Not waiting for a reply, he turned to walk towards the float and Ziggy’s hay supply.
Kayla had kissed him. Progress. Elation and frustration coursed through him. He’d achieved more than he’d expected, less than he’d wanted.
Ziggy whickered again as Tom snipped the hay band. He tossed a biscuit of hay into the corral.
With one last look towards Kayla’s tent, he unzipped his own nylon igloo and crawled inside.
He stripped and climbed into his swag. Eyes open, he rolled over, looking in the direction of Kayla’s tent. Was she snuggled into her sleeping bag now? Unable to resist torturing himself a little, he tried to picture her. Pyjamas? Naked? He swallowed as a cold sweat broke across his skin.
Bad idea.
He turned to lie on his back. He wanted to get her into bed, desperately. But more than that, he wanted to look after her, cherish her, erase the sadness he sensed in her. She presented a tough, capable exterior—and she was all those things. But underneath there was a sweet, vulnerable woman.
A city girl who fitted in with his town, his family. And, most of all, with him.
CHAPTER NINE
KAYLA woke the next morning to the snap of twigs and the smell of wood smoke. When she opened her eyes and saw the faint glow of light through dark blue nylon, it took her a moment to remember where she was.
She lay for a moment, listening to masculine voices talking softly. A low masculine chuckle sent a shiver down her spine.
Tom.
He’d kissed her…she’d let him. More than that, she’d wanted him to. Her heart lurched as she lifted her fingers to touch her lips. His mouth on hers had been quite simply mind-blowing.
For all her fine thoughts that she couldn’t get involved, it had been Tom who’d called a halt last night.
Footsteps moved away and the voices faded then stopped altogether.
Hiding out in the tent was appealing but not realistic—she needed to face Tom some time today. Training of a lifetime said it might as well be sooner rather than later. Cool air hit her skin as she wriggled out of the sleeping bag. She grabbed her clothes and pulled them on, then ran a brush through her hair. When she got home tonight, she’d enjoy a nice hot shower. Perhaps that was one of the attractions of camping—returning to the benefits of civilisation gave them a disproportionate decadence.
She unzipped the tent and clambered out into a pale misty morning. Light slanted in ethereal golden beams, catching on the smoky fogginess and silhouetting the trees. Sounds of campers stirring at the sites around them was dampened by the mist. The musical chink of metal hitting metal, a hushed voice, horses neighing.
A small distance away from her tent, a fire crackled. A billy was just starting to steam and a big black cast-iron pot sat in coals at the edge.
The scene delighted her with its natural innocence. She stretched and grinned, feeling an unfamiliar sense of peace settle over her. The air she inhaled smelled of smoke and earth and eucalyptus and…horse. She liked the basic rawness of it.
Who’d have thought there was a corner of her that would enjoy camping? Not that she’d had to do anything useful herself, she thought, huffing out a small laugh. Jack had set her tent up and Tom’s family had fed her last night so she could hardly congratulate herself on being intrepid and resourceful. Still, she was…having fun. Frivolous, naive, unsophisticated fun.
Tom came back into view from behind the horse float and the lovely calmness evaporated abruptly. She felt her smile falter as he walked towards her.
‘Good morning, Kayla.’ He lingered over her name as though savouring a particularly interesting flavour. She suppressed a quiver. Warm intimacy glowed in his eyes as though they shared something special.
Which they had…
Her eyes moved to his mouth and she had to consciously stop herself from moistening her lips.
‘Good morning.’ The sound was little more than a croak. She cleared her throat.
‘I’ve got coffee on,’ he said. ‘Can I tempt you?’
‘Yes, please.’ She winced. With the direction of her thoughts, tempt seemed to be the perfect word for everything about Tom Jamieson.
He moved over to the fire and hunkered down to lift off the pot. There was something very potent about the way his moleskins pulled taut over his buttocks and clung to lean, straight thighs. From the chunky navy jumper that moulded to his broad shoulders to the well-worn leather boots on his feet, he exuded a vital masculinity. She’d never have predicted that she could be susceptible to the cowboy image. But she was. Oh, God! Was she ever!
He straightened and handed her a mug.
‘Thanks.’ She took the drink, wrapping her fingers around the warm china and trying to collect her scattered wits.
‘Sleep well?’
The simple question reminded her of the long minutes that she’d lain awake, straining her ears for every little sound he’d made. Torturing herself with her imagination, wondering what every little rustle might be. She felt her cheeks warm.
‘Very,’ she croaked, then cleared her throat. ‘All that fresh air knocks us city slickers around.’
He tilted his head and slid her a teasing look. ‘Need some exhaust fumes to re-tox you?’
‘That’s right.’ She chuckled, feeling her tension subsiding.
He bent back over the fire and tapped the cast-iron pot with his fingertips. ‘How does breakfast of damper with baked beans, eggs and bacon sound?’
‘Wicked. Irresistible.’ Saliva filled her mouth. ‘About a million miles away from the healthy balanced meal I usually call breakfast but I’m game.’
Her reward was a big smile.
She swallowed. ‘Do you want a hand?’
‘Have you cooked over a campfire before?’
‘First-timer camper, I’m afraid. Never a Girl Guide.’
‘In that case, grab a seat and supervise this time.’ He picked up a pair of leather gloves and a small shovel and began spreading glowing coals out from the fire. ‘Next time, maybe we’ll get you more hands on.’
Next time. There wouldn’t be a next time, but it seemed churlish to point that out. Even more confusing was the way her heart squeezed with a pang of strong regret that there wouldn’t be another opportunity.
She shook off the feeling. Sure, the camping weekend was turning into an unexpected treat—but part of that was probably the novelty of it. And the novelty of Tom—he’d challenged her out of her usual reservations and she was still struggling to find her equilibrium.
Liz joined her. While Jack arranged the chairs so his pregnant wife was sitting with her feet up, Emma crawled onto Kayla’s knee.
‘This is the life, don’t you think?’ Liz gave her an impish grin as Jack turned to join Tom at the fire.
‘Sitting around a campfire?’ Holding her hot drink out to the side so Emma couldn’t spill it, Kayla brushed her hand over Emma’s curls.
‘Yes, there’s something about roughing it that makes the man in your life take over domestic chores and demonstrate his survival skills.’
Kayla was helpless to stop her gaze from straying to Tom. He was breaking eggs, one-handed, into a bowl suggesting he was no stranger to cooking.
The man in your life. Not that he was the man in her life… She didn’t want a man in her life right now but if she did…
‘And the view’s not half bad, is it?’ Liz murmured.
Heat scorched across Kayla’s cheeks, momentarily frying her thought processes as surely as the bacon that was sputtering in the pan. She couldn’t meet Liz’s eyes. ‘They work well together, don’t they? Jack and Tom. Do the three of you do this often? Camping, I mean?’ Smooth change of subject. Yep, no way was Liz going to notice that. Kayla stifled a sigh. Dustin’s police sergeant was turning her into a jabbering wreck, hardly able to string a sensible sentence together, and she didn’t have the faintest idea of how to regain her customary poise.
Tom moved over to the other side of the fire and crouched at the pot with the bea
ns. The murmur of Kayla and Liz talking in the chairs nearby was nearly drowned by the sizzling bacon. He stirred the bubbling beans and flicked a glance towards the women. Emma had settled on to Kayla’s lap, looking right at home. Warm longing wrapped around his heart, making it hard to breathe.
He realised Liz was watching him with a thoughtful look. Would she feel obliged to give him another warning about Kayla? He didn’t feel as though he deserved one but there was no doubting her protective instincts. His intentions were honourable, though given half a chance he sure would like to take some dishonourable shortcuts.
He looked down into the beans.
‘The damper’s ready and so’s the bacon,’ Jack said, interrupting his reverie.
Tom nodded and checked the temperature of the second pan. ‘Eggs coming right up.’
Time to get his mind back on the meal. He had some ideas for social gatherings this week, nothing too obvious that Kayla would baulk at. A little patience here, a little pressure there. Already she was starting to look at him with less instinctive wariness after their talk yesterday. Great strategy as long as he could keep himself reined in.
Kayla enjoyed the second day at the arena, glad her professional services weren’t required. A couple of minor falls resulted in nothing more than injured pride for the competitors involved. Before the afternoon was over she’d been invited to the post-camp draft celebration at the pub, a darts tournament to watch Tom’s father play on Wednesday, his mother’s birthday on Thursday and to Tom’s traditional Friday night marinara get-together.
Her social calendar looked suddenly exciting…and full of opportunities to see Tom.
Friday evening arrived and Kayla followed Tom’s directions. Past a white weatherboard house, a small dip with a grove of gums and then, on the left, brick pillars and wrought-iron gates.
She turned in and accelerated cautiously down the long driveway. Horses grazed in the paddocks to either side, including Ziggy from the camp draft in the paddock nearest the house.
Her car was the only one in the gravel circle in front of the big, old house. Her stomach swooped and she took a deep breath into her diaphragm to relax the tension. The others would arrive soon, so she wouldn’t be alone with Tom for long.
Gathering up her bag and the bottle of wine she’d bought, she slipped out of the car and looked at the house. Wonderful wide verandas encased the three sides and two large chimneys in the roof hinted at cosy fire-heated rooms on wintry nights. There were signs of work in progress on the primer-coated window-sills and a couple of sawhorses at one corner of the veranda.
The door was open but she rang the doorbell anyway.
‘Come on through,’ Tom called from somewhere deep in the house. ‘Straight down the hall, the kitchen’s on the left. You can’t miss me.’
‘Okay.’ She walked along the hall, glancing in the rooms off to each side. Comfortable furniture in the lounge, a big king-sized bed in another room.
He stood at the stove. With his back to her, she took the opportunity to look her fill for a few precious seconds. Short dark hair, broad shoulders hugged by a white T-shirt, his long, lean body. Whipcord muscles in his arms working as he lifted the pot. A tea-towel wrapped around his waist and tucked into the waistband of his low-slung jeans.
Her gaze tracked down until she reached his bare feet on the black and white tiles.
‘Hi. I was starting to think you’d got lost.’
She dragged her eyes up to meet his. ‘Hi. I was just…’ Ogling you. No, that would never do. She searched for a different topic. A rich tomato aroma wafted to her. ‘Something smells wonderful.’
He gave her a wide smile. ‘Mmm, I hope it’s dinner.’ He picked up a spoon from the bench and dipped it into the pot then turned and walked towards her. ‘Taste.’
The sauce-covered spoon hovered at her mouth with his hand cupped underneath to catch drips. He looked at her expectantly and after a tiny hesitation she leaned forward to sample. The flavour was every bit as full bodied and fabulous as it smelled. ‘Delicious.’
He leaned down to kiss her, his tongue stroking delicately along her bottom lip. His cheeks creased with a smile when he pulled back. ‘Mmm, not bad at all.’
Her pulse raced at the heat in his eyes.
‘You don’t think it needs more salt?’ he said, and she struggled to make sense of his words. ‘The sauce?’
She shook her head, unable to speak.
‘Okay, good.’
When he turned away and walked back to the stove, she managed to drag a deep breath into her lungs, feeling almost light-headed with relief.
‘Make yourself at home.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, glad her voice didn’t betray any of the internal shaking she was feeling. She glanced around the room, taking in the modern adaptation of an old-style kitchen. Weathered Baltic pine cupboards and hutches, wide polished benches. An old, ornate cast-iron wood stove in the wall, copper hooks with pans and other utensils hanging from a rack over the bench. ‘I brought a white wine since you said it was marinara.’
‘Thanks.’ He took the bottle and put it in the fridge to keep chilled.
‘Can I help?’
‘Sure. Do you want to set the table? I’ve got everything laid out.’ He waved at the neat stack of cutlery and crockery on the island bench. ‘I just hadn’t had a chance to finish.’
Then she noticed that there was two of everything—plates, glasses, cutlery. ‘I thought you were having lots of people over for dinner.’
‘Not tonight. There’s salad already made up in the fridge and dressing too.’
‘So it’s just the two of us?’
‘Yes.’ He slanted a surprised look at her as he picked up a dish mounded with thick golden straps of uncooked pasta. ‘Is that a problem?’
‘Yes. No. Maybe.’ Tension tightened her jaw as she looked at him. ‘You said it was a tradition for you to have friends over for marinara on Friday nights.’
‘It is. This week, I’m having one special friend over. You.’ He turned away to the pots and said casually, ‘Once I put the pasta and the marinara on to cook it won’t take long.’
Kayla chewed her lip for a moment then shrugged and picked up the plates. It was obviously her misunderstanding and she wasn’t going to turn around and go home now. He hadn’t put a foot wrong and she didn’t feel unsafe with him. She did feel unsettled, on edge, but not in any way threatened.
At the table, she saw he’d put out two plain utilitarian white candles. The makeshift holders, empty fruit juice bottles, were a sweet touch and somehow more seductive than if he’d been able to produce formal candlesticks.
Tom brought over an ice bucket with the now opened bottle of wine. He poured wine into the glasses then handed her one and chinked the lip of his against hers. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Nice. Good choice,’ he said after a quick sip. ‘Everything’s ready. I just need to drain the pasta and bring it over. Sit.’
She watched him move around the kitchen. Confident and graceful, a man at home in his skin. He made a very appealing picture…far too appealing.
She lowered her gaze to the table. ‘You’ve left the matches here—shall I light the candles?’
‘Yes, please.’ He lifted the mounded bowls and walked towards her.
‘That looks like real home-made pasta,’ she said as he put them on the table.
‘It is.’ He used a pasta ladle to pick up a scoop of spaghetti and transferred it to her plate. From the other bowl he lifted a generous serving of the sauce. ‘Only the best for my marinara.’
‘Who made it for you?’
‘Made it myself.’ There was a small secret smile playing around his mouth.
‘You made the pasta? Real pasta?’
‘Yep.’
She gave an uncertain laugh. ‘Right. Jamieson is obviously a good, solid Italian name.’
He raised his brows and gave her an affronted look, which was spoiled by the way his dark
brown eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘I’ll have you know that my grandmother is Italian. I learned to make pasta from an expert.’
‘Okay, okay.’ She held her hands up in a mock surrender. ‘I apologise. You’ve done an amazing job.’
‘Thank you.’ He rewarded her with a big smile. After filling a bowl for himself, he slipped into the seat across the table from her. ‘Dig in.’
She twirled the pasta onto her fork and lifted it. The strands melted in her mouth. ‘Oh. My. Goodness.’ She took a second mouthful. ‘Mmm, I think I’ve died and gone to heaven. This is seriously delicious.’
He grinned. ‘Glad you like it.’
‘Like it? I love it.’ She took another mouthful. ‘You are deservedly famous for your spaghetti marinara.’
Tom watched her eating the food he’d prepared. Her genuine relish gave him a good feeling. Even though he knew it had been hard for her once she’d realised she was his only guest for dinner, she’d still decided to trust him enough to relax anyway. That was a huge step and he had to be careful not to abuse that. He could tuck his needs ruthlessly back into line. Tonight was about laying more groundwork. Just as well he was a patient man.
‘Tell me about growing up with a deputy commissioner for a father,’ he said.
‘Wow.’ She stopped and blinked at him. ‘There’s a leap into a tough topic.’
‘I want to know about you. How else will I learn if I don’t ask the hard questions?’ He grinned at her. ‘I should also point out that you’ve avoided the question so that tells me a whole lot, too.’
‘Now you’re scaring me.’
He picked up his wine and took a sip, letting the silence grow.
She shrugged and looked down at her plate. ‘Dad was working towards his promotion when I was growing up. Of course…like anything, it had good points and bad points. He tried to run the household like a mini police academy. Not altogether a success.’ She gave him a small smile. ‘On the other hand, by the time I left high school I was good at self-discipline, delayed gratification, problem-solving and goal-setting.’
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