Christmas Down Under: Six Sexy New Zealand & Australian Christmas Romances

by Rosalind James

  Skye dipped her spoon into the chowder and tasted it, then rolled her eyes. “Mmm, delicious.”

  Owen paused with his spoon halfway to the bowl, captivated by the dreamy look on her face. He wanted to kiss her until her eyes looked distant like that, until she murmured his name in that sexy way. Lowering his gaze, he concentrated on his soup. If he kept thinking racy thoughts, he’d end up embarrassing himself if she spotted his erection.

  He fished out a prawn, spooned it into his mouth, and chewed. Bliss. The rich, creamy chowder with its whole prawns, scallops, and chunks of hoki fish took some beating.

  Pat appeared again with a dish he placed on the floor for Mozart before disappearing. Owen looked under the table. The Lab was making short work of the chopped up sausages.

  “You’ll get fat,” Owen warned him, straightening.

  He found Skye watching him, a hint of a smile on her lips.

  “What?”

  She shook her head. “I think I told you on the plane why I left New Zealand.”

  He dipped a chunk of the crusty bread into the chowder. “You said your brother died.” Strange how they had that in common. “What happened?”

  She sighed and followed his lead, dipping her bread into the soup. “He was twenty-five. He’d been dating this girl called Kim—he was crazy about her, but she wasn’t so crazy about him.” Her mouth settled into a hard line. “He went around to see her one evening, and she broke up with him. He used to ride a motorbike, and he was so mad when he left her that he drove too fast and had an accident, right near our house. We think he swerved to avoid something, probably a possum as it was late and there weren’t any other cars involved. He crashed, and it killed him.”

  Owen chewed the bread, wondering what she wasn’t telling him. “Did you talk to Kim afterward? Find out anything else?”

  Skye shrugged. “She just said she broke up with him, and he didn’t want to break up. I think there was more to it than that, though I can’t prove it.” She kept her gaze fixed on the chowder, concentrating on hunting for scallops. Clearly, there was more to it than that, but she didn’t seem keen to enlighten him.

  Deciding not to press her, Owen changed tack. “How long was it before you left?”

  “About six months. I’d just finished university.”

  “What’s your degree in?”

  “History and politics. I wanted to take art, but my parents said I needed something more likely to guarantee a job. They’d talked me into becoming a secondary school teacher, but after Harry died, everything changed. It was like someone removed the blinkers from my eyes.”

  “In what way?”

  She lowered her spoon, looking out across the inlet. “When you’re young, you think you’re immortal, don’t you? Well, suddenly I became very aware of my own mortality. I’d always been fairly religious up until that point—I believed in Heaven, and I was certain we meet our friends and family again after we die. I believed we watch over those we love. But when Harry died, I couldn’t sense him at all. It just felt as if he’d gone, and I became convinced there was nothing after death—just darkness.” She shivered. “And everything seemed pointless. Doing a job to please my parents, being in relationships that weren’t perfect—what was the point?”

  “I know what you’re saying.”

  “I think I went a little mad,” she admitted, looking back at her chowder. She took a mouthful and chewed. “I couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t feel the same way. My parents were sick with grief, Kole was angry at Harry for being so stupid, Maisey got depressed with grief, but I just went off the rails. For a long time, I felt as if I had to make the most of every day—to cram as much into it as I could. I still feel that way to a certain extent, although maybe not quite as intense now.”

  “What did you do?” he asked, curious at how bad she could have gotten.

  She glanced up at him, and her lips twisted. “Pretty much everything. I’d been a good girl up until then, you see—I’d always done everything my parents told me to. The year before, my grandfather had died. He’d been quite rich, and he’d left us all a nice amount in our savings. I took it all and left the country. Went to Europe—travelled around Italy, Germany, France, England, Spain. Took drugs, got drunk, slept around a bit.” She bit her lip, and this time she didn’t look up at him. “I nearly went under. Then I met a guy in London. He was the first man I’d ever loved, and he pulled me back from the brink, just in time.”

  Owen took a sip of his beer, ignoring the stab of jealousy he felt. “What happened?”

  “We broke up,” she said, somewhat flatly. “By then I was off the drink and drugs, and I’d begun to find some balance. I threw myself into my drawing , travelling around historical sites and making a living from my sketches. I still felt an urge to live for today, but not in a destructive way.”

  Owen nodded. He suspected she wasn’t quite as healed as she was trying to make out, but at least she was trying. “Thank you for telling me.”

  She finally met his gaze. “Seems like the least I could do, after you opened up to me.”

  They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment. Obviously, she’d loved and lost the same as he had. They were similar in so many ways—both bearing scars from the past, trying desperately to cover them up and pretend they no longer hurt.

  Leaning forward, he picked up another piece of bread, tore a chunk off, and dipped it in his soup. “Okay, enough of the deep stuff. Tell me, what’s your favorite position to have sex in?”

  Her whole face changed, like taking a cloth to a silver cup and polishing away the tarnish to leave it gleaming. She laughed, showing her straight white teeth, and her eyes took on a naughty glint. “Owen. Really!”

  “What? It’s not a complicated question.”

  She stirred her chowder and fished out a scallop. “From behind.” She ate the scallop delicately, and wiped the corner of her mouth.

  Owen froze, the spoon halfway to his mouth. He hadn’t expected her to reply, and her answer made everything below his belt tighten.

  She giggled. “You should see the look on your face.”

  He finished off the spoonful, then pushed his bowl away and leaned back in his chair. “I’m not surprised. You could give a guy a coronary talking like that.”

  “I was only answering your question. It would have been impolite to ignore you.”

  He smiled, liking the impish Skye. What would she be like if she could completely throw off the shadow that hovered over her?

  Not wanting to stop now he’d teased her out of her shell, he continued, “Kneeling up or lying down?”

  She licked her spoon, turning his half-erection into a full blown one. “Both are good. Kneeling up’s great for a quickie. Lying down’s a bit more…” She tipped her head from side to side. “Sensual,” she decided.

  Owen nearly lost the plot. The thought of having this beautiful woman naked beneath him sent every red blood cell rushing to his groin, and he leaned carefully on the table so he didn’t faint and fall off his chair. “Fair enough.”

  Smiling, she pushed away her bowl, took a tube of lip balm out of her pocket, and slicked it over her lips. “So there’s no girl in Kerikeri who’s stolen your heart?”

  “Not yet.” He reached down and patted Mozart, who’d finished his sausages and was now bumping Owen’s knee, hoping for something else.

  “Was there a girl, down in Wellington?”

  He scrunched up his napkin and threw it onto the table. “Yeah, there was a girl. We lived together for a few years. It didn’t work out, though.”

  Skye leaned both elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hands. “Why not?”

  “You really want me to talk about other women? It doesn’t seem very polite.”

  “I’m intrigued—I know you can’t really be perfect, and I want to know what your weakness is. Are you too demanding in the bedroom?”

  That made him laugh. Her words, I know you can’t really be perfect, warmed him
right through. She thought he was perfect?

  “Not quite. She wanted to get married, and I didn’t.”

  “You’re against marriage?”

  No. I think I could marry you tomorrow and be very happy for the rest of my life.

  He cleared his throat. “Not at all. I think it’s a very civilized institution.”

  “You were just against marriage with her, then?” Skye studied him, her hazel eyes interested.

  He sighed and pulled his beer toward him. “I loved her, or I thought I did, anyway. I’d known her for a long time, since school, and we’d always been friends. We kind of fell into dating, and it was comfortable and safe. But there was no…” He thought about how to phrase it.

  “Zing?” Skye suggested.

  He smiled. “Yes. No zing. And that stopped me fully committing myself. Every time I came close to proposing and thought about forever, the words stuck in my throat. I kept thinking there had to be more, and then I’d feel terrible, because she was a lovely girl. She deserved more than what I could give her, you know? We all deserve someone who will love us a hundred-and-ten percent, someone who’s crazy about us.”

  “Mmm.” She nibbled her bottom lip and turned her gaze out to the inlet. Was she thinking about the guy in London?

  The afternoon was turning into early evening, the sun hovering lower in the sky, flooding the river with reds and golds. The smell of the manuka trees mingled with the aroma of cooked food from the restaurant. Across from them, under a shade sail nearer the building, a jazz quartet had been setting up their instruments, and now they started playing, filling the air with early summer.

  “Another drink?” Owen asked.

  “Sure. But let me pay.”

  She took her purse and went into the bar, and he watched her walk away, elegant and sophisticated in her high-heeled sandals and trousers.

  Mozart sat up and whimpered, forlorn that she’d gone, and Owen leaned forward and scratched his head. “I know how you feel, boy.”

  He couldn’t quite understand what he was feeling. All he knew was that when he’d seen her standing at the stall at the Farmers’ Market, his heart had filled with such inexplicable joy that he wouldn’t have turned and walked away for a million dollars.

  She came back with the drinks, and they sat and talked for a while, drawing out the evening as long as they could. She spoke of her time in Europe and listed her favorite places, and he talked about classical music and they bickered amicably about which composer was best.

  Eventually, though, he couldn’t drag it out any longer, and they both arose and walked slowly along the bank, Mozart sniffing the early evening smells.

  Skye paused at the exit of the car park, and he had the horrible feeling she was going to tell him she’d walk back to town on her own. “Do you live in Kerikeri?” she asked.

  He gestured across the inlet. “Over the bridge and up the hill.” He turned back to her, wanting to keep her a little longer, but knowing he had to let her go. “Skye… Can I see you again? I know you’re not here for long, but please say yes.” Should he get down on his knees, or would that look too desperate?

  She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  His guts twisted. He couldn’t lose her, not now. “Skye…”

  “I’m damaged goods, Owen. You don’t want to get involved with me.”

  Unfamiliar anger seared through him at her description of herself, but he kept it in. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that? I don’t see how—”

  She moved closer to him and pressed two fingers to his lips, the same way he had done when asking her to dinner. “If you ask me back to your place now, though, I won’t say no.”

  His heart shuddered to a halt. She wanted to go home with him?

  But he knew what she was playing at. She thought this way she’d satisfy her physical longing and cast him off, leaving him to be tortured forever more by the memory of their night together. “I want more than that,” he said when she removed her fingers. He couldn’t believe he wasn’t grabbing her hair and dragging her home behind him like a caveman.

  “There is no more,” she said simply. “I don’t want things to get complicated. There’s only tonight. Take it or leave it.”

  He met her gaze. If he argued with her now, she’d walk off and leave him—he knew it instinctively. But if he took her back to his place, maybe he’d be able to convince her to see him again.

  And besides, he really, really wanted to get her into bed.

  He shrugged. “I’ll take it.”

  He slipped a hand to the nape of her neck, lowered his head, and kissed her.

  Chapter Seven

  Skye’s heart thundered as Owen’s lips moved across hers, slow and purposeful, kissing from one corner of her mouth to the other before returning to settle in the middle. His arms tightened around her, and when his tongue brushed her bottom lip, she opened her mouth to him. He slid his tongue against hers, warm and sensual, and they exchanged a long, leisurely kiss that, like the early summer evening, held all the promise of heat to come.

  What was she doing? Her mind raced, even as she lifted her arms around his neck and slid her hand into his hair. Why had she mentioned going back to his place? She should turn around and walk back into town, climb into her car, and head for Mangonui, leaving this gorgeous guy way, way behind.

  She couldn’t have done that any more than fly. She hungered for this man, and although she knew she’d pay for it emotionally in the morning, she had to have him. He’d won her over with his gentle wit and the honest, tender tale of his past, as well as his firm muscles and the subtle, innate sexiness that told her he knew his way around a woman’s body.

  When he eventually lifted his head, her chest was heaving and an ache had grown between her thighs.

  “Are you sure about this?” His hoarse voice suggested he wasn’t unaffected, either.

  She nodded.

  “Shall we pick up your car, and you can drive us there?”

  “Sure.”

  So he took her hand and they walked back through the town, slightly more purposefully than the slow walk they’d enjoyed on the way down, but still enjoying the atmosphere of the warm November evening. They talked a little, but Skye imagined that his heart, like hers, was racing with anticipation of what was to come.

  She’d forgotten how lovely the Bay of Islands was in summer. Although southern Italy and Greece took some beating for their beautiful weather and historic buildings, she’d never truly felt at ease with the men there, a little intimidated by their obvious sensuality, and unable to tell how deep their romantic nature went. With Kiwi men, a girl didn’t need a lot of second guessing. They said what they thought, rarely hid their feelings, and if they wanted something, they went and took it. When she was younger, she’d disliked that prehistoric side of their nature, thinking it coarse and unrefined, but now she saw it for what it was—open, honest, and unassuming.

  In New Zealand, most people socialized at home, inviting friends and family around for barbecues, but many still enjoyed an evening drink out, and the bars were busy. They’d spilled onto the pavements, the tables and chairs filled with patrons drinking and eating while moths fluttered around the lamps. Everyone seemed relaxed, uncaring that they wore shorts and T-shirts, and there wasn’t a manicured nail or an expensive hairdo in sight. Even though she was from Mangonui, forty miles or so north of Kerikeri, Skye felt at home here, the first time she’d thought that since the plane had touched down.

  She pushed that notion away, though. She wasn’t here to stay. Like summer, she’d visit the Northland briefly, and then she’d be gone, and Owen was just a distraction, a sight to see while she was there, like Ninety Mile Beach or the Hole in the Rock.

  He squeezed her hand, and she nibbled her bottom lip as guilt threaded through her. That was unfair to him, but she’d made it quite clear she was only offering him tonight. He’d told her he’d had casual flings, s
o he understood that sometimes two people could need each other without it leading to anything. She had no need to be nervous. She just had to concentrate on enjoying herself while she was in New Zealand, and then she could return to Europe and put it all behind her.

  They reached her car, and Owen opened the door and then the window for Mozart, who sat on the back seat and promptly stuck his head out the gap, and then Owen slid in beside her. She started the engine and pulled away, following his directions over the bypass to the other side of the inlet, and up the hill to his house.

  Skye parked outside and turned off the engine. Sounds of the evening filled the car—the call of a kiwi bird in the bush to the north, the lap of water against the bank below them, the vague sounds of a party from down the road—folksy jazz and people talking and laughing, along with the smell of barbecued food.

  Owen let Mozart out, then led the way up the path to the front door. Opening it, he stood back and let her precede him.

  She walked in, and found herself in a large open plan living room with a kitchen in one corner. The far wall had floor-to-ceiling glass doors onto a deck that overlooked the inlet, with palms and manuka bushes on either side.

  “Wow, great view,” she said.

  “I know. I love it here. Do you drink whisky?”

  “I have been known to.”

  “I have a lovely Islay Malt. Would you like one?”

  “A small one, please,” she replied, the apprehension that was sending flutters to her stomach suggesting she could do with some Dutch courage.

  “Ice?”

  “Yes, thanks.” She took off her hat and dropped it onto a chair, then lifted the strap of her handbag over her head and left it on the kitchen counter. Walking up to the glass doors, she looked down at the twinkling lights from the boats making their way toward the marina farther downstream.

  Mozart came up to sniff her hand, as if wondering what she was doing in his home, but clearly found nothing to worry about because he wandered off into a corner of the kitchen and flopped into his bed.

  “He’s knackered.” Owen dropped a few dog biscuits beside the bed before bringing her glass over. “Eating all those sausages has worn him out.”