Sexy as Sin (Sinful, Montana Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  She liked him too much. Even if she’d wanted just-for-now, she didn’t want it with somebody with that much everything. Looks. Charm. Money. And most dangerous of all, a heart you could lose your own to.

  No.

  She had done the sums on the meals, though. It came to nearly thirty-five hundred dollars. A bloody fortune, when you weren’t expecting it. She could put it away toward the dreaded day when Azra’s family lured her home, and get a place of her own if she wanted it.

  Except that she didn’t want a place of her own. She wanted somebody to talk to. Somebody to eat dinner with. Somebody to draw her a bath when she came home too tired. She wanted . . . she wanted her parents’ life, where her mum had lain out on the veranda at night beside her dad and read him romantic poetry from the classical age, the fluid, sibilant Arabic syllables falling into the dark, while the warm breeze fluttered the edges of her satin dressing gown and the stars wheeled overhead in the warm, black North African night. Or even her aunt and uncle’s life, where somebody filled your car with petrol every time so you wouldn’t have to do it, because that was the dragon he could slay.

  Scratch that. Hopelessly romantic. Not happening. Certainly not happening with somebody who had half of himself—the undamaged half—out of the country already. Somebody who would probably listen to you reading aloud to him at night, and who would fill your petrol tank. Or somebody else’s petrol tank, because the man was going home. It was three weeks, and fairy tales were for little girls who danced in their parents’ living rooms in sparkly headbands.

  Right. Here she was, earning money to add more cushion to her perfectly fine life. She had a surfboard, she had a bike, she had a business, and thanks to Azra, she even had clothes. She’d put the money toward . . . something. If the business had been all hers, she’d put it into a steam oven with a rotisserie attachment, but the business wasn’t all hers, so never mind.

  The GPS told her to turn right, so she did. Brett hadn’t got a place on the beach, the way any other disgustingly rich bloke would have done. Instead, the address was ten minutes and about fifty years away from town, in Skinner’s Shoot, off Banglow Road and up Yaegers Lane. An enormous banana tree stood at the entrance to a steep, winding drive that looked a kilometer long, next to another tree drooping with extravagant red flowers and heaps of green foliage that her aunt would have recognized, but Willow didn’t.

  “Right,” she muttered to herself, hopping out of the car after grabbing a knife from her kit, kicking her way up the slope, and cutting down a cluster of green bananas for later. “He’s just a man, mate. Puts on his trousers one leg at a time. Especially now.”

  Back in the car and up that drive. Around a curve, past a view of a pond that was nearly a lake, with a square swimming raft floating serenely in its center, offering an invitation on a sticky-hot day. To somebody other than Brett, that is. Two horses grazed beyond it, the emerald hills sloped down to the sea, and it all looked perfectly peaceful.

  Another curve, and she brought the car to a stop. She didn’t even realize she’d done it until she had.

  It was a Federation bungalow, that was all. White, low, and sprawling, topped with a friendly corrugated red tin roof and surrounded by gum trees that would help keep it shady and cool inside. It was situated bang at the top of the hill, catching the breezes, with a view of the hills and the sea far below. Deep verandas with railings made of the most delicate white iron filigree were furnished with basket chairs that invited you to sit, and two rattan lounges were arranged nearby, complete with cushions in bright colors and tropical patterns. The whole thing would have suited . . . her parents. Anybody. All right, her. A white fence surrounded a riot of flower gardens planted to look casual, and to either side, a two-car garage and what had to be a guest cottage were built of the same materials.

  It wasn’t the cold, modern perfection she’d expected. It was a resting spot. An unwinding spot. She’d bet there was a pool behind the house as well, possibly on the downslope with a view of its own. And a spa tub, definitely. Brett couldn’t use one, and he wouldn’t use the other anyway. Pity, because she was fairly certain they’d be spectacular. Private. Peaceful. Serene. You wouldn’t even have to wear your costume. What would it feel like to swim with nothing on? She’d bet it’d be awesome. You’d feel like a mermaid.

  “Right,” she muttered to herself again. “Not your life. Onward. Thirty-five hundred dollars.” She took out the first two of her many bags of supplies, headed up the three broad steps to the welcoming veranda, shifted the bags into one arm, and knocked at the door.

  Nothing happened. No light inside, though it was still daylight. No black Batmobile in the drive, though it could be in the garage. Except that Brett couldn’t drive. Of course he couldn’t. He wouldn’t have his car.

  She knocked again. Still nothing. She set the bags down, searched for her phone, and checked the text. 13 Yaegers Lane. That was right.

  Wait. He was on crutches. He was barely mobile. She tried the door, and the knob turned in her hand. She opened the door, took a step inside, and called, “Brett?”

  No answer. She shut the door behind her and called again, “Brett? Are you here?”

  The house was spacious, shadowy, and cool inside, the walls painted a calming dove white, the furnishings simple, comfortable, and elegant. Rattan-bladed ceiling fans turned in the enormous living room, the cozy dining area, and the perfectly outfitted kitchen beyond. Switched on because somebody had been expected, or because he’d arrived.

  He couldn’t have gone anywhere, and the hospital had said he’d left at two. She’d checked. The address had to be right, too. Brett wouldn’t make a mistake like that, even on drugs. Not in his DNA. What if he’d fallen, trying to take a shower by himself? Trying to get dressed, because PJs felt unacceptable? Both things sounded exactly like him, and her head was starting to spin, her breath to come short.

  A broad passage, shadowed and dim, beyond the kitchen. She headed across acres of shining rose-gum flooring, skirting a pale-green wool carpet in muted Oriental pattern on which sat a cream-colored leather sectional, a heavy, round-legged stone coffee table, and an Eames leather chair and ottoman, also in cream, because you had to match, she guessed, and found closed doors to left and right.

  All right, then. She might as well take her housebreaking career to the next level. The first door, to the left, was a queen bedroom with an ensuite bath beyond. Empty. The second, to the right, was set up as an office. A laptop computer sat, looking small in the middle of an ocean of desk made of blackbutt, its waving stripes of cream and brown striking a decorative note, while black-and-white framed photos of Byron scenes shouted, “masculine!” and white plantation shutters kept the afternoon sun at bay. That was Brett’s laptop, surely. He had to be here.

  No sound, though. Nothing but the ticking over of more ceiling fans. It was getting a bit hard to breathe.

  Not another emergency. Please. I can’t take it.

  Of course you can. Get moving.

  More doors. Another bedroom, and then a nursery. Butter-colored walls, a white crib and dressing table fit for royalty, a white wicker ceiling fan this time, an upholstered-wicker swivel rocker and footstool printed with nursery-rhyme images, a matching band of wallpaper border around the whole room, and best of all, a border around each white-shuttered window made up of jewel-colored rectangles of stained glass, wavy with age.

  The house was set up for a family. A very wealthy family.

  Focus. Find him.

  Finally, she was outside the last door at the end of the passage, and the door was ajar. More prickles at the back of her neck, because after this, she’d be searching outside. Please, Brett, she begged him silently, don’t have gone outside alone on your first day. Don’t be hurt again.

  She opened the door.

  The largest room so far, stretching across the width of the house. A sitting area to the right, all cream-upholstered comfort, and a door that had to lead to a spectacular bath, but she wa
sn’t looking at that. She also wasn’t looking at the accordion doors taking up the entire back wall, letting you open the room to the outside. Or at the terraces of pool, spa tub, patio, and flower garden out there, exactly as she’d supposed. She was looking at the bed.

  Dramatically striped blackbutt night tables, king-sized mattress, padded leather headboard in the palest, softest gray, like it had come from a very special steer. White duvet cover, soft gray-and-cream throw at the bottom. And across the whole thing, a man on his face. Dressed in a gray T-shirt and blue PJ bottoms, his arms flung out to either side.

  He matched the bed, she thought in one heartbeat. Exactly how perfect is he? And then, on the next, is he even breathing? How did he not hear me? Oh, Brett. Please. No.

  Oh, my God.

  He was in the water. Not again, he thought, fighting the panic that was swamping him faster than the rolling black waves. No. It’s not true. But it was. She was floating upright beside him like a mermaid, but . . . not. Pale skin, streamers of red hair, white face, green eyes. She was naked, but he wasn’t feeling good about it. Her body was perfect, as pale and firm as ice. Too cold. Too pale. And her legs weren’t kicking.

  “Brett,” she said. He could hear her voice, even though there were no bubbles coming out of her mouth. She was alive. Or was she a mermaid after all? “Are you all right? Please wake up. Please, Brett.”

  Her face had changed, and her arms stretched out towards him. If he answered, if he let her take him, he’d be pulled down, too, and he couldn’t breathe down here. His chest burned with the effort of holding his breath. He had to leave her or he’d die, but how could he leave her? He had to take her with him.

  He had his hands around her wrists to pull her up, and then she had her own hands around his instead, was turning him in the water. “Brett. Come back. Please come back to me.” She pressed her soft lips to his. They were warm, somehow. She was giving him air, because he could breathe again. Maybe he was a mermaid. Merman. Maybe he belonged here with her after all.

  He opened his eyes. Blackness. Wait. He turned his head and tried again. Yeah, there she was. Her face close to his, her eyes as beseeching as they’d looked before, when she’d been underwater.

  She wasn’t naked. Her hand was on his back, warm and solid as life, and she was wearing a pale-green T-shirt with see-through lacy cutouts around the top and down the sides so her skin showed through, which looked just fine, and some kind of . . . He squinted. Cotton shorts in an orange-and-green swirly pattern, their cuffs turned up to show plenty of slim white thigh. That was nice. Pretty. She was completely, absolutely warm and Willow-alive, and that was good. That was good.

  He could see her shorts because she was kneeling beside him. On a bed, because that was where he was. Her hair wasn’t floating around her, either. It was in its usual soft knot at the back of her head, and also as usual, some of it was coming down in ringlets that he wanted to wrap around his finger.

  Right. They were alive. Both of them. He knew he was, because he hurt. A lot.

  “Hi,” he said. If it came out as a croak, he couldn’t help it.

  She exhaled. Loudly. She’d stopped looking entreating and was looking upset instead. “You scared the life out of me. Are you all right, or should I ring for the ambos?”

  “I was a little . . . tired.” He tried to get up and cried out before he could stop himself. “Ow. Ouch. Sorry.” Log roll onto your side. He tried it, then gave it up and lay back down again. “Ah . . . would you bring me the plastic bag? By the . . . front door? I think I . . . let the pain get ahead of me.”

  She was up on the words, back with the white bag and a glass of water, finding the right bottle and shaking out a caplet, then holding the glass for him. He hated that he needed the help. He was glad for the help.

  “The other one, too,” he said. “The one that says . . . for nausea.”

  She handed it to him without a word, and he swallowed it and closed his eyes. “Fifteen minutes,” he said, and tried not to make it a gasp. “Just give me a . . . sec.”

  He could hear the click-click-click as she lined pill bottles up on the bedside table, and opened his eyes to see her picking up his crutches from the floor and propping them against the wall where he could grab them. “Right,” she said. “I’ll pop these clothes into the machine for you so you’ll have something to wear tomorrow that’s easy to put on. You need shorts, though. Easier to get on, and cooler.” Talking, working, brisk as one of the nurses in the hospital, except that none of them had ever looked at him like that, or had sounded like she just had, and he’d never wanted them to.

  “I don’t . . . wear shorts.” She shouldn’t be doing his laundry. That was just weird.

  “You’re in Oz now. Everybody wears shorts. I’ll bring you some tomorrow. Also some thongs.” She was taking off his shoes and socks and adding the socks to the laundry bag. He should object, but he couldn’t manage it. He also couldn’t exactly take off his shoes at the moment, so there you were.

  He hoped she didn’t mean underwear. She’d look fantastic in a thong. He wasn’t too keen on wearing one himself, though. Double standard much? Yeah. Too bad.

  “Wait,” she said. “Not thongs. Hard to crutch in a thong.” Oh. Shoes. Flip-flops. That was a relief. “Something else, then. Something easy to get on, but that will stay on your feet if you want to go outside.”

  He closed his eyes. Too much effort to keep them open. Five minutes, he promised himself, and the pills would start to work. Just five minutes. He knew it would be fifteen. He told himself five anyway.

  She said, “I’m going to start bringing in groceries, but I’m checking on you, and if you’re not better, I don’t care what you say, I’m ringing somebody.” She left the room, and he thought dimly, You could’ve kissed me first. Like my mermaid, then focused on breathing out the pain. He heard the front door opening and closing again and again, the sound of water running somewhere, and a faint melodic sound like music was playing, or like she was singing. Sounded good. He breathed some more and might have fallen asleep again, because when he finally did his log roll and got himself up to sitting, there was a glass of something on his end table with a bent straw sticking out. It was orange. He took a sip. Smoothie. Mango and orange juice and ice, or something like that. Nice. Non-chalky. Didn’t make him sick.

  She was such a good cook.

  He was drinking it when she came to the door. “Good,” she said. “Are you better?”

  “Yeah. You look . . . very pretty. As usual.” His voice sounded only a little rusty now, and he tried not to be embarrassed about earlier and couldn’t quite manage it. He needed a suit. A hairbrush. A haircut. Normally, he had one every three weeks, because his hair was too thick and grew too fast. He was overdue, he was messy and imperfect in all sorts of ways, and he wasn’t liking it at all.

  “I didn’t dress up,” she seemed to need to point out. “Didn’t want to flash the Woolie’s carpark, is why, getting your groceries into the van. No skirts. No nearly inappropriate necklines. No misbehaving straps. I also didn’t wear makeup.”

  He smiled. He couldn’t help it. “You still look pretty. Sorry if I’m not supposed to think so.”

  Her face changed, and he knew she was thinking about the other night, but all she said was, “Anyway, I need to know whether you can eat a hearty veggie soup with a bit of spice in, or whether you’d like something simpler. Chicken and noodles in broth, maybe.”

  “I can probably eat it. The pill’s working. Getting here was a little rough,” he tried to explain. “Too much activity, apparently. Never mind. It’s nice that you were worried.”

  She smiled, finally. “Not nice for me, mate. I’m glad you’re alive, though. And by the way? This is a great house.”

  “It is?”

  She stared at him like he was stupid, which he definitely felt. “It’s a bloody paradise. Crikey, I’d like to be so rich that I didn’t even notice. Wait. I wouldn’t, not really. I was just thinking I wouldn�
��t.” She’d started laughing again, like her moods automatically reset to sunny. “There you are, then. That’s me. I wouldn’t, and I didn’t wear makeup or a dress, either, because I’m stubborn.”

  “Yeah.” He gave her a smile that felt a lot less wobbly. “I like that, too. And that guy’s an idiot, for the record. You can do better.”

  Her smile was the sun coming out. It was rainbows and unicorns. “Yeah?”

  He smiled right back at her. “Yeah. And any man who doesn’t bring you flowers or want to come home to you is a fool.”

  She stood there a minute, hesitating. He waited, and she didn’t come over and kiss him, so he put the whole thing into the “Keep Trying” file and said, “The truth is, I didn’t notice the house because I was under the weather. I’m good now, though. Let’s go take a look at it, and then I’ll watch you cook. I have a feeling it’ll be worthwhile. I could even learn something.” He grabbed the crutches, tried not to feel helpless when he saw her doing some definite hovering, and got himself up off the bed and balanced. It was easier barefoot, so that was good. It hurt, and that was life. “Did I mention I’m happy to see you? Looking good, and about to cook me dinner. I am a lucky man. Let’s go see my house.”

  “You have a pool and spa tub out there,” she told him, talking because it was better than screeching, “Brett! Take care!” as he got up. She went on, knew she was babbling, and couldn’t help it. The relief when he’d finally turned his head . . .

  He was too bloody nice a man to die, that was all. Anybody would think so. She said, “You could step right out of bed and go for a swim with a view. It’s as good as Rafe’s house, and I didn’t think that was possible. Maybe better, because—that view. You’ve got something special here. You’ve got peace.”

  “That’s good,” he said, “although we won’t explore the swimming idea. I had a dream where we were underwater, and that’s close enough for me. Show me the rest.”