Drawing Me In: A New Zealand Secret Baby Second Chance Romance (Due South Series Book 7)

by Tracey Alvarez

  Anyone would be wrong.

  With deliberate movements, he thickened the bridge of Paptuanuku’s nose then softened the jawline and changed the shape of her cheekbones. Last thing he needed was a larger-than-life-sized reminder of a face he couldn’t, quite, erase from his brain.

  “Harley?”

  Speak of the goddamn devil.

  Bree stood a few meters away in her logoed pink shirt and a pale-yellow skirt. The afternoon sun caused the skirt fabric to become semi-transparent, revealing the shapely curves of her upper thighs. A distraction he didn’t need. Or want.

  “What’s up?” His voice came out more clipped than he’d intended. Blame it on the sunlight streaming golden fire through the strands of her hair, casting a halo around her. The perfect woman. Perhaps even the first woman, the one Tāne fashioned from clay to make Hineahuone. The Earth-formed maid envisioned in oils of burnt umber, raw sienna, gold and yellow ochre—

  “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

  Bree’s slightly haughty voice, the one she used when she felt awkward and unsure, jerked him away from his intense study of her face. Spots of color had bloomed on her cheeks, and she shifted her weight from one delicate foot to another.

  Hineahuone, a slight blush on her warm brown skin, innocent and mysterious and maybe a little knowing as she looked into Tāne’s eyes. The man who had created her. The man who’d become her lover.

  Harley shook the images out of his head. Get your head in the game, man.

  “What are you after?” Not a no-strings-attached orgasm; she’d made that clear.

  He adjusted his baseball cap with a grimace, angling it so the late afternoon sun wouldn’t blind him. Listen to him. Pouting like a teenage boy who’d gotten his cheek slapped after a failed attempt to score third base.

  Pathetic.

  Harley stepped away from the workshop wall, tucking the carpenter’s pencil behind his ear. “I meant,” he said, removing the edge from his tone, “did you need something?”

  Like me…

  Fucking pathetic.

  “Just to talk to you for a few minutes.” Bree slanted a sideways glance at the front of the workshop.

  His dad had switched it up this afternoon, and instead of the usual reggae, country pop blasted out the open doors. An evil, parental plan to drive a stampede of earworms into Ford’s and Harley’s brains. Bree must’ve figured nobody inside could hear them above the twanging steel guitar because she didn’t move any closer.

  Sensible. He’d been sweating his ass off on the hired scissor lift all afternoon, so a pit-check wasn’t necessary to confirm he smelled like the men’s locker room after one of Oban’s notorious touch rugby games.

  “Have a seat.” He gestured at the bench that held a collection of paint cans, rollers, sponges and brushes. There was a small, paint-free gap on the end where he’d sit for afternoon smoko, watching the endless play of waves roll up the beach. Or stare at Bree’s gallery, pretending he wasn’t hoping to catch a glimpse of her through the windows.

  She eyed the space, a slight crinkle on her nose. With a sigh, Harley grabbed the tee shirt he’d flung over a scissor lift and draped it across the wooden bench. Bree sat, crossing her legs and giving him a flash of bare thigh before she pinned her skirt at her sides, since the breeze seemed determined to do a guy a solid and flick up the flimsy fabric.

  Harley leaned against a dry section of the wall and crossed his ankles. Damned if this awkwardness between them didn’t remind him of when they’d first started hanging out again in Christchurch.

  His mum had e-mailed him at the beginning of his second year at the College of Creative Fine Arts & Design to let him know that Bree had been accepted and asking him to keep an eye on her. Harley had done as requested—but, hell…when he’d spotted Bree during first semester orientation week she’d transformed from pretty teenager to curves-in-all-the-right-places woman. Surrounded by the ripped denim and shades of charcoal to black crowd, Bree’s student-chic sophistication of mixing vintage clothing with bright prints made her stand out like the proverbial sore thumb. But in a good way.

  In a hotter-than-hell way.

  Harley had done the only sensible and gentlemanly thing—he’d spun on his heel and walked down the hallway in the opposite direction.

  He’d avoided her for nearly a month until between lectures, he spotted her alone in a crowd of other students laughing and chatting, with her earbuds in and an open paperback hiding her face. He’d sat beside her with his savory mince pie—which never failed to make him a little nostalgic for the ones at Russell’s grocery store at home—and racked his brain for something to say.

  “What’re you reading?” he’d asked.

  She’d tugged out the earbuds, and her full lower lip kicked up a fraction in the corner. “I have no idea. It was on the seat when I got here, and I figured pretending to read it would keep people away.”

  “Didn’t keep me away.”

  Her lips curved more. “Win some, lose some.”

  Her smile had sucker-punched the strength from his knees. Harley’s mission to avoid Bree had vanished that day alongside the last few bites of pastry.

  Yeah. But back to reality. Harley whipped off his baseball cap and scrubbed a palm down his face, grimacing as his fingers came away damp with sweat. He slapped the cap back on and surreptitiously swiped his hand down his shorts. “So, talk.”

  Her eyebrows drew in.

  Nice one, Harl. And people think you’re the charming, verbally dexterous twin.

  “You would’ve heard by now that my mother intends to sell the gallery,” she said.

  It wasn’t phrased as a question. Didn’t need to be; they’d both lived in Oban long enough to know how the grapevine worked.

  “Yeah.”

  “The bank turned me down for a mortgage.” Bree tucked her skirt over her knees again, though the breeze had died to a flickering whisper. “And Christine will only wait until the end of the year before she puts it on the market.”

  Bree’s mother had thought of him as pond scum with as much talent as a street hustler sketching caricatures for cash—until he’d had his first New York exhibition. Then, apparently, he got a free upgrade in the talent department, but she still considered him as candy-coated pond scum on a personal level. Confession—he’d never liked Bree’s mother, even on the rare occasions when she’d spoken to him cordially. And he really didn’t like the idea that she’d almost certainly force Bree to leave her home and the business she’d worked damn hard to establish.

  What had been a vain hobby for Christine, a place to display her adequate but boring watercolors—so sue him, the truth could be brutal—Bree had taken and molded into something unique and beneficial to all the craftspeople on Oban, not to mention the community.

  “I’ll lend you the money,” he said.

  It wasn’t an impulsive offer or that much of a big deal. He’d tossed around the notion from the moment Ford—who’d heard it from Holly, who’d heard it from Shaye, who’d heard it from Piper—mentioned Christine’s plans. Three hundred thousand wasn’t pocket change, but neither would it cause him any lack of sleep. Money was a bunch of zeros on a computer screen, and the only purpose it served was to keep him in food, paints, brushes, and canvases. Comfortably buoyant, in other words, and out of reach of the ugly tendrils of his past.

  Backbone straightening, Bree jutted out her chin. “I’m not asking for a loan.”

  “You should. I’m happy to lend it, no strings.”

  “There are always strings. Just because you can’t see them at first, doesn’t mean they aren’t there.” Before he could comment on that, she shook her head. “No. It’s very…kind…of you. But no. However, I’m planning an exhibition next month, and I’m hoping you’ll let me sell the red sofa girl.”

  “Bree, I…” Harley’s voice trailed off, a fist tightening around his throat. If she’d consider red sofa girl being publically featured in her gallery, it meant she was desperate. Zero pride,
down-on-her-knees desperate. And damn it to hell, that fist tightened farther until he could scarcely breathe.

  “I can’t.” He showed her his empty hands, as if he’d offer her something of value if he could magically make it appear. But he couldn’t. Not unless it was cold, hard cash. “I’ve promised it to my dealer in New York.” A peace offering to tide Monica over until he could produce…something. “But I want to paint an idea I had for the legend of Hineahuone. I’d consider letting you exhibit that—if it’d help.”

  Bree’s ankle bobbed up and down. “Another brand new, original work? What’s the catch?”

  “Suspicious little thing, aren’t you?”

  Her mouth curled. “I repeat. What’s the catch?”

  “The catch is…I need a model.” Then unable to bite his tongue in time, he added, “So step up to the plate, Victoria.” Referring to the time eighteen-year-old Bree had giggly admitted at her first life-modelling session she’d disrobed to her underwear, and the class tutor had commented, “I’m sure you’re an angel, love, but this isn’t a Victoria Secret’s runway. Strip.”

  Bree crossed her arms, her chest heaving in what he assumed was embarrassment. Or maybe arousal at the thought of posing for him? A man could but hope.

  “You want me to pose for you? Is that a euphemism for saying if I prostitute myself, you’ll graciously allow me to feature the painting in my exhibition?”

  He cocked his head. “Not following your thought process. How is modelling equivalent to prostitution?”

  “Because you mean”—Bree’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits of blue fire—“something else.”

  Something hot and sweaty and erotically charged with the chemistry that still sizzled between them. Muscles around Harley’s mouth strained with the effort of preventing a smile. They got an even better workout when Bree’s gaze zipped from his mouth to his chest then skipped down until he was pretty sure his junk was the focus of her entire world.

  The thing with Bree? Underneath her cool, concrete-hard outer shell was the prettiest firecracker, waiting for the right guy to light her fuse. She could pretend he wasn’t the right guy to fan those sparks into a fire. But they both knew the score. And they both knew he didn’t need to spend a cent to get her into his bed.

  So he shrugged, permitting his mouth to curve into a small smirk. “Sweetheart, the offer’s on the table. Take it or leave it.”

  Chapter 10

  Blood thudded in Bree’s eardrums so loud it almost blocked out the dreadful music, and the rattling bangs of Ford and Rob inside the workshop.

  Take it or leave it? Pose naked for him or lose her gallery?

  Pose naked and have sex with him—not his exact words or meaning, but the implication was there.

  With what felt like fire ants crawling under her skin, Bree stood.

  A brief urge to knock over the paint cans prickled through her. She ruthlessly shoved it aside. Bree Findlow kept her cool at all costs. No throwing things, no screaming matches, and no rolling belly-up in submission. Even if it meant ultimately losing the gallery and leaving Stewart Island, it would be on her terms. Terms that didn’t include sleeping with Harley in order to secure the rights to his next project.

  She met Harley’s gaze, her fists clenched at the ghost of a smile on lips that held all sorts of wicked promises. C’mon, baby, those lips said. Remember how smooth and firm and delicious we feel against yours. You know you want to kiss us again.

  Oh, and it burned that she wanted to in a blaze of pure hunger. As it burned that she was incredibly tempted to say yes to his offer—both for business reasons and those more personal.

  But. She was not her mother. Bree had hurled the apple of herself as far away from her maternal tree as she could. Caving now when things were a little tough was not an option.

  “I’ll leave it.” She stalked back along the main road to her gallery.

  Bree wrenched open the back door and entered the cool silence of her studio. Her gaze tripped along her workbench, over the neatly organized paints, brushes, piles of folded rags and stacked canvases. Maybe she should take her frustration and channel it into something creative. She wrinkled her nose. No, trying to paint while wanting to throttle someone—or, in this case, the colossal jerk she’d left in front of his mural—wouldn’t translate well into the watercolor she’d started a few days ago of Carter playing on the beach.

  Bree walked past the bench and to the little darkroom at the end of the studio. She needed routine. Routine and precision and the soothing—although pungent to most—smell of chemicals.

  Most of the photographic work she took on during the year—school photos, the odd wedding and christening, family portraits, nature shots for magazines and websites—were taken with her trusty digital camera. But her first love, her true love of the craft she indulged in, was taken with a 35mm.

  Her father had given her the camera on her tenth birthday, accompanied by much eye-rolling from Christine, who had insisted Bree would waste money printing out-of-focus shots of her friends. Determined to prove her mother wrong, Bree read every book on photography she could find. Each photo she’d taken in the next few weeks had been lined up with the precision and attention to detail of a general going to war. Twenty-four perfectly focused and framed photos of birds and scenery were the result of her first roll of developed film—and to add a cherry to the icing on her cake, a shot of a roosting kereru had won the Southland Junior Photography Section.

  Bree entered the dark room, hooking the “do not enter—developing in process” sign over the doorknob and shutting it behind her. She switched on the amber-colored safelight and chose a roll of film that contained a series of images taken at Pania’s funeral. Guilt had nibbled at her during the last few weeks, as she’d promised Denise and Rob copies of the better shots, but with the distraction of Carter arriving and the possibility of losing everything…

  Bree pressed her lips together and went about setting up the trays for the developer, stop bath, and fixer. She loaded the negative carefully into the enlarger and slid photographic paper into the easel. The warm amber light and the familiarity of steps relaxed her, just as transferring the photographic paper into the tray of developer and waiting for the images to appear never failed to send a buzz zipping down her spine.

  One by one, she repeated the process through the twenty-four black-and-white shots. Developer, one minute. Stop, one minute. Fixer, one minute. Her temper slipping away alongside the gentle rocking movement she made with the chemical baths. Finally, the water rinse, and then she pegged up photos of the Komeke family on the line strung above her workbench.

  First, a picture of the pallbearers carrying Pania’s casket onto the marae, and slightly out of focus in front of them, the kuia, calling the family to grieve. In another shot, three kaumatuas—respected elder women in Harley’s tribe—dressed in solemn black, but their lined faces crumpled into further wrinkles as they laughed at something one of them had said. A Maori funeral, or tangi, was about more than grief for the one departing this world. Every emotion was welcomed and accepted. Grief, nostalgia, humor, regret, even anger as long as it was expressed in a healthy manner.

  Bree stirred the final sheet of paper in the developer, another black and white image appearing as if by magic. Dark hair, light eyes, a strong jaw set like hardened concrete. Harley in a quiet moment, reclining on a mattress beside his mother’s casket, which had laid in state inside the marae for three days. Bree hadn’t been able to resist capturing the raw emotions of grief and anger battling across his face when he’d thought no one was watching. But she’d been watching. She’d been powerless to keep her gaze from being drawn to the man over and over. As usual.

  Her throat thickened as she slid the photo into the stop tray. No one would ever see this photo; as soon as it was dry, she’d take it to her room. Her little secret, the brief glimpse of Harley with his guard down, his heart in his eyes.

  But the man was still a colossal jerk.

 
A banging on her back door caused her to jump, and the tongs dropped to the floor with a clatter.

  “Come in,” she yelled, stooping down to pick them up. “I’m in the darkroom, won’t be long.”

  The door opened and shut, then heavy footsteps crossed the studio floor and stopped outside the darkroom door.

  “It’s me.”

  Of course it was. And he didn’t even need to identify himself by name because dammit, her body had already started reacting the moment she heard the rhythm of his footsteps.

  “You can’t come in yet. I’m in the middle of developing.”

  “I want to talk to you face-to-face, not through the bloody door.”

  “Then wait.” She used the tongs to swap the photo from stop to fixer.

  A grunt then a soft bump against the darkroom door. He’d be leaning on it, glaring impatiently at the other side of the studio. Waiting for the one minute to pass until it was safe.

  With a sigh, Bree lifted the photo from the fixer and dropped it into the water. “You can come in now. Make it quick.”

  Harley cracked open the door and slid inside, shutting it again with a soft click. Amber light cast him in shadows, but enough of him showed that she could see he’d changed out of the cargo shorts into jeans and a long-sleeved tee shirt with the sleeves shoved up to the elbows. How was it possible the man could look that scruffy and sexy as hell, all at the same time?

  “It’s still light outside.” She kept her voice as cool as the water eddying over the last photo. “I thought you’d still be working.”

  “You apparently scared off my muse. I’m done for the day.”

  “Lightweight muse. Maybe it’s time you exchanged her for another who isn’t so precious.” She set the darkroom timer for five minutes.

  “You assume my muse is a woman?”

  “It’s always a woman with you, Komeke.” Bree pinched off the little tendrils of jealousy that hooked their barbs deep in her gut.