Sexy as Sin (Sinful, Montana Book 3)

by Rosalind James

“Not her,” Seamus said. “That’ll be her sister-in-law, their youngest. Cherie. Everybody’s darling. Nobody was best pleased to see her in hospital. Or Martin’s mum, either. Touch and go there for a while, I hear. Shame, really.”

  “Nobody pleased but Fenella,” Aidan said darkly. “Two at a go. She would’ve been pleased about that. There was a fair bit of skirmishing over planning that dinner, by all accounts.”

  The thin, watchful man across the table had kept his gaze on Brett. Now, he asked, “What’s your interest?”

  Brett regarded him blandly and raised a shoulder. “Curious, that’s all. I haven’t been getting out much with this leg. Taking my entertainment where I find it.”

  “You wonder if it was an accident after all,” the man said. “I’m trying to work out why you’d care. Aren’t you the Yank who’s here for the Coorabell development? Broke your leg falling off a rock?”

  “Always got to be the cop,” Seamus told him. “You’re off duty, mate. And seriously?” he asked Brett. “You’re that wanker? We had a good laugh about that. Trust a Yank to fall off, we said, and then try to sue because nobody’d put a guardrail up to keep him off it.”

  “That was me,” Brett said. “I’m not suing, though. My own fault.” He told the quiet man, “I wondered about the dinner, yeah. The caterers bought the mushrooms from a regular supplier, my girlfriend said, and it seems like everyone’s reputation has taken a hit they might not deserve. It made me wonder if somebody wanted to disrupt the event, or worse.”

  “Pretty useless as a poisoning technique,” the cop said, his eyes more watchful than ever, “as nobody was really very ill, except the old lady. Digestive disturbance only.”

  “Fenella trying to inherit the silver, you think?” Seamus asked. “Not bloody likely, sorry to say. Not that Calvin and Myra aren’t the salt of the earth, but nobody could call them flush. It’d be, what, a mass poisoning plot? What are you, some kind of conspiracy theorist as well? Or taking too many pain tablets, maybe. It’s Byron Bay. We don’t go around poisoning each other here.”

  “Just murdering the occasional reputation,” Aidan said. “As deserved.”

  “Ah, well,” Brett said. “Just a thought.” He hung around a while longer, listening to the talk about people he didn’t know, finished his beer slowly, then said, “Thanks for the company. Ready to go, Dave?” Dave hadn’t had a beer, which Brett appreciated.

  In the car again, Dave studied him in the rearview mirror and asked, “Get what you wanted?”

  “Yep.” Brett leaned back against the door and thought longingly about next Monday, when he just might, according to the surgeon, acquire a cane and move to recovery phase two. He was ready.

  “You will have started some gossip about poisoning,” Dave said. “Michael Vanderhof won’t talk about it. The cop. He won’t put much stock in it either, though. Seamus will shoot off his big mouth, of course. I told you, mate. Imagine me with him for a brother-in-law. I won’t be taking him to the footy with your tickets, no worries.”

  Talk was what Brett had hoped for, and right now, it was the best he could do. Had he thrown an innocent to the wolves, put the unpopular Fenella in the spotlight unfairly by helping start the idea that she could have disrupted her in-laws’ party, because she hadn’t been the star after all? Possibly. It was pure speculation, and he knew it, but gossip and speculation would help dim the certainty that it had been Willow’s fault. And it was such juicy speculation for what was, in essence, a small town.

  It was probably unfair, but all was fair in love and war, and this was both.

  “If this was a murder mystery,” Dave said, turning off the main street and onto the back road toward home, “and somebody did it on purpose, but it didn’t come off somehow? They’d be having another go now. Just saying.”

  Willow stood at Nourish’s roll-up freight door, watched Amanda’s van turn the corner and disappear, and tried to ignore the sinking of her heart.

  It was her event, and it had been her menu: a whole table’s worth of gorgeous, colorful “little food” ready to pop into the oven for a quick warm-up and then be plated and shown off. Zucchini, pea, and haloumi fritters with lemon dipping sauce. Grilled scallops with a remoulade sauce, garnished with watercress, sitting in perfect, creamy-tempting little round towers with a bit of golden crispiness at the top. Moist lemon chicken on sticks in a peppery rocket sauce. Tiny snapper and cabbage tacos wrapped in handmade corn tortillas, with cilantro and fresh salsa. Ribbon sandwiches made with farm-cured Bangalow ham. And then the sweets: custard tarts with blueberries, chocolate mousse in molded chocolate shells with a half-strawberry on the top of each, and mini cheesecakes with a dab of fresh raspberry sauce to finish.

  All the flavors of an Australian beach summer, and it had all been her design. But instead of warming it, plating it, drizzling on the last bit of lovingly conceived, perfectly prepared sauce, and watching her food’s reception, she was standing in a dirty kitchen, loading the industrial dishwashers with prep dishes, scouring stainless-steel countertops, and feeling like Cinderella left home from the ball.

  And then there had been the moment when Jamie had stood in the middle of the kitchen and, instead of loading trays onto carts for transport to the van, had said, “Crystal and I would like to talk to you both about getting paid extra for the extra work we’ve had to do since the day up at Coorabell. Not to mention being poisoned. I’ve spoken to Safe Work, and they said that coming in the next day after the poisoning wasn’t on. We should’ve been home resting. We deserve compensation for all of it, I think.”

  Amanda said, tight-lipped, “Rubbish. You haven’t even done any overtime.”

  “Safe Work don’t think it’s rubbish,” Jamie, entitled wombat that he was, shot back.

  Willow bit back the retort that had risen to her lips and said, “I didn’t realize Crystal had been ill as well.”

  “I didn’t like to say,” Crystal said. “It’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it, having that kind of tummy disaster? I had no idea I’d actually been poisoned until later, of course, and there was so much extra to do, I just mucked in. I realize now, though, that I should have spoken up. That wasn’t really safe for our clients.” She sighed, and Willow thought for the hundredth time about how much she’d like to slap her.

  “How ill were you, Jamie? You seemed energetic enough on the day,” she said instead, trying to figure out where to go with this. If he’d been motivated to downplay his illness by noble purpose, she’d be more than surprised.

  “I had a rotten time,” he said. “Worse than Crystal, though I didn’t realize I’d been poisoned, either. I just thought we’d both caught a bug. I got on with the job anyway, but one of you should’ve rung us all up and told us to stay home. That’s what Safe Work says. They say we should be filing a claim, and that we can do a complaint as well if we like.”

  “But we’d rather not pursue that,” Crystal said. “It was all so confusing, wasn’t it? Nobody knew it was a poisoning except Willow, who was actually in hospital, and of course, you were so ill, Willow, and it’s harder to judge when you’re vulnerable.”

  Get stuffed, you sanctimonious little witch, Willow thought, and you too, Amanda, leaving me swinging in the wind. Jamie and Crystal had turned up looking well the next day. If they’d been as ill as she was, they couldn’t have hidden it, and they certainly wouldn’t have tried. She looked at her watch. “What I know is that we need to get the van loaded. We’ll talk about this when you come back. And Amanda’s already contacted Safe Work, of course.” She needed to separate her emotions from her business sense. Never her strong suit.

  Amanda said, “I haven’t yet, because it was the weekend, we were in a rush, and as far as I knew, only Willow and Martina were ill. But of course I’m going to. For heaven’s sake, Jamie. You’re family. I’d think you’d remember that now. Of all the times.”

  Willow wanted to say, Could we hire Martina and Beatriz to load the vans instead next time? She bit her tongue on
that, too. Next time she and Amanda were alone, though, she was going to say it, and she was also going to check on whether Amanda had reported the illnesses. The last thing they needed was a fine. Time to get that login and password, too. She was tired of being a helpless reed in the current. It was well past time to take control.

  It’s one day, mate, she told herself when they’d left, pulling out the vacuum. One incident, and one set of related problems. It will all pass. Not this second, though, because her phone began vibrating and the Imperial March ringtone from Star Wars made its commanding presence known.

  She picked up. “Hi, Aunt Fiona.”

  “Hello, darling.” Her aunt sounded matter-of-fact as always, thank goodness. Willow didn’t have room for one more drama today. “Just checking how you’re going.”

  “Going well. Busy, though.”

  “Too busy to talk?” No accusation, at least. Another thing she’d had enough of.

  “No. Cleaning the kitchen at Nourish, that’s all.” She got out the stainless-steel brushes, put the phone on speaker, and went to work scouring the stovetop.

  A moment of hesitation, then, “I heard you had a bit of an issue with a meal. Do you need anything? A kind word? A bracing chat? Hot soup? Though you’ll have that one covered.”

  Willow stopped scrubbing, then put her back into it again. “Tell me my dodgy mushrooms didn’t make the papers all the way up in Brisbane.”

  “No, why?” Fiona sounded surprised, at least. “Should they have? Was it that bad? Rafe mentioned it, that’s all.”

  Willow sighed. “Of course he did. How can he know about it from so far away? I thought he was still learning to be a soldier, getting put in his place by Jace. His film starts in a couple weeks, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh, you know, darling. I expect it was Martin. It generally is.”

  “At least Rafe didn’t ring me this time,” Willow muttered. “Though I expect he will. And no. I’m fine.”

  “I hate telephones,” her aunt complained, startling a laugh out of her. “How am I meant to know what ‘this time’ means? Or what look you have on your face right now? Do you want me to drive down? We talked about you having a mum, remember? This sounds like a mum job.”

  “No,” Willow said with more force than she ever used. “I wish . . .” She had to stop scrubbing again and take a breath. “I don’t ring Rafe every time I see him on a tabloid to make sure he’s all right, do I?”

  “Ah. You think it’s because he doesn’t believe you can handle it yourself. It’s not. Men hate to see a woman they love struggling, that’s all. They want to jump in and fix it, and if they can’t—they still want to help. And so do mothers. If I had a magic wand, I’d wave it. I don’t, but I have an ear.”

  This was comfort she couldn’t afford to sink into. She needed to handle it, and to do that, she had to stay upright, and not to feel that she’d fallen short once again. “Unfortunately, this one isn’t easily fixed. It was sabotage, maybe, but I haven’t sorted out why, and meanwhile, it looks like my mistake, though I’ll swear it isn’t. It’ll be all right, though. There’s nothing Rafe or anyone else can do.” She wished people would quit asking her about it. She wished she could quit thinking about it, for that matter.

  More silence, and then, “One last thing, and I’ll stop. Are you all right for money? Are you needing to . . . defend yourself, or anything? And before you explode at me—do you never help anyone yourself? I know you better than that. I can’t believe this is about Rafe, this reaction, or me being a Nosy Parker, or even your work troubles, or not only that. I think it’s something else. What else has happened?”

  “Nothing permanent,” Willow said, and started working again.

  “I’m only going on through all these prickles,” her aunt said, “because of what you said the other week. Is it the firm, the new partner? Or that man, the one you wanted? How is he reacting to this? Rafe told me to ask you, ‘What does Brett say? What’s he doing about it?’ Why did he ask that, I wonder? How did he know his name?”

  It wasn’t enjoyable to feel like a sulky teenager again. Time to try another way. She wasn’t going to talk about the partnership. It was too raw right now. “Because Rafe knows him, and Lily knows him as well. He’s American, he’s above my touch and unavailable to me in every realistic way possible, and he’s reacting in the same way Rafe is, or more so. He nearly does have a magic wand, and he’s doing his best to wave it.”

  “Really.” The word was filled with satisfaction. “Bring him up here, then, darling, when you get a chance, will you? I’d like to meet him. And your uncle will definitely want to meet him.”

  “He’ll be terrified,” Willow said, the smile coming out again despite herself.

  “If he is,” Fiona said cheerily, “the question will be asked and answered, won’t it? I’ll let you get on with it, then, darling. Talk soon.”

  Two more long days of being left behind. Two more cancellations, too. Two weddings whose food she’d planned with so much anticipation, that she wasn’t going to get to cook anymore. And she was so tired of lying low, of letting Amanda go out and be the public face of the company. So far, she’d garnered five positive reviews to go with the negative ones, but it wasn’t enough. Amber Hawkins had written a lovely, funny one about the “Kicking Cancer’s Bum” party, and Amber was a popular woman. That would help with the locals. With the wedding planners? Maybe not.

  “I paid Amanda eighty thousand dollars,” she’d finally admitted to Brett last night, when she’d been lying in his bed, her head on his shoulder, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “Everything I had left from my parents, and everything I’d saved since. By the time I’d moved here and paid Azra to move in, I had less than a thousand dollars left in the bank. In the world. I had the next month’s rent, and not much more, but that was all right, I thought. I was risking. I was investing in my future. And instead, I can feel everything I’ve worked for slipping through my fingers like beach sand. You try to grab hold, and it’s gone. And I feel like . . .” Her throat had closed around the words. “Like a fool.”

  His hand had stroked over her shoulder, slow and methodical, and he hadn’t said anything for a minute. She’d thought, How can I have confessed this to somebody who’s achieved so much? Why do I keep making myself this vulnerable? And had known the answer. Because you love him, and because he’s a good man who’s never going to hurt you on purpose.

  But you know he’ll hurt you anyway.

  When the alarm went off at five-thirty Friday morning, she didn’t want to get out of bed, and not just because she’d come home from Brett’s after eleven last night.

  She’d worked so many years for this, and she’d made the wrong choice anyway. Time to look it square in the face. She was going to pay for that choice.

  What if Nourish couldn’t recover, and she had to start all over again? How was she going to do it? What she’d told Brett was true. Even if she got some of it back, it wasn’t just the money she had tied up in the firm. It was all her ambition, too. She’d still be able to cook, but the thought of going back to working for somebody else, of not being allowed to have her hands make what her mind came up with . . . it hurt.

  And then there was Brett, who’d been here for almost two weeks, and who spent most of his time on his laptop and on the phone. He never talked about going back. She was fairly sure he thought about it every day, though, because she’d never met a more focused man. She was also sure that he was under pressure to go. How many people depended for their paychecks on Mr. Brett Hunter? It had to be heaps.

  It was hot under the duvet, and she kicked it off. Outside her window, a kookaburra laughed, the sound harsh and mocking, and another answered.

  Well, bugger this. What was she going to do? Lie here and let herself die quietly, a minute at a time? Every time the clock ticked around was a piece of her life, and she’d come too far to give away any more pieces of her life. At least she could get out of bed.

  Ten minutes
later, she was changed into her bikini and a pair of shorts, had her surfboard strapped down, and had her bike pointed toward Main Beach in the gray light before dawn. Only a few cars on Middleton Street at this early hour, and the summer madness of souls seeking paradise not yet crowding the pavements, either, but the cockatoos and rosellas were rattling the palm fronds and uttering their first raucous calls as she pedaled past, as if laying claim to the dawn hour. The sky was already showing a faint band of pink, and she rode faster. She wanted to be there to see it.

  Around the roundabout, zipping ahead of a sedan with all her muscles working in sync, and she was nearly there. The scrubby gums that edged the beach were lined up ahead of her like soldiers, and the sky was pinker still. She was jumping the curb and hopping off her bike in seconds, shoving it past the Peace Pole and locking it to a rack. Another minute, and she had her surfboard unfastened and her thongs kicked off and in her hand, her toes sinking into the fine white sand on the track down towards the water. Above her, the clouds glowed pink and gold, and on the film of water left by the ebbing tide, their reflection shone like a magic mirror, one that showed you only the most beautiful things, the rainbows and the dawns and the sunsets.

  When she shoved her board into the sea and flung herself onto it, she got a rush like cool water in her veins. And when she got out beyond the breakers, the sun came up in a glow of gold that hit her straight in the heart.

  Sea the blue of a robin’s egg, ruffled like your grandmother’s best bedspread. Sky a pale fuchsia shading into purple, the green grass of Cape Byron rising to the north, shining luminescent green, and the lighthouse a graceful column of white. The first place in Australia to see the sun, and at this one perfect moment, she felt like the first person to do it. There were other surfers in the water, a dog walker on the beach, all of them taking their moment, too, glad they’d got up early to experience it. That was all right. She could share her moment.

  And then, beyond her in the sea, an arced shape, a gray shine. A dolphin, its body arching out of the dawn sea like the personification of joy. Another rising with it, then another, until she counted five of them surfing the dawn tide. She watched them until they were gone, let the grace of their presence sink deep into her soul, and with it, the gratitude, the thing she’d forgotten. And then she found her wave, got her balance, popped up on her board, and surfed into the sunrise.