She grinned and eased back into the sofa. “I see my sister’s been blabbering as much as your brother.”
It’d been impossible to slap the smile off Abi’s face whenever she’d bragged about her kid sister, the doctor. After finally meeting Olivia in the flesh, he understood why. Not only had she worked her way through med school, she’d also taken care of Abi while her sister battled the brain tumors that had almost killed her God knew how many times.
Olivia shook her head. “Abi and I were practically adults when we lost Mom and Dad. You and Jeddah were just babies when you lost yours.”
He dropped his gaze to his glass as memory after memory drifted through his thoughts. His battle-scarred stockwoman mother and cattle-wrangling father who’d forged lives for their two children in the desert. And his unstoppable foster parents who’d rejected an ignorant, racist, and unjust world to create their own Eden out in the scrub. He lifted his gaze and shrugged. “We were never alone.”
Her eyes lost focus, and he wondered if she was drifting on the same turbulent ocean of joy and heartache he was. With a whispered curse, he dragged himself clear of the memories and toasted his miserable attempt at playing host. “Way to welcome a guest into your home and kick off a holiday, Jarrah. Nice work, dickhead.”
Her laughter once again flooded him with warmth as her eyes sparkled in the half-light falling from the ceiling. The smile he’d faked just moments earlier turned genuine as he gestured to his underused kitchen. “Hungry?”
Her wide eyes and guilty grin shot yet another bolt of electricity through him. “Starving.”
…
And she’d thought he couldn’t get much sexier. How naive she’d been. Olivia perched atop a stainless-steel barstool and rested an elbow on a marble countertop while Tony Stark cooked her supper. He’d downplayed his culinary abilities like he did with pretty much everything else he did, but judging by the way he absently moved around the kitchen while regaling her with tales of Abi’s introduction to Outback life, he could cook a hell of lot more than the world’s best bacon-and-egg sandwiches.
With a flourish worthy of a fancy chef, he slid one of the most decadent late-night snacks she’d ever seen in front of her and bowed. “Bacon-and-egg sandwich à la Harper.”
Toasted sourdough, gooey eggs, crispy bacon, grated Gruyère, and a heart attack’s worth of butter. The heaven he’d custom made for her looked so delicious and smelled so damned good, it’d almost distracted her from the forearm porn he’d tortured her with as he’d rolled up his sleeves and wielded his polished copper skillet.
She swallowed the drool threatening to dribble down her chin while he dropped his own sandwich onto a plate and filled her glass with even more liquid gold. Hitching a hip onto the barstool opposite her, he leaned forward and raised his glass. Overcome by hunger, lust, and a half dozen other cravings she’d never felt before, she snatched up her own glass and made the fatal mistake of meeting his gaze.
The amber flecks radiating through his irises put the whiskey to shame, but the mischief lurking in his eyes had her struggling for balance. “W-what are we drinking to this time?”
She’d spent the last half an hour doing everything to avoid his cheeky glances while carrying out her own lecherous surveillance, but now that she’d tumbled head first into those damned eyes, she wasn’t sure what to blame for her stupidity: alcohol, jet lag, hunger, or plain old-fashioned horniness.
He must have been battling his own demons because it took him a few seconds of blinking to gather himself. When his eyes finally regained focus, they speared right through her crumbling defenses and grabbed hold of everything feminine inside her. “To the things we don’t do and regret forever.”
Chapter Three
Olivia jolted awake. Too terrified to move, she gasped in a breath and stared at the ceiling. “No, no, no, no, no. Please, God, no.”
With trembling fingers, she explored the warm cocoon enveloping her and found nothing except her fully clothed self and the cloudlike leather cushions that had conspired with a week’s wages worth of whiskey, the best late-night supper she’d ever eaten, and thirteen hours in the air to claim her consciousness somewhere after three in the morning.
The air she’d inhaled leaked from her mouth on a whispered thank-you as she scanned the vacant armchair that had held the most intriguing man she was ever likely to share a night with without dragging him onto the floor and mauling him. Not only had the smooth gigolo kept her flirting and laughing way into the morning, that damned taut manscape and smart mouth had followed her into her dreams and committed indecent acts of debauchery over every tingling inch of her.
She peeled down the blanket she definitely hadn’t had before falling asleep and sneaked a peek at her watch. Seven thirty-four. Plenty of time to drown her wayward imagination under an ice-cold shower and pull her shit together before embarking on her desert pilgrimage and certain death by either snake bite, heat stroke, or unsatisfied lust.
With a half chuckle, half yawn, she worked loose her muscles and took in the perfectly clean driftwood and glass coffee table that had served as their early-morning dessert bar. The cut crystal tumblers with their stylish yet completely over-the-top stainless-steel chilling balls were gone. Also absent were the huge ceramic mugs he’d hefted in at around one, that had overflowed with hot chocolate made from honest-to-God chocolate shavings. And to her eternal disappointment, her way too attentive host had also packed away the few remaining survivors from the box of Ferrero Rocher he’d surprised her with at around two, while she’d swiped through the Harper family photos on his iPad and pried into every part of his Lifetime documentary-worthy life.
She wrestled the blanket free of her sweats and chuckled to herself as she wondered how many women had woken up in his lair with more layers on than they’d gone to bed with. A few drops of irrational disappointment joined the emotional cocktail swirling inside her as she folded the blanket and laid it over the arm of the sofa. From the legends of his exploits and the time she’d shared with him, there was no doubt a casual no-strings-attached night of high-impact cardio with Jarrah “Ooh Mama” Harper would’ve been one hell of a way to kick off her Down Under adventure. Yet there was nothing casual about their relationship, and there were enough strings attached to their embryonic friendship to confuse a spider. Best man to her maid of honor, future brother-in-law to her big sister, and older brother to her future brother-in-law. She was pretty sure any pre-wedding hanky-panky wouldn’t condemn them, but there were worse fates than hell. Like a lifetime of awkward vacations and Skype calls.
She slid back into the sofa and studied his penthouse. The opulent interior-decorating masterpiece was about as far away from her place as you could get. Yet his inner-city bachelor pad shared one thing in common with her ancient suburban two-bedroom apartment. They both felt clinical and empty without someone sharing it.
She shoved aside images of what she’d left behind in L.A. and focused on the adventure ahead and the millionaire who’d been guilted into being her tour guide. Her eyes slid to the armchair he’d mercifully sat in. God only knew what would’ve happened if he’d snuck onto the end of her sofa during their marathon get-to-know-you session. Something warm and gooey settled low in her belly. She could’ve blamed the sensations on the three pounds of grease, carbs, and chocolate she’d inhaled or the whiskey she drained. However, she was pretty sure her absent host was to blame for her smile. As soon as she’d reined in her traitorous libido and stopped imagining him naked, she’d enjoyed one of the most surprising nights she could remember.
It’d taken a lot of prodding to crack him open, but with every embarrassing and heartbreaking story she’d shared, he’d repaid her with one of his own. The judge was still deliberating on who had the harder childhood, yet the jury had reached their verdict. While she and Abi had had their hearts ripped out in an instant, he and Jeddah had had theirs slowly crushed over years of tragedy. Losing two parents had been bad enough, but Jarrah and his twi
n sister had lost their mother at birth, their father to a sudden heart attack just before their tenth birthdays, and their foster dad in a mustering accident when they’d been in high school. And if that hadn’t been enough, they’d nearly lost their foster mom to breast cancer a few years later.
The more she’d gotten to know the man behind the playboy, the more the eighty-hour weeks and almost suicidal determination made sense. He couldn’t have cared less about his massive salary or the state-of-the-art toys he surrounded himself with. If he had, he’d have taken every opportunity to casually slip references of his wealth into their conversation. Instead of talking about himself, he’d focused those hypnotic eyes, that impressive intellect, and his lethal charm on her. No, Jarrah Harper wasn’t motivated by money, he was driven by an insatiable desire to be the best at what he did and to protect the family waiting for him at the end of today’s journey. The very same family she’d officially join in the next few days.
She scrubbed her face and ran a leather tongue over her furry teeth before cringing and shaking herself free of the best and most erotic four hours of sleep she’d enjoyed in recent memory. Time to clean up, find her future brother-in-law or whatever the hell he was, pick up Abi and Ryder’s wedding present, and disappear into the middle of freaking nowhere.
Her motivation, along with the breath she’d sucked in before pushing off the couch, exploded out of her on a curse as Brisbane erupted to life before her. On jelly legs, she wobbled to the windows and took in the perfect morning nudging the city awake. The shadowy gardens she’d glimpsed the previous night sparkled with all the spectacle of a New Year’s Eve fireworks display with tropical flowers and a jungle’s worth of birds providing the color. Despite the early hour, the river meandering around his building and through the city and its paved banks overflowed with kayakers, boaters, runners, walkers, and all manner of feathered and furry creatures.
As she shook the last of the Glenfiddich’s lingering effects from her system, sporadic bursts of what sounded like muffled gunfire drifted through the silence from behind the kitchen. She was already tiptoeing across the hardwood floor before she’d even finished reprimanding herself for being a busybody. Had he left a television on, or was he a closet gamer?
Curiosity transformed into excitement the closer she drew to the heavy wooden door leading off the kitchen as she realized the noise’s source. With every heavy thud, she drifted further and further back to her father’s garage where her huge teddy bear of a dad had shown his little girls how to defend themselves. She heard her mom teasing the man she loved more than life itself and shouting encouragement while she and Abi had taken turns opening cans of whip ass on their dad as he held focus pads, kick shields, and sparred with them. The all-too-familiar scent of worn leather filled her lungs as she eased open the door and peeked inside.
The rusted free weights lining the back wall and the battered punching bag swinging from the exposed steel beam looked nothing like the penthouse behind her, but the contrast of the ancient equipment against the barren interior of the gym hadn’t stolen her breath. It was the warrior pounding the heavy bag.
Her brain couldn’t reconcile the physique flexing and exploding beneath the saturated T-shirt and sweat shorts with the businessman sheathed in the elegant slacks and silk shirt from the previous night. The year she’d spent sharing her apartment with Ryder had desensitized her to the brutal magnificence of the male form, yet she’d never failed to admire the view. Where Ryder was a huge battle-ax, Jarrah was a katana, sleek, agile, and just as lethal as he unleashed hell on the poor punching bag. In the hours they’d shared, he’d been almost as gentle as he’d been cheeky. However, the fighter exploding before her bore little resemblance to the teasing guy who’d spoiled her.
She savored every glistening inch of him and allowed her libido to run free as the delicious tension from last night coiled around her once again. Had he sensed the same electricity crackling between them, or had she just imagined all those lingering glances, nervous silences, and hesitant grins? Had the night they’d shared been as unsettling for him as it had been for her? Did she have anything to do with the energy he seemed hell-bent on exorcising from his system? Or did he punish himself and that poor defenseless bag like this every morning?
She drew in another sweat- and leather-soaked breath, steadied herself against the doorframe, and faked a disinterested smirk. “You’re dropping your left when you throw the overhand.”
The sophisticated beating he’d been inflicting turned into a comedy skit as he missed with a right hook and almost fell on his ass. “Jesus Christ. You scared the shit out of me.”
Seeing a man that well put together looking like a terrified child had her cackling and grabbing her stomach. His wide eyes narrowed as he regained his balance and straightened. Now that she’d started laughing, she couldn’t stop.
He fixed a menacing scowl on his face, that she didn’t buy for a second, while stalking forward. “Ever heard of knocking?”
She stifled her outburst long enough to shrug and nod to the heavy bag that looked like it’d lost an argument with a bulldozer. “I wanted to see if you could actually hit that thing.”
The bottomless brown eyes she’d tried avoiding last night locked onto her and his scowl turned into a devious grin that was way more terrifying than his fake anger. “Care to go a few rounds?”
Part challenge, part threat, part holy shit, the words hit her like a jab, cross, hook combo and had her swallowing her laughter along with her tongue. His hair clung to his glistening forehead and cheeks while sweat trickled down his temples and dribbled onto the threadbare cotton clinging to his chest. With each drop, the few feet of air separating them charged with enough electricity to have her heart thudding against her rib cage and her skin igniting.
She waved him away and prayed he didn’t notice her trembling fingers. “Please, I’d knock you on your ass before you landed a jab.”
He nodded and shifted closer. “Is that right?”
She drew in the superheated air enveloping her and searched for calm among the storm raging in her belly. She’d played this game so many times in bars, clubs, and hospital corridors during her man-hunting years and grown bored with the lack of competition. She needed to pull her shit together, raise her guard, and get back onto the balls of her feet before this cocky contender with the home advantage and sweat-soaked cotton clinging to every ridge and valley on his body knocked her out.
Only after she’d shoved him away did she realize the magnitude of her mistake. Beneath the drenched T-shirt lay a chest that felt more like steel than flesh. She had no idea whether he’d leaned closer or her lust had drawn him nearer like freaking gravity. Her safety buffer vanished and she found herself inhaling his warm breath and staring into his eyes.
One inch, one minuscule inch separated her from what she’d dreamed of throughout the night. She could even blame the kiss on a simple loss of balance or a thank-you for last night. The problem wasn’t a simple kiss; it was the fuse she’d ignite. Because if she surrendered, she was pretty sure she wasn’t stopping at just one kiss.
Reaching deep inside herself for the tiny shred of control still clinging to life, she ignored the pure male scent invading her lungs and waved a hand in front of her face. “Wow, and I thought I needed a shower.”
The sly grin he’d tested her defenses with grew wider as he stepped back and removed the wraps strapped around his hands with an unconscious efficiency that would’ve taken years to hone. No, this guy was definitely not one of the fake gym gladiators she’d had to slap down when she’d squeezed in workouts between lectures and shift changes. This man was the real deal.
She concealed her relieved breath behind a bored huff while nodding to the punching bag. “Care to explain why a lawyer living in a penthouse needs to be able to throw a fairly decent right cross?”
He shrugged while hanging up his wraps to dry before snatching a towel off the floor. “If you’re an indigenous mongrel grow
ing up in the Outback you either learn to run or you learn to fight.” He scrubbed his face and head with the towel before draping it around his neck and launching another attack on her will by closing the distance. “I hate running.”
Her chest tightened at the hideous description he’d so casually used to describe the ancient bloodlines that had created him. The urge to yell at him for referring to himself like that almost overwhelmed her. What the hell did she know about what he and his people had endured? She’d Googled Australia’s history and just like in the States, white man’s textbooks documented a very different version of the truth. Only after she’d spoken with Ryder had she understood just how unforgivably wrong Wikipedia was.
Jarrah tilted his head and studied her before tucking a crumpled lock of hair behind her ear. “We’ve got a long day. That Glenfiddich’s not kicking your ass, is it?”
She slowly shook her head and forced herself to stop imagining the world he and his twin sister had endured.
His fingers lingered on her cheek. “Good, because we’ve got to pick up that Yankee piece of crap you imported into my country and hit the road before my mother and future sister-in-law start calling.”
Her heart slammed into her throat, and for an instant, she feared the game they’d been playing had suddenly turned terrifyingly real.
He lowered his hand and leaned in. He didn’t touch her. Christ, he didn’t need to. The electricity skittering down her spine while he hovered along her jaw had her struggling to remain upright.
Fear, excitement, and lust—oh God, the lust—overwhelmed her as his whispered words caressed her ear.
“Plus, you need a shower, Doc. You stink.”
…
She stank all right, but only of rumpled sex and everything he’d hoped his workout would sweat from his system. He’d done the right thing. Fighting every instinct in his body and ignoring the electricity that had crackled between them had been the smart and honorable thing to do. Then why the hell did he feel like such a fucking moron?
A Choice of Fate Page 4