, then she’d want more. And wasn’t she determined not to want that from anyone? It would only end badly. Being too close always brought loss and that was what she wanted to be free of most of all.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he asked softly, his smooth voice inviting every confidence.
Roxie stared over his shoulder at the top of the trees. What man ever wanted to talk? Men hated that emotional ‘talking’ thing, didn’t they? They were all action over words. Then she realised—this wasn’t Gabe acting like a man, this was Gabe acting like a doctor. Was he taking care of her because he felt sorry for her, because he’d found out something more about her time with her grandfather’s last days? Was he cooking for her and offering to counsel her too? Was he afraid she was fragile? That she might go deep depressive as Diana had? It was nice he was concerned and all, but medical concern wasn’t what she wanted from him.
Ever.
So no, she didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want anything from him. She pulled free and stepped out of his arms. ‘Actually I’m pretty tired,’ she said coolly.
‘Okay,’ he said. There was a silence as she took another step back and didn’t meet his eyes. He stood exactly where she’d left him, as if he was waiting—for what? There was nothing she could bear to give. And she couldn’t take anything more tonight either.
‘I have some dishes to do,’ he said eventually, quietly.
That hit her conscience. ‘Oh, I should—’
‘No, my mess, my shame,’ he answered with a brief facsimile of a smile. ‘You’re not seeing it.’
Now she looked at him—and with superhuman effort refrained from asking him to come up with her. For now, contrarily, she didn’t want to be alone. Now she wanted back in his arms. For a second there she’d glimpsed some
thing so sweet, but it was a mirage lasting only while the music played. If she took him now, she’d be vulnerable to investing too much as he’d warned her before their first time together. She couldn’t chase a dream that would disappear in a blink and a smile. Her bruised heart would be battered worse than ever. Exactly what she didn’t want. So she turned and took the stairs alone.
Frustrated, Gabe let her go, at a loss as to how else he could try to break through the defensive barriers that she could erect in the blink of an eye. Lying alone in bed, he watched the light at her window. It was after two in the morning before she switched it off. Less than four hours later he heard her flick the hose on in the garden. He was due at the airport soon and he’d be in Sydney for the next five nights and, damn it, he wanted to reach out to her.
He walked out of the house, saw her pallor and the dark rings beneath her eyes. She couldn’t completely hide her stress. The pipes would be nothing to fix, he’d already paid the plumber to come back later today and finish last night’s temporary patch, but as for the other hurts he suspected went deep? He didn’t know how to help with those, not when she wouldn’t admit to them—least of all to him. But he wanted to. He really wanted to.
She tossed the hose and strode to meet him. Her bruised eyes burned, feminine aggression made her slim frame strong—and made him unusually weak at the knees. She didn’t give him the chance to say anything. No, she led the dance and reverse cowgirl rocked. It really did. He loved watching her half-lightened, half-natural coloured hair swinging over her back. Loved tracing the curve of her butt. Loved sliding his hands around to her breasts, down her slender ribs and beyond to her hottest spot, teasing the ecstasy out of her. But he wanted to look into her eyes too. Wanted to know her—to connect so much more completely than this.
He knew she was determined and today more aggressive than ever—more hungry, more driven, more demanding. Her hands were so tight on his thighs he’d bear her fingermarks for days. For someone so slight she had gut-wrenching strength and she ripped what she wanted from him. He growled through gritted teeth, desperately holding back as she rode him. Glad there were no neighbours overlooking them—given they were outside, given it was six in the morning, given this was all screaming, sweaty, animal sex. But the best sex of his life wasn’t enough any more.
She arched as her orgasm hit, her piercing shriek loud enough to make the sparrows fly from the trees. As soon as she crumbled he moved, flipping her over and then rolling again so she was back above him, but facing him this time. He held her face so he could see into those sex-dazed eyes and pushed as deep as he could go.
He waited, breathing hard while he got it together. Because he refused to have sex with her now. Now he was making love. Now he was giving everything he could.
Her eyes widened, she shook her head, but he firmed his grip, holding her so she couldn’t escape his kiss. And slowly, so slowly he started all over again. Every movement, every touch filled with care and passion. His hands sweeping, fingers drifting, his heart bursting. He ached for completion, contentment—hers. He wanted to fill her, to treasure her.
She lay limp above him—as if she was sated already and could move no more. So he was gentle, slow. And then he felt the subtle change, her skin warming as muscle beneath became energised. She draped like silk now—her limbs curving, embracing. Her hands cupped almost shyly. And then he heard her breathy sob—it wasn’t an entirely sexual plea. He cradled her and kissed her, the simplest of caresses. Until that moment when she moaned, until she clung, until she murmured his name brokenly just that once. Until she was soft, warm, accepting. And his.
He groaned as words failed, emotion overwhelming him—the need for her, to care for her. But also, for her to care back. He wanted it all back from her. Oh, now he felt it—the yawning need that had never before been realised, let alone exposed. So vulnerable.
He pulled her closer, buried his face in her warm soft skin, and gave in to it.
Afterwards her eyes remained firmly closed. Apparently she was asleep. He sat up, managed to hook one arm under her legs, while supporting her back with the other. He carried her to the comfort of a soft mattress and cotton coverings and space. To his bed, not hers. She didn’t open her eyes as he covered her and told her to sleep. But he knew she was awake. He could feel the aware tension emanating from her body. But there was no time left to call her on it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GABE sat in his hotel room in Sydney and ruefully laughed about the plans he’d made only a couple of weeks ago about coming here and having some seriously debauched nights on the town. Had he honestly thought he could sate his sexual appetite with a one-night stand? The idea of sex with a stranger left him cold—and flaccid. He pulled out his phone and went online. Pointless given she didn’t have any kind of a phone, let alone a computer. So he did a search to find clips from Blades’ shows. Naturally some fan had uploaded the Blades’ on-pitch performance from the first week. He watched it. Watched it again. After three replays knew exactly when each shot of Roxie was with her long, slender legs lifting and her hair wild and her cheeks flushed and her smile huge. Roxie dancing only moments after he’d been pawing her in the corridor. The sexiest woman ever.
Not so flaccid now.
He might have dated a couple of dancers before, but he’d never been reduced to watching vids of any woman over and over. He pushed the button so the screen went black. Lay back on his bed, the phone pressed to his chest. He hated that she’d not said a word this morning. That she’d used him. He had more to offer her than that and he wanted her to realise it, want it, accept it. Only now distance brought doubts. Had he imagined the warmth and caring in her return embrace? He needed to know her emotions were as entangled as his.
He sat up, frustrated with his impotence. Surely there was something he could do? He glanced at the phone in his hand and smiled at the obvious. He scooped up his wallet and hotel keycard, thankful that the shops in this city were open all hours.
Roxie worked late at the shop, avoiding the emptiness back at the Treehouse. She knew the science of it. The way humans were programmed to respond to a prospective mate. Women the world over—regardless of their culture or background—displayed the same available signals to the potential male—innate, instinctive, unstoppable. So why wasn’t she having any of those normal responses to any of those other guys? There were a ton of them in that stadium, several were gorgeous, certainly virile and fit. Couldn’t get fitter. And yet there was none of that softening deep inside; she didn’t catch herself giving any a second look. Hadn’t been compelled to. Not that she’d been compelled to with Gabe. He’d been the right guy in the right place at the right time, that was all. There was nothing any more special about him than anyone else. Right?
But then there’d been this morning. And there’d been nothing scientific about this morning. It had been all terrifying, out-of-control magic.
So she was relieved he’d gone away. She had time to remember her goals for her future—to travel and be independent. A free spirit with an unencumbered heart.
Finally she walked home, bypassing the heavy machinery that had trucked into the street some time during the day—diggers making mud and noise as they replaced broken waste water pipes. She understood the need, since the earthquakes that had decimated so much of the city, the repair and renewal work had been intense. She’d got off relatively lightly—her home mostly okay, her workplace mostly okay, so she wasn’t going to complain about the roadworks now.
She went through the garage, planning to go straight upstairs, except she was drawn to the Treehouse. It looked sad somehow, as if it knew it was empty. Even the windows seemed sad. Then she realised that was because the one at the front was on a lean—sagging towards the tree. She put her head on an angle; it didn’t help. She reached for her keys and opened up. Walked into the main room, to that window nearest the tree. Three quarters of the way there, the floor creaked alarmingly. She could see the tipping angle of the floor with h
er bare eyes. Under her weight it actually sagged an inch more.
She jumped back to a more secure part of the room. Oh, that could not be good. She raced outside again. She didn’t need a spirit level to be certain that corner of the house had sunk. She couldn’t believe it—not when it had survived all those earthquakes. Why was it crumbling now?
She looked up at the three-quarter-century-old branches and then down at the roots. She didn’t know how bad it was yet, but she already knew she didn’t have the money to fix it. She went back to the gift shop and called an engineering firm. They sent an engineer first thing next morning. She stood beside him, trying to keep a grip as he did his assessment. The foundations had gone. The tree roots had rotted, causing a giant hole beneath the house. It was possible the vibrations caused by the heavy machinery out on the road had exacerbated the rapid sink, but it would have happened soon anyway. And if it wasn’t fixed, the whole house could come crashing down.
Roxie looked up at the branches—the thing that gave the house its beauty, its point of uniqueness, was the thing that would ultimately cause its destruction.
The engineer apologised as he explained—especially when she asked how much repairs could cost. He promised to send another engineer for a second opinion, but for now he was classing it as unsafe—uninhabitable—until the remedial work was done. Roxie’s blood froze as she processed the info. Uninhabitable meant she’d lose Gabe as her tenant. Which meant she’d lose her income. The engineer left a brief report for her then and there. Black inked words leapt off the blinding white page—extensive, damage, cost …
Anger surged. She’d fought so long and still been defeated—in everything. She turned to the garden she’d tended for so long in the hope it could help her grandfather. But it had ultimately failed her too. The tall, fruitful plants mocked her, growing so strong when there was nothing left in her life. Furious, she lashed out with her bare hands. She tore the nearest tomato plant, swearing when the leaves ripped through her palms. She clawed until the whole thing was out, leaving a square of bare brown earth. She stopped, breathlessly stared at the small empty space that had been exposed.
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