His gaze left burning trails down her bare arms and prickled like a heat rash along her collarbone. She couldn’t stand without bumping into him or ordering him to move away because he was crowding her. She’d no intention of doing that.
Pride made her deliberately unfold her arms and prop her palms on the sun-warmed hood behind her. As if she couldn’t see past his broad shoulders. As if she couldn’t identify the spicy-woodsy scent of his cologne. As if her lips weren’t itching to reacquaint themselves with the perfection of his mouth.
“That’s too bad,” she said, heart playing leapfrog over her churning stomach. “But what we started ended in Rarotonga. I haven’t thought of you since.”
His hazel eyes went cool, and the heat tingling on her lower lip with his gaze had settled, chilled. “I don’t believe you.”
“Of course not. Men never do.” She crinkled her nose and leaned forward again, brushing her palms down her thighs as if casually cleaning off the road dust coating them. Not because being near to him made her palms sweaty. Hell no. “Sorry to dent your ego.”
She gauged the space the bulk of him occupied, and figured if she scooted sideways a few inches she could duck out from beneath his shadow without touching him. Because if she touched him—or if he touched her—game over.
Instead of calling her out as a bold-faced liar, Kyle stepped back. “No harm, no foul. My ego will recover.”
He smiled at her, the same smile he’d used in Rarotonga to remove every stitch of clothing from her body, and turned away, walking in long easy strides back the way he’d come. “Nice to finally meet you, Tui.”
She evil-eyeballed his retreat. Shouldn’t he have been a little insulted? Or argued that their chemistry was still there regardless of him being a Griffin and her a Ngata?
“Nice to meet you, too,” she shouted at his back.
He lifted a hand in farewell without stopping.
Dammit, how the hell had he turned her rejection on its head and made her feel like he was rejecting her?
Chapter 7
They were waiting for him in the homestead kitchen, spaced along the length of the scarred dining table like black-robed judges. Or executioners. Take your pick.
Matt shot him an apologetic glance and shrugged, while Eric glowered at him over his beer bottle. Dave wore his usual worried frown, gaze skipping over his siblings like a spectator at a tennis match. One where it was expected that the loser would hurl his racket at the referee.
Kyle flipped a dining chair around and straddled it, facing his three brothers and his mother across the table. “Let’s get this over with, then.”
“Tell me,” his mother said, swirling the ice cubes in her glass tumbler of Coke and probably something stronger, “what did Tui Ngata have to say for herself?”
Did it surprise Kyle that his mother had found out or guessed where he’d been? Nope. Raising four boys practically single-handedly had made Netta a lifetime member of the Maternal Psychics Association. That, or more likely, Eric had blabbed about town and she’d jumped to the logical conclusion when Kyle lit out of there an hour ago.
“Not a lot.”
Kyle reached for the bowl of potato chips on the table—happy hour at the Griffins’—but Eric snatched it out of reach, offering it to Dave with a smirk. Nice to know sibling rivalry was still alive and kicking. “And what we talked about was private.”
And nobody else’s business, including his mother’s.
“I bet it was private.” Eric stuffed a handful of chips into his mouth and crunched, somehow disdainfully.
Dave twisted the beer bottle in his hands. “We didn’t think you knew Tui—ah—any of the Ngatas, since you didn’t go to school with them like the rest of us.”
After cancer had claimed another victim with their father when Kyle was nineteen and midway through his first year of university, the younger Griffin siblings were forced to transfer from the private boarding school in Auckland to Bounty Bay’s public high school. Dave had been in the same year as Sam Ngata, two years behind Isaac whose sports trophies still apparently graced the school halls.
Curiosity overcame Kyle’s ability to keep his mouth shut. The Ngatas had been such a taboo subject in their family for so long that after a while they simply fell off Kyle’s mental radar. “You knew her in school?”
“Knew of her. She’s a couple of years younger. Wasn’t she in some of your classes, Eric?”
“Yeah. She was a stuck-up, self-righteous bitch then, and she’s a stuck-up, self-righteous bitch now.”
A rash of superheated prickles raced down Kyle’s spine. Beneath his folded arms on the chair back, his fingers clenched into fists.
“Language, Eric,” his mother said, but her tone held none of her usual scold. “But, yes, I can’t imagine what you could possibly have to say to the Ngata woman privately that you didn’t say already in the street.” Ice cubes clinked as she took a sip of her drink, watching him with a cocked eyebrow over the tumbler. “A very interesting conversation, I heard. You called her Lizzie.”
Matt, who up until that point had remained silent with occasional wistful glances at the back door, jerked forward, his chair screeching on the floor. “Wait—what? Didn’t you hook up with a Lizzie on your island vacay? And this Lizzie was really Tui? Shee-it.”
Little brothers. You let one little name slip in a throwaway conversation and they remembered it.
The tumbler thunked onto the table. “You had…relations…with the Ngata woman?” His mother’s voice slurred up half an octave.
“Relations.” Matt snickered and rolled his eyes. He patted Netta’s arm. “Kyle’s a big boy, Mum. He can have relations with whoever he wants.”
“Not a Ngata,” she said stiffly. “Not after everything they’ve done to this family.” She turned a baleful eye on Kyle. “As the eldest, your brothers look to you to lead by example. Getting your jollies off with the daughter of Pete Ngata…oh God. Your father and grandfather and uncle would roll over in their graves.” Fresh tears spilled over her lashes.
Dave shot him a now look what you’ve done glare and dug a wrinkled tissue from his pocket, passing it to their mother. “Mum,” he said soothingly. “Don’t think about that. I’m sure whatever happened on Kyle’s vacation was just a bit of fun. A hookup—a meaningless fling.”
His mother honked into the tissue then picked up her glass. Her hands shook as she lifted it to her mouth. She drained half the liquid in one go. “Is that true, son? You just had a fling with the woman on holiday? There’s nothing going on now?”
The woman being said in the same tone as Whore of Babylon. Kyle fought the urge to clunk his head on the solid wooden table. Now he remembered one of the many reasons why he enjoyed life in the city instead of the fishbowl of his family farm. Awkward conversations about his disastrous marriage and nonexistent sex life were limited to the dutiful annual Christmas visit.
“There’s nothing going on,” he said. Which, after his earlier conversation with Tui, was almost the truth. “And we’ve got bigger issues to discuss, starting with property upkeep.”
Dave and Eric exchanged loaded glances while their mother lurched to her feet. “You boys carry on talking shop. I’ll make supper. You staying or going on back to Griff’s?”
“I’ll eat at Griff’s,” Kyle said.
From the vantage point high on the hill, Griff’s house had a perfect view of the homestead, the honey outbuildings and shop, and from the spare bedroom on the second floor, part of the Ngata farmhouse in the distance. Kyle, Dave, and Eric had packed up their grandfather’s sparse belongings and begun the unpleasant process of cleaning up after years of grime and neglect. Once the two-storied house was again up to code and stinking of pine disinfectant rather than moldy food and unwashed clothing, Kyle had had a new bed and sofa delivered for Matt. But his younger brother still made excuses for not moving in, so Kyle volunteered in the interim.
For everyone’s sanity.
She grimaced but didn�
��t comment, turning away to wander over to the fridge where she started pulling out random items.
“I’m going back to Auckland tomorrow to sort out a job.” He didn’t miss the slight sag of Dave’s and Eric’s shoulders at the announcement. “And I’ll book my accountant in early next year to glance over the honey books.”
Dave dropped his chair down from where he’d been rocking back on two legs. “Wait a damn minute. Our accountant always handles the books. He’s done it for years. We don’t need an outsider nosing about our business.”
Did Dave mean Kyle’s accountant or Kyle? By the hard line of his brother’s normally amicable mouth, it could go either way.
“I’m not trying to step on any toes, but a fresh set of eyes could help us figure out why the honey business is sliding down a slippery slope into the red.”
“Told you.” Eric grabbed another handful of chips and shoved the bowl along the table to Matt. “Been a bad couple of years and the visitor numbers to the shop have stagnated.”
“Because it’s a dump.” Matt helped himself to some chips and passed the bowl across to Kyle.
Who’d completely lost his appetite.
“Needs a new paint job inside and out, I agree with that,” Dave said. “But that’s not the only thing chasing tourists out of the shop when they do stumble in.” He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head toward the kitchen where their mother had moved on to hauling pots and pans out of the cabinets and banging them on the countertop.
“Paint we can fix,” Kyle said. “We’ll start with that next week.”
“Next week?” Dave folded his arms. “You’re coming back then? To stay?”
To muscle in and take over was implied in his brother’s bristly tone.
“No.” Hell no. “I’m not staying. At least not long term. Probably only for a month or so, maybe until after Christmas. When I’m sure everything is running here as efficiently as possible.”
“And then?”
“And then if I believe the honey business is being cared for the way Griff and Dad would’ve wanted”—a guilty head-duck from Dave and Eric—“I’ll bow out. Sell you my shares for a pittance.”
“You will?” Matt snagged the chip bowl back a split second before Eric tried to. “You don’t want them?”
“Why would he?” Eric asked no one in particular, though his gaze speared icicles at Kyle across the table. “He’s an architect with a master’s degree, not a beef or honey farmer. The quicker he can teach us poor uneducated slobs how to turn a profit, the quicker he can get back to his caviar and champagne lifestyle.”
Kyle watched Matt’s jaw clench hard enough to crack walnuts and his gaze shoot away from his brothers toward the back door again. When Matt reached his senior years at high school, Kyle had done his best to convince his youngest brother not to follow in Dave’s and Eric’s footsteps. Both his middle siblings had left school as soon as they were able to and worked on the farm. Matt had loved the sciences but eventually refused to move down with Kyle in Auckland to pursue a university degree.
“Don’t be a prick, Ric,” Dave said.
An old sibling joke that didn’t take the sting out of Eric’s attitude.
“Whatever. Truth sucks.” Eric stood, gathering up a couple of empty bottles from the table. “You buy the paint in the city where it’s cheaper. Matt and I can set up the scaffolding tomorrow morning. The three of us’ll get it done.”
“Four,” Kyle said, also standing and forcing Eric to meet his gaze. “The four of us will get it done.”
“Weather’s meant to be good for the next two weeks,” Dave added. “Might bring in some early tourists, too. I’ll use some of that new paint to freshen up the sign by the road.”
They were going to need something more than new paint to bring in the tourists, but one problem at a time.
Eric grunted and strode out the back door to where the recycling bins were lined up. Dave, always with a little bit of a stick up his ass, offered his hand to Kyle. “We good?”
“We’re good.” He shook Dave’s hand and turned to his youngest brother. “Walk me out?”
Matt nodded and Kyle went into the kitchen, dropping a kiss on his mother’s cheek as she stirred a pan on the stove.
Matt waited for him on the newly mown front lawn—it’d been a jungle when Kyle arrived and he’d spent a satisfying couple of hours repairing the lawn mower then mowing them. Once upon a time it’d been part of his chores as eldest to mow the lawns and keep the lawn mower in good repair.
Kyle strolled to his side, mimicking his arms-folded position and staring up at Griff’s place on the hill. “Not yet?” he asked.
Matt shook his head.
They stood in silence for a few moments.
“Thought about what you’re going to do now that Griff’s gone?” Kyle sensed Matt stiffen beside him.
“I’ll do what I’ve always done.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Yeah. I do have to.” Matt’s head swiveled sharply toward Kyle. “There’s no one else.”
“We could find someone else. Admissions are opening at Auckland University soon. The offer of my rent-free spare room is still open.”
“It’s too late for me. I’m not a kid anymore. I have responsibilities here.”
The quiet despair in Matt’s voice broke Kyle’s heart. “Are these your thoughts or crap that’s been poured into your head over the years?”
Griff had worn eighteen-year-old Matt down, trampling over his youthful desire to become a marine biologist.
“It doesn’t really matter. Truth sucks.” Matt turned away from their grandfather’s house and attempted a smile that looked more like a grimace. “Thanks for the offer, though. Appreciate it.”
“Just think on it with an open mind.” Kyle dug out his keys and, on impulse, dragged Matt in for a short, fierce hug. “You’re your own man and you have responsibilities to yourself,” he said after he released him. “You’ve given Griff ten years of your life. You don’t owe him the rest of it.”
Matt’s mouth twisted. “I never had the balls like you did to tell Griff to go to hell when he ordered you to take over the mustering.”
“Not too late to grow some.”
Matt snorted. “Yeah. We’ll see. Later.”
Lifting a hand, Kyle strode around his truck and climbed in. As he drove up the hill, the late afternoon sun sparked fire off the house’s windows. The knot in his stomach intensified. Griff had needed a strong young man to take over cattle mustering, and Griff somehow always managed to get what he wanted.
Except for Kyle.
And yet, even then, he’d woven sticky strands around Kyle’s life which now drew him back into the hot mess that was his family.
How hard could it be?
Famous last words, if ever Tui had heard them. Yes, she’d been on a number of mustering jobs with her dad and brothers during her short-lived teenage horsey phase. Yes, she knew in theory how to drive two skittish cows back through the metal gate some idiot hadn’t secured properly. And, yes, she looked the part of a proper cowgirl in her cut-off jeans, an old flannel shirt, and her dad’s wide-brimmed hat to keep the sun off her face.
Unfortunately, the cows—who were actually a trio—stared balefully at her from a windswept dune. They weren’t buying the authenticity of her cowgirl outfit.
She’d taken a phone call an hour earlier about the runaway animals from one of their extended whānau who’d permission to gather kai moana along their private stretch of beach. After a quick debate about calling her brothers or Henry Cameron, Tui decided she was a pretty poor excuse for a farmer’s daughter if she couldn’t coerce two cows through a wide open gate by herself.
How hard could it be?
Tui’s docile and sweet-to-the-core mare, Storm, flicked her tail at some early-season flies and along with her rider, eyeballed the three cows.
“Dumb animals.” Tui transferred her weight to the stirrups, not for the first time regretting
her choice of shorts when it’d been a while since her inner thighs had encountered a saddle.
Storm whickered and jostled beneath her, jerking a few steps forward.
“I meant the cows, babe.” She adjusted her grip on the reins and patted Storm’s neck to calm her. “Equines rule, bovines drool.”
Point in case the cow standing a short distance from the others, chewing its cud and staring at Tui with big blank eyes. That one was the troublemaker. The one who’d twice made a break along the sand instead of heading back into the hills of bush that grew down almost to the beach.
“You hungry, girl?” Tui called. “Plenty more yummy stuff back inside the gate.”
Troublemaker continued to masticate whatever she’d found to chew on and ignored her.
What a cow.
“Need any help?”
The masculine shout came from behind her, farther down the beach. She didn’t need to turn around to explain the sudden rash of goose bumps popping out over her skin, but she twisted around in the saddle anyway.
Seated confidently as if he had been born straight onto a saddle, Kyle sat astride a chestnut-colored horse a short distance from where Ngata land ended and the Griffins’ began. While the beach itself wasn’t fenced, the ancient macrocarpa casting its shadow over Kyle was the unofficial boundary marker between the two properties. Winding away from the tree was a well-worn path from the tiny section of rocky coastline that made up the end of Griffin land and disappeared over a rise where once again native bush had taken over.
“I’ve got this. Sweet as.”
She showed him a thumbs-up in case he was unaware of how she was perfectly capable of convincing three runaway cows to toe the line. If it’d been anyone else—literally anyone else, and that included any of Kyle’s brothers—she’d have said yes in a heartbeat. Her bum hurt, her bare legs were scratched from brambles and stray branches, she’d missed lunch and her stomach was complaining about it, and she had a ton of transcribing waiting for her at home.
Tame Your Heart: A Small Town Romance (Bounty Bay Book 6) Page 8