“I’m completely open,” Sam said. “Count me in.” He slanted Kyle a smile that could slice a chunk off the hard wood he carved.
“Tui?” The way Kyle said her name sent a ripple across her scalp where it fell off the cliff of her nape and spiraled down to settle low in her belly.
She met his gaze across the beautiful kauri table, the golden tones of the wood blurring into the golden sand and hues of a South Pacific sunset. The invitation was there in his eyes—come with me—and she didn’t trust herself not to resist.
She forced her gaze from temptation and rose from her chair, her stomach tumbling when Kyle followed suit with old-school manners. Either manners or he calculated that his six-feet-something package of hotness poured into pants that perfectly fit his ass would sway her.
Dammit. His ass would’ve if she hadn’t already made up her mind.
“I’m free,” she said, dismayed at the breathless edge in her voice.
His eyes creased into amused slits, the mouth-corner twitch once again making an appearance. “Good.”
“I’ll leave you to hammer out the details.” Because one more minute in that room and she’d be tempted to show him just how free she was. And with Sam and Isaac glancing from her to Kyle with eyes widening as each individual torturous second passed.
So she left, frog-marching herself out of the boardroom before any more damage could be done, or any Griffin blood could be spilled.
Chapter 9
Tui was ticked off, to say the least.
She could outbrood her brothers on a bad day, and the more she brooded, the pissier she became. Who the hell did he think he was? Stealing an idea she would’ve thought of—eventually—and making do-me eyes at her in front of her brothers. Unacceptable and inappropriate.
And she was damn well going to tell him so.
Considering her current state of mind, she prudently chose to drive to confront Kyle, rather than ride her bike. Besides, she’d no intention of dressing him down while looking windblown and sweaty from wearing leathers on such a gorgeous spring afternoon. With that in mind, she selected a lemon-yellow summer dress that packed a visual punch, added some strappy flat sandals, and tied a yellow ribbon around her untamed curls in a loose ponytail.
Eat your heart out, Griffin.
A few stray butterflies flittered around her stomach as she turned into the Griffins’ private access road, following the freshly painted Griffin’s Honey signs until she spotted the main homestead set a little ways back. You couldn’t see the house from the main road, and as she’d never ventured up here before, it felt as if she were Marion Crane arriving at the Bates Motel. She parked, got out of her car, and straightened her spine. Spotted a woman’s face in a window before a curtain jerked closed.
Norma Bates and son, here I come.
Tui circled the front of her ute and strode past the line of native flax bushes lining the front yard, which in summer, she imagined, would prevent some of the gravel road dust from coating the house. The long spear-shaped leaves also partially covered the house’s front entrance—and the two men sitting on the veranda steps.
David Griffin, now casually dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, though his hair was still slicked back with whatever gunk he’d had in it earlier at the meeting. And Eric, cigarette in one hand, beer bottle in the other. Both with gazes fixed on her with varying degrees of surprise on their slack faces.
The urge to turn and hotfoot it back to her car swept over her like a heat rash. She didn’t know these men or what they were capable of, and she was suddenly acutely aware that neither one of them came with a guarantee of her personal safety. Unlike Kyle. She’d never felt wary in his presence, not even after she’d found out who he really was. But she was a Ngata, raised by a father and big brothers who’d taught her how to look after herself, to hold her own.
So she worked it along the concreted path to the foot of the stairs, channeling supermodel attitude and Wonder Woman ferocity a là Gal Gadot with every stride. Angling her chin, she looked down her nose. “I want to talk to Kyle.”
Eric recovered first. “He’s not here, Princess.”
That’s warrior princess to you, dirtbag.
“Where is he, then?” She directed the question at David, who at least possessed some communication skills.
“At Griff’s place,” David said with a head tilt to the left. “Two-minute drive up the road.”
Praise the Lord. That meant she didn’t have to take her chances in the creepy Bates mansion behind them.
“What’s your business with Kyle, if you don’t mind me asking?” David said as she turned to go. “Any tour talk needs to go through me, as the manager of Griffin’s Honey.”
She turned back to see Eric elbowing him.
“She’s not here to talk business with him, dumbass.” Eric flicked his cigarette butt and it landed just short of her toes. “Are you, Princess?”
Tui stepped forward, delicately grinding the butt under her sandal. “Careful, Princess. Wouldn’t want to start another bushfire, now, would we?” She dipped her chin at David. “Thanks for the info.” She walked away, hot prickles rippling down her spine at one of the brothers’ parting shot.
“Bitch.”
She couldn’t tell which of the Griffins said it, but it didn’t matter either way. Men with that level of disrespect toward women, who were threatened by them and responded with aggression, weren’t worth her time. She drove past the homestead, keeping her gaze directed front and center through the windshield.
How could Kyle be related to those two? Gripping the steering wheel hard enough to snap it in two, Tui followed the winding road up the hill. Reaching the crest, she spotted the two-storied house, the second floor rising above the tree line and overlooking the valley spread below. A road-dust-covered SUV was parked outside the place, and Tui parked beside it. Even if the vehicle hadn’t had the stylized griffin logo stenciled on the doors that she remembered from Kyle’s T-shirt, she’d have guessed it was his. A Mercedes. Figured.
The kūmara doesn’t say how sweet he is. The Māori proverb about sweet potatoes popped into her mind. Humility wasn’t a trait she associated with the Griffins, but hell, considering how well her brothers had done in their respective businesses, she couldn’t hold his apparent success against him.
Tui walked to the front door, raised a fist to knock, then froze.
“That’s just malicious, even for you,” she heard Kyle say loudly from somewhere inside the house. “I’m seriously considering having your balls chopped off.”
Her eyebrows nearly hit her hairline and she took a step backward.
“That’s right,” Kyle continued at an intimidating pitch. “Without anesthetic, you cranky bastard.”
Curiosity overruled the tiny seed of doubt that maybe Kyle was even worse than his brothers—like serial-killer worse—and Tui sidled toward the large window farther along the house.
“Don’t you lift your tail at me—hey!” Followed by an echoing crash and male cursing.
Tail?
Tui jerked to a halt in front of the window, staring in to see a wild-haired Kyle on hands and knees, a turned-over coffee table, and a wet patch on a shredded section of wallpaper. Oh—and on top of a sideboard, a huge ginger-striped cat, twisted around and licking his side. After a moment the animal paused, daintily lifted a leg, and groomed his aforementioned balls.
Kyle lurched to his feet and planted his hands on hips. “You little…”
Tui decided to help the feline out of a tight spot by knocking on the glass. Kyle ripped around to face her, his hair sticking up in all directions since he’d obviously been running his fingers through it in frustration.
“Hey. Tui.” His grimace at being disturbed vanished behind a toothy smile. “Hang on, I’ll let you in.”
He turned back to the cat and pointed a finger at him. “Lick them while you can, mister.” He strode out of the room, and a few seconds later the front door creaked open, Kyle poking just h
is head out through the narrow gap. “Come in.” The grimace was back. “Beaker will make a break for it if you’re not quick.”
“Beaker?” she asked, squeezing through the doorway. “You’ve named your cat after a piece of lab equipment?”
Kyle clicked the door shut behind her. “Not exactly my cat—and he’s named after the Muppet. The crazy lab assistant with the tufty red hair.”
“Who?” She knew exactly who but couldn’t resist yanking his chain.
“You know”—Kyle performed enthusiastic jazz hands and said in a falsetto—“me-me-me-me.” His eyes narrowed on the grin she could feel spreading across her mouth. “But you knew that.”
“Yeah. But you do such a cute impersonation.”
“Thanks. I think.”
Beaker, who must have had a long-haired ancestor by the fluffy girth of his tail, sauntered into the hallway. He ignored them and headed straight for the wall where he sat, delicately set his teeth on a loose curl of wallpaper, and peeled it off, dropping it to the growing pile on the floor.
“Difference of redecorating opinions?” she asked.
The cat turned an unrepentant green gaze her way then chose another wallpaper strip.
“Something like that. I can forgive Beaker for the wallpaper, which is hideous, but the little ginger monster crapped in my running shoe as payback for leaving him alone in the house for too long this morning.”
Beaker sent Kyle a bored stare, either responding to his name, description, or the accusation made about his toileting practices.
“I’ve just spent the last thirty minutes trying to catch him. Had him cornered in the living room, then he adds insult to injury by spraying the wall.”
“To which you threatened to neuter him?”
“Heard that, did you?” He chuckled, sliding his hands into his shorts pockets. “Yeah. Well, I would’ve got him if the coffee table hadn’t gotten in the way.”
They stood side by side watching Beaker diligently work on his little patch of wall.
“Is he Griff’s cat?” she asked softly.
“No. My ex-wife’s.” He shot her a quick glance. “Part of the divorce settlement.”
“She didn’t want him?”
“She did. Took him with her while we were separated, but her new man has allergies and once there was a baby on the way”—Kyle angled his chin down at Beaker—“poor bugger got stuck with me. He was always her baby. Ignored me but loved her. Cried for weeks after she dropped him off—and wrecked the carpet in my spare room where I was forced to keep him.”
“You didn’t try to rehome him?”
He snorted softly. “Who’d be crazy enough to take him?” He dug his fists deeper into his pockets. “I couldn’t risk him being put down. The divorce wasn’t his fault.”
Whose was it? The question was on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it. That was a question for two people headed into a relationship, and she and Kyle definitely weren’t those people.
“You kept him, then,” she said instead, and her heart gave a little squeeze at the look of baffled affection on his face as he watched the animal continue to destroy wallpaper.
“We’ve come to a gentleman’s agreement—which he’s just broken with panache: he doesn’t crap in my shoes, I clean out his litter box and keep him in kibble.”
She laughed. “He’s got the better end of the deal. Why’s he here, anyway?”
Kyle scrubbed a hand down his jaw. “I’d booked him into a cat boarding service for a week to come up for Griff’s funeral. They could extend his stay for another few days, but then they were booked solid.” He shrugged. “Couldn’t leave him alone in Auckland, so where I go, he goes.”
“That’s kinda sweet.”
He sent her a sour look and she laughed again. “You’re telling me that you and Beaker are trapped in this house together?”
“Exactly. It’s the tenth circle of hell, but I’ll never find him again if he runs off. I’m pretty sure he’s gotten lost in my two-bedroom apartment once or twice. Listen, can I get you a drink?”
The abrupt subject change reminded her why she was there. She folded her arms and cocked her hip. “I just remembered I’m pissed at you, so no.”
A smile danced just out of reach on his mouth. “Can you be pissed at me over a glass of wine? It’s a local Pinot, meant to be really good.”
“Wāina Valley?”
“That’s the one.”
She sniffed, narrowing her eyes at him. “It’s better than good, it’s to die for. One of my friends’ family own the vineyard.”
“Then you’d be insulting them not to stay for a glass.”
His irresistible smile weakened her resolve and diluted her annoyance, which only ramped it up again that he should have the power to do so.
“One glass,” she said. “And I’m still ticked off.”
“Come on through to the kitchen,” he said. “It’s hard to stay ticked off after a decent Pinot.”
“Don’t count on it.”
But she followed him down the hallway, gaze drawn to the breadth of his shoulders and the taut shape of his ass beneath his cargo shorts.
While Kyle found a couple of mismatched wineglasses and uncorked the wine, Tui leaned a hip against one of the countertops in the small kitchen. Lime-green painted cabinetry under the sink clashed with the blue-flecked countertops, pale yellow walls, and faded gray linoleum. Rough wooden shelves served as cupboards for crockery and a pantry, but the stainless-steel sink bench gleamed, and the space smelled clean—lemony all-purpose-spray clean, but still.
“I predict a big do-it-yourself challenge for you in the near future,” she said, accepting the glass Kyle offered.
He leaned next to her, following her gaze around the space. “Not me. Griff left the house to my youngest brother, Matt.”
“Bit of a fixer-upper.”
“Wait till you see the rest of it. Griff didn’t believe in spending money on ‘tarting up the place,’ as he would’ve said. Whatever leftover paint he could get his hands on, whatever clearance Formica countertop discounted to its lowest price, that was what he decorated with.”
“Sounds like my Uncle Manu,” she said. “Never can turn down a bargain, no matter how fugly.”
He lifted his wineglass. “A toast? To the things we have in common and not the differences that divide us.”
She tapped her glass to his then took a deep, bracing sip. The wine was cool and refreshing, but even with her limited knowledge of wines she couldn’t have described it any more succinctly because her gaze remained trapped by Kyle’s. The intensity of his stare sank into her skin, burning through the alcohol in her blood and sizzling to a spot low in her belly. Mouth suddenly dry, Tui pushed herself away from the counter and crossed to a glass-paneled door leading onto a tiny deck. More of a landing than a deck, but it was better than being trapped in there with him standing far too close.
“Shall we sit outside? It’s a bit stuffy in here with all the windows shut.”
“Good idea.” Kyle straightened, and carrying his drink, joined her outside. They sat on a narrow bench seat positioned just in front of the door, the wood weathered but worn smooth from years of use.
“Not as fancy as Raro,” he said. “But the view’s okay.”
“It’s a lovely spot,” she conceded in what she hoped was a completely neutral tone. One that masked the little hitch in her breathing at the memory of his Rarotongan bungalow.
She kept her gaze on the horizon—the distant blue waters of Bounty Bay and the rolling green fields and strip of sand leading to it—and tried to allow the wine to relax her. She took another long sip and it went down easy but did little to douse the belly sizzle from the man seated next to her.
He placed his glass beside the bench leg and turned to her. “Am I to play twenty questions with you to figure out why you’re mad, or can we skip that and you just tell me the top three reasons?”
“What makes you think there’s more than one re
ason?” She crossed her legs, smoothing the hem of her dress down her thighs because the damn thing had ridden up higher than she was suddenly comfortable with.
“Isn’t there?”
Yep. Starting with the chain reaction her body had every time it got within touching distance of his. That made her want to shred wallpaper, too.
“Let’s start with how you devised this whole horse-trekking tour without consulting me.”
He pursed his mouth in a faux-thoughtful frown. “Didn’t we discuss this when you threatened to sic your brothers on me for trespassing? I’ve no way to contact you.”
Crap—he had her there. “You could’ve found a way,” she said stiffly.
“Drone delivery? Or owl post, Hogwarts style?”
His teasing sarcasm gave her the perfect opportunity to shore the defenses guarding her heart that he’d already started to weaken. “I gave you that tour idea, as you pointed out.”
“You did.” The small smile that had claimed his mouth only moments ago vanished, and an edge appeared in his voice, drowning the humor. “But an idea is useless until you action it, and alone you don’t have the means to make it work. I needed the three of you to consider the proposal without bias.”
Her fingers gripped the wineglass stem so hard it was little wonder it didn’t snap off. “You think I would be biased against the tour idea? I was your biggest damn champion this morning.” She forcibly made her fingers relax and drained the last of her wine, setting the glass on the bench between them. Then she stood.
“I didn’t know how you’d react. We’ve got history.”
“One night together doesn’t make it history.”
“Depends on your perspective.”
Was that supposed to mean that one night in Raro meant something to him? Was more than just a hookup? Puh-lease. But butterflies quivered in her stomach, twitching their wings, sending a wave of sudden light-headedness through her brain that, when it cleared, made everything around her appear sharper, suddenly more in focus.
Including Kyle, whose slow smile set those butterfly wings on fire.
Tame Your Heart: A Small Town Romance (Bounty Bay Book 6) Page 11