Falling for Jack

by Joanne Hill

  The silence in the car was suddenly stifling, and she racked her brain to remember what they’d been talking about. Events. Networking. That’s right.

  She cleared her throat. “So you’re not into the idea of networking?”

  He shrugged. “I see these events about supporting a cause. I have a ...” His mouth twisted. “Small circle of friends. I prefer to keep it that way.”

  Again her mind flicked back to Charlotte. The empty seat had caused plenty of wild speculation among her colleagues as to why she hadn't been there when her name had been on the guest list.

  He signaled to change lanes. “Do you normally get a lift home from work with a colleague?”

  “Most times. She lives not far from me and we split the cost of petrol. There’s another event center closer to home we work at more often.”

  “You don't drive, then?”

  “I do. But I don't have a car at the moment. I borrow my neighbor's van if I need to get around. It works out.”

  It had begun to drizzle, and he switched on the wipers and after a moment asked, “Is there anyone waiting for you at home?”

  “My children and the babysitter.”

  He glanced sideways at her and she sensed the surprise. Robyn Taylor had kids?

  “So you’re a mom,” he murmured finally. “Children, not a child?”

  “James and Ruby. They’re twins, nearly five.”

  The drizzle increased and he upped the speed on the wipers. “And their father?” His voice was cautious. “If you don't mind me asking.”

  She didn't mind — not really. She'd have asked the same thing of him. “We're divorced.” Although any thoughts to do with Edwin always made her chest constrict and she took a deep breath against the annoying feeling. “The marriage only lasted a few years and he doesn’t see the twins often.”

  She felt him give her a long searching look before he moved his concentration back to the road. “That must be hard on you.”

  “I guess it is.” She'd never dwelt on the difficulties, not now she had a plan. She just tried to make the most of it. “But it’s what I know, raising them on my own. Though I might not say that when they hit their teens.”

  “I imagine your parents are proud of them. From what I recall about them, they'd be typical doting grandparents.”

  Robyn tightened her grip on her bag, focused on the water being swished off the windshield by the wipers. “Actually, they don't see the twins often. They retired to the Gold Coast last year.”

  “I hadn't heard that. How about Kelly?”

  She flexed her hands before they cramped. “My sister actually moved over there last year, when she married. My parents decided to follow her.”

  He scratched his chin but didn't comment. Didn't say out loud what he was probably thinking. That they preferred to be with Kelly.

  “So I guess she has children, too?”

  Robyn looked out the side window, pressed her lips together so hard they almost hurt. “No.”

  He looked at her, then away. “Your dad taught at that school for - what, fifteen years?”

  “Longer than that, actually.” He signaled to change lanes and overtook a truck with a semi. “Dad took up the principal's job when I was five. He resigned a year ago.”

  “That's a long time to stay in one job.”

  “True. But Mom loved it in Kopane. She loved the house and the size of the garden, and she'd put so much work into making it look just how she wanted it to be.”

  “I remember your house,” he mused. “It made me think of a house in one of those cheesy movies, with the big front yard, and the verandah with the BBQ and the wooden seats. I always liked it.”

  “You liked it?”

  “Yeah.” His forehead furrowed. “Why so surprised?”

  Her mouth nearly dropped open. “Because your new place is nothing like the house at Kopane. I read the feature in ‘Home and Garden’ last year and the two couldn't be more different. Your place is so contemporary and sleek, so ...” She tried to recall what the journalist had called it. There'd been dozens of superlatives.

  “I believe ‘stark’ was the word du jour.”

  “Yes,” she said remembering, “but in a good way. And the photography was so amazing I wondered what it...”

  She pulled up short. She'd actually wondered what it would have been like to have walked through the house herself. To have stood looking out over those stunning million dollar views. To have lived in a house the complete opposite of her own chaotic, falling-apart little place.

  He prodded, “You wondered what?”

  She turned to him. “I wondered how those pictures compared to the real thing.”

  “How they compared?” His eyebrows drew together. “Are you saying you think they were jazzed up?”

  “Hmm, that's a thought. Airbrushed kitchens and views. I mean, why not? They do it with food and people.”

  He shook his head, a wry grin on his face. “Well, any time you want to come over and have the grand tour, you're welcome. I'll even throw in a coffee. I do a pretty good flat white.”

  He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “In fact.” He beckoned ahead. “The turn off to Takapuna is next.” The overhead sign announced the exit a kilometer ahead. “Why don't you come and take a look now?”

  She narrowed her gaze. Was he serious? “Right now?”

  “Why not? It's not far, and you're already over this side of the bridge. Seems like good timing to me.”

  She tapped her fingers on her thigh. She wanted to see his house. Who wouldn’t after the write-up the journalist had given it? It had probably been a fawning female journalist, but the pictures had apparently not lied — so Jack intimated.

  He beckoned to the approaching off-ramp.

  “Are you sure?” she said. “I mean, it's going to add more time on to your evening to drop me off home afterwards.” The clock on the dash said it had already gone eleven, although she wasn’t tired. She was strangely alert. But even so. He was a man in a relationship with a top model, inviting a woman — a waitress — he barely knew, into his house. As innocent as it was, it seemed a risky thing to do. Especially with his profile.

  He signaled to change lanes and the hum of the tires changed as they sped down the off-ramp.

  “Robyn, I'm sure. I'll be happy to show you around.”

  The property was at the end of an exclusive cul-de-sac, on a cliff top overlooking the Hauraki Gulf.

  The rain had stopped; Jack parked the car outside the garage and they walked to the front door. Robyn looked up at the house, a dark three-storied, architecturally-designed building. It was imposing in the dark, more so with the strategically placed lights.

  He opened the wide doors into an impressive foyer, and stood back, gesturing for her to step through.

  She walked on gleaming polished floors and he said, “I'll show you the kitchen first, and check I actually have some coffee. De-caf at this time of night?”

  “Actually, normal is fine.” She had a ton of work to do when she got home and anything to make sure she stayed awake was a bonus.

  He led her through a hall and a living area towards a huge open plan kitchen. Lights switched on as they walked through, and she glanced around as she followed.

  “Well, it looks like you were right,” she said. “It’s even better than the photos.”

  The decor was contemporary and noticeably masculine with its neutral tones. They passed leather settees and metal coffee tables, and then they were in the kitchen with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances.

  “I had the place designed to suit me. With some input from my housekeeper.” He checked the fridge. “Mrs Parker worked with me at my last house and was happy to stay when I moved. She spends more time here than I do anyway.” He gestured back out the way they’d come. “Come on. I’ll give you the tour, then the coffee.”

  There was a bathroom and study on the ground floor, along with a small gym, and a second lounge.
<
br />   “I never actually use it,” he admitted, as the light switched off behind them.

  They walked up the wide stairs to the next floor with three bedrooms, each with a stunning ensuite and night time views that no photographer would manage to convey.

  The walls facing the gulf were almost ceiling to floor glass. Outside it was dark, punctuated by lights and the glimmer of water from the harbor.

  Jack slid back the bolt on the door, and they stepped outside onto a wide balcony. The air was cool and damp, a slight mist surrounding them. Romantic, Robyn thought.

  “These rooms were built for the morning light.” A sudden breeze whirled past them, flipping loose strands of her hair around her cheeks. They moved up to the railing and stared out to the sea. Lights on the ground below lit up a paved and landscaped yard, and just beyond it, the cliff led down to the beach.

  Robyn spotted twinkling lights through the trees and realized just how isolated they were. “In the daylight, you wouldn't even be able to see your neighbors, would you?”

  He nodded. “I planned it that way.”

  He led her up to the next floor. It was smaller, and included his bedroom. The door was open and he gestured for her to step inside. She took a quick look. It seemed intrusive to go in too far but she noted the room fitted the house; stark and masculine. No cases of books or photos hanging on the walls. Just a huge bed, bedside tables and doors leading to a wardrobe and ensuite.

  She stared at the navy and black cover on the bed. Had Charlotte ever come up here? Did she stay over? Surely she did. Were her things in the bathroom - her toothbrush, her make up, a robe?

  “I think it’s a beautiful house,” she said.

  “Well, thank you. I like it. But it is crazy for one person.” He followed her out through the door and onto the landing, he gestured down the stairs. “Come on. I'll make you that drink.”

  Jack made coffee. He set her cup on the breakfast bar, a cup boasting a generous amount of froth, grinned apologetically. “It's a bit more cappuccino than latte. I'm out of practice.”

  She pulled it closer, admired the cup, and inhaled the scent. “It's perfect.”

  He took the seat across from her, and set his phone in front of him.

  Her watch told her it was eleven thirty.

  She took a sip of the coffee. “Are you expecting a call this late at night?”

  He pressed his lips together a moment. “I hope not.”

  She took another sip and as she set the cup back down on the counter, she felt him watching her, studying her. He was going to ask her why she hadn’t become a doctor. She could feel it.

  She glanced around his kitchen to find something to comment on, some piece of art or a photograph or... her gaze fell on to the leather couch. That had to boast some sort of design significance, surely, to take his mind off —

  “Are you going to tell me what happened?” he said.

  She focused on her cup. “Sorry? What happened about what?”

  “With you. Your career as a doctor. That scholarship.”

  “Ah, that.” It still felt as if it had happened to another person. The determination to be an A student, the prestige of the scholarship, seeing her parents so happy and proud of her, starting university, loving it.

  Then her dream shattering. Her parents’ disappointment. Her sister's criticism.

  Not to mention her own feelings of abject failure.

  She took the teaspoon and spooned out some froth. Reluctantly, she said, “Life happened.” She was about to say more, but stopped. Jack's life was far more interesting a topic of conversation. She put the spoon in her mouth, noted Jack’s gaze had followed and settled on her hand. Then her mouth. She swallowed the froth; he reached for his coffee and cleared his throat.

  “Obviously not 'good' life,” he conjectured.

  Her face had suddenly heated. She put the spoon down. “There were timing issues. Circumstances. Some personal problems.”

  Personal problems. That was putting it mildly.

  He drummed his fingers on the table. “Don't tell me if you don't want to. I admit I'm curious but it's your business. I’m just...” He shrugged. “Making conversation.”

  Like heck he was. The curiosity was coming off him in waves.

  She mustered a fake confident smile. “There's not a lot to it, really. I finished school, came down to Auckland. Did pre-med, got into med school and was there for three years.” She hesitated. Stick to something vague. “It just didn't work out for me.”

  His gaze softened in to something like sympathy and she wondered if he thought she'd just cracked up, couldn't handle the workload, or the pressure of the competition to succeed. She wouldn't have been the first. Please let him think that - because it beat the alternative. That she'd been a fool.

  “Best laid plans, huh?” he murmured.

  “Pretty much,” she agreed.

  His phone began to vibrate, and without thinking, she glanced at the screen sitting between them.

  The name was clear. Brad.

  Brad Randell? He was a former All Black, and from what the media had portrayed, he and Jack were good friends. One of that tight circle.

  Jack reached for the phone, and she waited for him to take the call.

  Instead, he dismissed it.

  She glanced up with a frown. “Jack, I don’t—” She was about to tell him she didn’t mind if he took it, when she saw his face.

  Anger had darkened his eyes, and his mouth had firmed into a hard, straight line.

  Frustration poured off him and he suddenly pushed himself away from the the counter.

  “Robyn, I'm sorry.” He grabbed the phone, clenched his fist around it so tight she thought it would snap. “Please excuse me a moment.”

  Without waiting for her reply, he left. Stunned, Robyn turned to see him disappear out of the room, the sound of his footsteps dimming, a door slamming.

  What on earth had happened? She turned back and frowned at the place where the phone had been.

  It clearly had something to do with his friend, Brad.

  Only...friends didn’t normally get a call then act like they wanted to take the phone and smash it against the wall.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jack splashed water on his face, and wished it were ice cold.

  He splashed more, reached for the soft hand towel and buried his face in it.

  Nausea sat in his stomach. Nausea. Anger. Disappointment. Disgust.

  He leant forward to rest his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror and closed his eyes.

  He did not need that phone call to confirm what Charlotte had told him that evening. She had texted him and told him that Brad would call.

  The bastard.

  The phone suddenly went again; this time it was a text message.

  Jack jerked away from the mirror, rubbed his fist across his forehead hard to ease the tension, and before he could change his mind, checked the text.

  Yeah. It was from Brad.

  He opened it to find one word.

  Sorry.

  So that was it. The confirmation he hadn't needed.

  For a moment he stood still.

  Back in the lounge Robyn Taylor was undoubtedly wondering what the heck she'd said or done, or what kind of lunatic he'd become. She was his guest and he was meant to be dropping her off home. Instead he'd walked out on her.

  Oh, man. He shut his eyes against the wave of anger ripping through him. At the nerve Brad had to call him.

  He flexed then curled his fingers. He couldn't drive Robyn home like this. He wasn't in any state to be behind the wheel of a vehicle right now.

  He shut the bathroom door behind him, thought hard.

  He didn't trust himself to drive safely; he'd call Robyn a cab.

  He began to walk down the hall, his shoes thudding on the kauri floorboards. Problem solved.

  Just as quickly, he stopped in his tracks.

  A cab. Like that would help the situation. If word had gotten
out about Charlotte, then this would be one of the first places any hack reporter would camp out. And more to the point, he didn't trust any cab driver not to tip off the news sites. There were a couple of competitive journalists who in recent times had shown just how desperate they were to get the best scoop on a story. The more salacious the better.

  He walked slowly back, stopped in the doorway and for a moment, just watched Robyn.

  She was tapping her fingers on the counter top, her back to him, the sound of nails clicking the only sound in the eerie silence. He wasn't used to the silence. Mrs Parker listened to talkback radio, and at times he liked to play metal at high volume. A throwback from his teen days when he'd taken refuge in music and occasionally still did. Charlotte, of course, hated it. But then, he had never made this home hers, had never done anything to encourage that.

  He began to walk towards Robyn, and at the thud of his shoes, she spun round, the ponytail flicking.

  “Are you okay?” She threw him a sharp look, concern flashing in her eyes.

  “Yeah. I'm good. Look, I'm sorry about leaving like that.”

  She scrutinized him, and said, “You don't look great.”

  So the mirror hadn't lied.

  He pulled up the barstool next to her, about to sit down when he changed his mind. He was jittery. The kind of jittery that made him want to head to his gym and take it all out on a punching bag.

  Which only confirmed he was in no state to drive half way across town.

  “Listen, Robyn. Something has come up, and you're right. I'm not so great at the moment. It won't be a good idea for me to drive you home.”