Bending The Rules: Stewart Island Book 10

by Tracey Alvarez

  Noah strode up the road to Southern Seas. It looked as if every single light inside was on, as well as the outdoor lights that would normally guide guests down the side of the property to the three guest rooms beneath the main house. He switched on his flashlight and headed toward the guest rooms. Each of the three rooms was locked up tight with no signs of tampering. Not that he was expecting to see any.

  He stood, breathing in the crisp night air, and shone the beam around the perimeter of the backyard. Like many Oban properties, the backyard wasn’t fenced, it just petered out to where the thick native forest that covered Stewart Island took over. The flashlight didn’t reveal any intruders, or sign of intruders—he’d invented the Peeping Tom story on the fly—so he turned it off and just listened. Listening to rural New Zealand night sounds was something city-dwellers had forgotten how to do.

  With Stewart Island being a haven for native birds and the efforts of the Department of Conservation doing its best to keep the island predator free, the forest came alive at night. He slowed his breathing and cocked his head, waiting. A rustle of leaves to his far left. A few moments later came a guttural cry.

  With a soft snort, Noah followed the path around the house to the kitchen door and knocked on it. The door wrenched open to a wild-eyed, tousle-haired Tilly. He noted she’d been telling the truth—no lingerie. Instead she wore a sleep shirt with a graphic of Princess Leia saying Don’t Call Me Princess, striped pajama pants, and fuzzy blue socks. Somehow on Tilly the outfit worked.

  She worked it, he amended silently as she slapped a hand on her hip. She made it sexier than all get-out.

  “Well?” she asked. “Did you see anyone? Make an arrest?”

  “Not exactly. Turn off all the lights and come out here for a few minutes.”

  Her eyebrows drew into a V wrinkle. “Why?”

  “Do you always respond to a direct order with a question?”

  “Yes, always. I’m a writer. We rebel against authority, and our one word mantra is why.”

  But she backed away from the door and walked into the hallway. While he waited for her to turn out her house lights that could probably be seen from space they were so bright, he leaned back against the porch railing and just…was.

  For months after he’d moved to Oban he hadn’t known how to just be. To sit out on his back deck at night and stargaze, or to stretch out with a book and his own company. Part of him had remained alert and watchful, anticipating the disruption of a call ordering him back to the central station. You never knew what it would be on any given day. Armed robbery, domestic violence, some idiot walking around with a shotgun. Or a woman and her kid held hostage by a crazy stoner armed to the teeth.

  The familiar punch of anxiety hit his gut and he forced it aside, concentrating instead on waiting for Tilly to return. She did a moment later, turning off the kitchen light and double-checking the door so she wouldn’t get locked out. He grinned to himself as she joined him, her sock-covered feet whispering on the dark decking. Bracing his palms against the railing, he scanned the yard below.

  “Are you trying to lure him out into the open?” she whispered, giving his arm a soft nudge.

  “Yeah.” He dipped his head, catching a trace of vanilla-mandarin and her sweet female pheromones his brain now registered as pure Tilly. A scent uniquely crafted to lure him into doing something stupid. “Just be patient while your eyes adjust to the dark.”

  He sensed rather than saw her lush mouth curve into a frown. “There’s no Peeping Tom, is there?”

  “No. Now shhh.”

  She gave a huffy little sigh and fell silent.

  Minutes ticked past as they stood side by side in the dark. He was beginning to think Tilly’s visitor had wandered off when a shrill cry warbled through the air. Tilly’s hand wrapped tight around his wrist but she didn’t speak.

  “Wait for it,” he said.

  And sure enough, after another few moments the bushes started rustling. The hand on his wrist tightened even more as out of the darkest shadows of undergrowth emerged a stocky hunched silhouette with a long beak.

  “A kiwi,” Tilly breathed. “Oh, look at her!” She released his wrist and moved closer to his side, clutching at his biceps with both hands, almost vibrating with excitement.

  They watched as the bird waddled across the lawn, stopping once or twice to investigate something on the ground with its beak. Noah turned his face so his mouth was close to Tilly’s ear.

  “That’s actually a male. You just heard him calling out, searching for his mate. I heard the female earlier, so she might still be around here, too.”

  They continued to watch until from somewhere in the darkness another cry rang out—this one more guttural and breathy.

  “The female?” Tilly asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  The male stilled for a moment, lifting his head so his famous birdy profile was in full view. Then he disappeared into the undergrowth.

  “That was incredible.” Tilly let go of his arm, her fingers briefly skimming over his biceps before dropping away.

  Noah wanted them back again. He wanted her touching him.

  He turned to face her and found her staring up at him. There wasn’t enough light to decipher if the planes and curves of her face were set in an expression of gratitude or something more. As if by his sheer will, she set her hand lightly on the crook of his elbow.

  “Thank you.” She rose on tiptoe and leaned in, her lips lightly brushing his cheek.

  He should’ve left it at that—a friendly gesture, one level up from a quick thank-you hug—but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He had to find out for himself if her lips were as soft as they looked, if she tasted like pure sunshine or midnight sin. He slid a hand along her jaw and into the silky strands of hair curling around her nape. She gasped at his touch and the slight pinch of her fingernails dug into his arm, but she didn’t pull away. He dipped his head, ran his lips along the length of her smooth throat. Breathed her in. She trembled under the softest kiss he left beside her ear.

  “Cold, Til?” he murmured.

  “A little bit.”

  He liked—really liked—that she sounded as breathy as the female kiwi they’d just heard. Although her voice impacted his sex drive more than the bird’s had. Dropping a hand to her pajama-clad hip, he reeled her in closer until Princess Leia met his chest and striped pajama bottoms met denim. He curled his arm around her, stroking his palm up and down her back.

  “Better?” Though holding her was not at all indicative of a friend-zone embrace to share body warmth.

  “Mmm-hmm.” She tilted her head back so his hand that was cupping her neck slid down to her jaw. “I’d be even better if you shut up and kissed me.”

  Lust fizzed through him, borne on waves of laughter and the pure pleasure of sparring with this woman. “Is that a direct order?”

  “It is.” Her hand snaked up from his elbow to curl against his chest, gripping a small fistful of his T-shirt.

  Her lips parted on a gasp and Noah didn’t need a written invitation to take what she offered. Or, as it happened, he didn’t have a problem with authority or following orders. He captured her mouth on her next inhale and let the chips fall where they may.

  Warm, soft, sin and sunshine, the feel of her lips beneath his stole his breath. Her tongue flicked along his lower lip, dragging out what remaining air he had left in his lungs. He returned the gesture, testing, tasting, until with a whimper her tongue tangled with his. The kiss deepened, turning warm and exploratory into deep and wet and hot as hell. He pressed her closer, her breasts flattening against his chest.

  More—he needed more.

  With a curvy ass cheek in each of Noah’s hands, Tilly got with the program, twining her arms around his neck as he boosted her up. Legs locked around his waist, she clamped their bodies together. Goddamn, she fit him like a missing puzzle piece.

  He spun around, setting her butt on the wooden railing, because damned if his legs hadn’t suddenly
become girlishly shaky from wanting her so badly. He skimmed a hand down her back—the other keeping her hard against him, safety first—and dipped under the hem of her shirt to stroke her soft skin.

  Tilly jerked in his arms and broke off the kiss with a sound like a rusty screen door being opened. Her spine arched to get away from his hand, her lower extremities pushing into his groin hard enough to have his dick singing the “Hallelujah Chorus.” But reality slapped him upside the head. He hadn’t meant to kiss her like that. Liar. He had meant to kiss her like that; he hadn’t meant to let things get so out of control. To let himself get so out of control.

  His hand dropped away from her waist and curled into a fist behind her.

  She bumped her forehead against his breastbone and let out a shaky laugh. “Your fingers are like icicles.”

  “Sorry.” He took a step backward, easing her down from the railing to stand in front of him. Her fists still clutched a handful of his shirt, and even in the dim light of the stars he could see the shimmer of heat still in her eyes. Small white teeth dragged sensuously on her lower lip as she continued to stare up at him, waiting for him to kiss her again or suggest they pick up where they left off inside where it was warmer.

  A few years ago and he would’ve done exactly that. But something about Tilly held him back. It wasn’t because he didn’t want her. The fact that he couldn’t have fitted his hands into his jeans’ front pockets was evidence enough that he did. And it wasn’t that he was concerned she’d turn into a Kling-on the morning after. He didn’t get a needy vibe from her.

  The reason was all him. Because this spur-of-the-moment kiss with Tilly had figuratively knocked him on his behind. And he needed to sort that stuff out in his head before it went any further.

  Her fingers uncurled from his shirt, mouth twisting into a self-deprecatory twist. “I should probably get back inside before I catch my death.”

  The lifting note of invitation in her voice weakened his resolve and he fought to keep his hands off her. An internal battle he won by using brute force. “Yeah, you probably should.”

  “Well. Good night, then.” She dropped her gaze and ducked around him, slipping into the kitchen. She didn’t turn the light on, and she quietly shut the door on his muttered “G’night.”

  The door lock clicked into place. He screwed up his face as he jogged down the steps and headed home. Sensible woman. He didn’t trust himself not to change his mind either.

  Chapter 10

  From Mary Duncan’s secret journal:

  There were so many firsts with Jim. He was the first man to literally make me pee myself laughing, the first man I fell in love with, the first man I slept with. The first man to break my heart. So many firsts, but the one thing I can trace everything back to, the turning point if you will, is our first kiss. Not enough weight is given to the power of the first kiss these days, but believe me, a first kiss can and does change everything.

  Mine was on Christmas Eve, 1965.

  I still remember that evening as if it were yesterday. Jim and I had been seeing each other for less than a month—‘courting’ was the old-fashioned way of saying it—and I’d invited him over to have lunch with my parents and my eldest sister. He arrived on the farm that morning with flowers for my mother and a bottle of wine for my father, and I’d fizzed with excitement as I led him into the family living room to meet them. My parents couldn’t have been more polite during that never-ending meal. So excruciatingly polite it burned welts across my heart.

  They didn’t like him.

  I quietly confronted my mother in the kitchen when she excused herself to whip cream for dessert. I listed all the wonderful things about Jim in an attempt to convince her that he was more than likeable, that he was loveable. Kind, funny, sweet, respectful, hardworking, honest, close to his family—all qualities I knew she and Dad wanted for me in a partner.

  And I still remember the tightening of her face as she looked at me and said, “I’m sure he’s a lovely young man, Mary. But he’s not one of us.”

  You may not believe this, but in my naivety I had no idea what she meant. Not a farmer? Not a Presbyterian? Not born and raised in Invercargill? My mother must’ve seen my confusion as she patted my arm. “The Māori people are not like you and me, darling. And no matter how nice Jim is, he won’t fit into our world and you’ll never fit into his. Best to make a clean break now so nobody gets hurt.”

  The rest of that lunch passed in a blur. I walked Jim out to his car, suddenly aware, as I hadn’t up until then, of the cracked vinyl seats, the bogged-up panels, and rusty, screeching doors. Of how bloodlessly pale my fingers were against his warm brown skin when he took my hand.

  “They don’t approve of you,” I whispered.

  “Figured that,” he said. “But they’ll come round. So long as you approve of me, that’s all that matters.”

  I looked up to see him smiling down at me, and suddenly everything was far less complicated. “You’ll do,” I said, and he laughed.

  Ducking his head, he cupped my face in his big rough hands and brought our mouths together. Soft, sweet, and as perfect a first kiss as I could’ve ever dreamed of. Oh, how I wished that moment could’ve lasted a lifetime. But that moment was only the beginning, the choice we made to take one road over another. We’d left friendship behind and headed in an entirely different direction, and that one kiss had changed everything.

  * * *

  Tilly stared at her great-aunt’s neat penmanship until her vision blurred. Mary and Jim’s newfound relationship marred by the ugly stain of racism? Her fingers hovered at the edge of the page, eager to flip it over and continue the story. If she knew anything about Mary, she knew her strength of character wouldn’t bow to something like people’s disapproval.

  So she’d savor her aunt’s words, not gulp them down like a cheap bargain-basement paperback. She closed the journal, set it on her nightstand, and rolled out of bed. It was a new day and even though she was running on empty—she’d barely slept thanks to her own mind-blowing first kiss two nights before—she had a to-do list for the day that didn’t involve stewing over Noah.

  Morning routine completed, Tilly worked dedicatedly on her developing script until her stomach began to growl. She needed fuel in her belly if she was to start tackling the first of Southern Seas’ guest rooms that afternoon. Sorting and packing boxes seemed a safer deal than following Noah around town. While it’d been fun being on a Tilly version of a stakeout, he was the last person she wanted to see today.

  Space. She needed some big, bubble-ball space between herself and the sexy cop while she sorted out just what exactly their first kiss meant. If it meant anything other than two adults sharing a moment in full view of a screeching native bird.

  She pulled on her jacket and headed into town on foot—the great gusts of wind outside put her off the thought of taking Scotty for a spin. Halfmoon Bay was gray and choppy with whitecaps, plumes of spray drifting into the air as the waves slapped against the wharf pylons. She recognized some of the locals as she trudged toward Due South with her hands shoved deep into her pockets.

  There was Bree Komeke inside her gift shop/gallery. Tilly had met her and her artist husband, Harley, inside their shop when she’d bought a souvenir T-shirt. Harley had their cute-as-a-button baby boy perched giggling on his shoulders. Next door to the gift shop was a beauty salon, and the owner, Holly, was chatting to a client in one of the two cutting-station chairs. Holly glanced up and caught Tilly’s gaze through the window and waved. Tilly had also stopped to talk to her a few days ago with promises to make an appointment to get a conditioning treatment.

  She continued on along the foreshore road, wind whipping her hair around her face. Once she arrived outside the pub’s picture windows, she squinted through the salt-spray-speckled glass to see if she recognized anyone inside. There was one certain someone she was hoping to see, only she had no idea what he looked like.

  Following the path to the pub’s front doo
r, she caught a glimpse of a man in a button-down shirt, chatting to the bartender. West, she remembered. Piper’s man. Tilly slipped inside the pub and made a beeline for the bar. Both men caught sight of her and stopped talking about whatever they’d been talking about. Awkward much?

  “Hi there,” she said.

  West’s face creased into a warm smile and the bartender, Kip, who she’d learned was engaged to Carly, left with a wave to serve a customer who’d just stepped up to the bar.

  “Hi. You’re Tilly, right?”

  “That’s me. And you’re Piper’s husband, Ryan?”

  “It’s West—only my mum calls me Ryan, though I’m slowly training her out of it.” He cocked his head. “Tilly, short for Matilda? Like the Roald Dahl book?”

  “Close. After the Aussie song, ‘Waltzing Matilda.’ Or that’s what my dad used to say to tease.” She cast a side-eye around the olive-green painted walls and old framed photos of fishing boats, skimming over the tables where at least a dozen customers sat. “I don’t suppose you could point Pete Reynolds out to me?”

  She looked back to West, whose smile had slipped a notch.

  “There he is.” He lifted his chin and Tilly turned to follow the direction of his gaze. Shambling toward the pub’s door was a grizzle-faced elderly man in a threadbare sweater, baggy sweatpants, and a scowl harsh enough to part a group of young women either side of him like the Red Sea.

  “I don’t think he’s in the mood for company,” he added.

  Quite unnecessarily, in Tilly’s opinion. The man looked as if he murdered puppies in his sleep. He dug a hand into his pants pocket as he approached the door, listing slightly to one side. Straightening after a couple more shuffling steps, he pulled a set of keys from his pocket in triumph.

  Beside her, West swore softly under his breath. “Excuse me for a moment.” He moved around her and, calling Pete’s name, strode across the pub.

  Tilly trailed after him, coming to an abrupt halt as she spotted Noah on the other side of Due South’s glass doors. Her heart backflipped into her stomach. He hadn’t yet noticed her. His entire focus was on Pete Reynolds, who was ignoring West and pushing on the glass door that opened inward.