Her hand settled on his. ‘Can I have the ice pack back now?’
He crouched down beside her again and gently held the pack against her knee. ‘Does it hurt?’ He couldn’t stop looking at her neck, at the space where her necklace had once been.
She gave him a look.
‘Sorry, dumb question.’
The police arrived less than fifteen minutes later, and a female officer spoke with Rosie while another officer made notes. Owen offered tea all round and tried to give Rosie the space she might need and privacy if she wanted it. He was making tea when the officer asked whether the man had sexually assaulted her. The boiling water splashed all over one hand and he wasn’t sure how he managed to quash the ‘fuck!’ under his breath.
He ran his hand under cold water and felt immediate relief not only from the burn but also from Rosie’s confirmation that, no, all the attacker had been interested in was her purse and necklace.
The officers left half an hour later, sounding doubtful about catching the mugger given the lack of physical description Rosie had of the man. Owen sat on the armchair next to the sofa where Rosie was sitting, cup of tea clasped between her palms, left leg outstretched across the ottoman with the ice pack doing its job.
‘How’s it feeling?’ He nodded towards the knee.
‘A bit better.’
‘Can I get you something to eat?’
‘I’m not hungry.’ Her fingers moved towards her neck but fell away again. ‘Do you think they’ll be able to get my necklace back?’
Owen shook his head and Rosie’s shoulders slumped. He wondered whether shock did that to you, whether it made you forget your own safety and how lucky you were to come away with only the loss of possessions, your life still intact. He’d seen it before – house owners risking life and limb to grab valuables from their homes and not lose everything, when all that mattered in the end was keeping themselves and their loved ones alive.
‘You can get another necklace, Stevens.’
She leapt up and the ice pack dropped to the floor with a thump. ‘Don’t patronise me.’
‘I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention.’
‘Yeah, well, we’re not all robotic, switching our feelings on and off whenever we feel like it.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ He kept his voice calm, watched her, hands on her hips, face heated with anger.
‘I’m talking about the way you treat people, involved with them one minute and keeping them at arm’s length the next.’
‘I’m not sure I follow.’ His mouth set in a firm line, unsure of where this was going.
‘All this crap you spout about not spending the night with a girl, not leading her on. Well that’s the biggest load of bull I’ve ever heard!’
He was on his feet now, towering above her. ‘What’s brought this on? I’ve gone out of my way to help you tonight, so why the personal attack?’
‘Because that necklace meant something to me, it was more than just a piece of jewellery. But then I don’t suppose you’d understand. You move around, flit from place to place, not getting close to anyone so how could you possibly get it?’
‘Now steady on. I know you’ve had a shock and everything, Stevens—’
‘Don’t call me that!’
He balled his fists up tightly to eradicate the desire to yell at her. It wouldn’t be fair, not after tonight. ‘I’m not listening to this any more. I’ll lock up and say goodnight. Let me know if you need anything, you know where I am.’
He didn’t hear what else she hollered at him because he slammed the door on his way out of the room.
*
It was almost three in the morning and Owen lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, knowing he’d never sleep unless he got some air into the house. The upstairs held onto the heat of the day for much longer than downstairs, and he staggered over to the window to open it. He went out onto the landing to open the window at the far end, past Rosie’s bedroom. With any luck come morning, the house would be a bearable temperature. He hoped the atmosphere with Rosie would be a bit less scorching by then too.
A welcome rush of cool air filtered in, and Owen was unsurprised to see that George wasn’t in his usual spot on the landing. The cat had probably curled up in the kitchen where it was cooler.
Owen turned to creep past Rosie’s bedroom, the only sound in the house coming from whispering leaves outside the window or perhaps from the creak of a tree, but he soon realised it was neither. He stopped outside her bedroom door, listening to the gentle sniffing, a sound that requested privacy. But when the sniffing changed to full-on sobbing, he quit hesitating. He didn’t even knock. He pushed open the door, went straight over to the bed where she was curled up in a ball. Her bedside lamp was on as though she was terrified the darkness would make her relive last night’s nightmare. He took her in his arms and she didn’t resist. She leant into his bare chest, her T-shirt barely covering her undies as it rode up her legs. He pulled the sheet over her to give her some dignity. She was so upset she wasn’t even thinking, not conscious that she was half naked and so was he in only a pair of boxer shorts.
‘You’re safe now.’ He held her, rocked her until she calmed and her breathing evened out.
He pulled a tissue from the box on her bedside table and handed it to her. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
‘How’s the neck?’ He wanted to reach out and magically heal those nasty red marks.
‘I’m sorry about last night.’ She completely bypassed his question.
‘We don’t need to talk about it now.’ His pager went off in his bedroom, the buzzing loud enough in the still of the night to hear from this part of the house. ‘Excuse me. I’ll be one minute.’
He ran to his bedroom and was back at Rosie’s side moments later.
‘Do you have to go?’ Her brown eyes pleaded with him to stay.
‘I’m not leaving you here on your own.’
‘I’ll be fine, go on.’
He looked at her. ‘We’re a close-knit team in the CFA, but we all understand that what we do is voluntary, and sometimes you can’t make it.’ He made a grave face. ‘Mind you, given my robotic tendencies I guess I could head down to the fire station and forget all about someone who might need me more tonight.’
He’d done it. He’d coaxed a smile out of her, no matter how small. ‘That’s better.’ He smiled back at her.
‘I didn’t mean what I said, Owen.’ Her hand reached for the necklace that was no longer there. ‘Force of habit,’ she said when she saw him looking.
‘Did Adam give you the necklace?’
‘No.’ Her face crumpled again. ‘I’m sorry, this is so ridiculous. I should be glad the man didn’t do anything else to me. It could’ve been a lot worse.’
‘True. But you’re not being ridiculous.’
She lay down again and curled into a ball on her side. When Owen saw a tear escape as she closed her eyes, perhaps so he wouldn’t see, he lay down next to her. When her breath caught, he knew she was crying again and he curled his body around hers and held her tightly.
Her hair tickled his face as their heads lay together on the pillow. He couldn’t deny how attracted he was to her – he’d felt that way from the moment she’d confronted him in the hallway that first night – but tonight there was no hidden agenda, no ulterior motive. She’d become special to him, and even though she was off limits, he wasn’t about to abandon her, not tonight.
‘Do you want me to call Adam for you?’
She didn’t answer right away. ‘No, he’d only worry.’
Owen began to feel the exhaustion creep up on him from the adrenalin of the fire yesterday, finding Rosie and then dealing with the police. He ran a hand across his eyes, still heavy from the effects of the smoke the day before. But Rosie’s voice stopped him surrendering to sleep.
‘My dad bought me the necklace. For my twenty-first birthday. That’s why it means so much to me.’
He waited
for her to talk again. This was her time and he let her voice echo into the stillness of the night, falling over him like the air from her open window.
‘I’d always been close to Dad and became even more so when Mum left us when I was in my early teens. He was a brilliant cellist. And … he was a firefighter.’
More alert now, Owen propped himself up on his elbow.
‘He was killed in the line of duty.’
‘God, Stevens. I’m so sorry. When?’
‘Eighteen months ago now.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘The day he died, he’d been part of the team who rescued a family of five from a house fire. The roof caved in on them, killing my dad and his best friend.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’ He knew any words would be of little comfort.
‘Mum always struggled with having a husband who did a dangerous job. She had depression on and off too, which didn’t help. I think it all got too much for her in the end – the worry he wouldn’t come home one day, the newsagency she was running on her own. When I was fourteen I came downstairs into the shop and it was quiet, eerily quiet. There were no customers and Mum and Dad stood there, looking at each other. When my eyes fell on the suitcase at my mum’s feet, I knew what was going on.’
‘But she didn’t just leave a marriage, she left you too.’ Rosie was a good person and he hated how people seemed to treat her with no regard to her feelings.
‘I know she did, but I also know she was depressed. Depression does funny things to people, things we can’t even begin to understand. My Auntie came down from Brisbane and settled Mum into her new home down in Geelong. Slowly I began to see that the reasons she left weren’t because we did anything bad or that she no longer loved us. She just couldn’t see any other way.’
He waited for her to continue.
‘Over the years since Mum left, I’ve done whatever I could do to keep my life stable, without surprises, and since Dad died I craved safety and security all the more. I guess it was my way of coping without my parents around. It’s the sort of hurt I wouldn’t wish on anyone.’
He gulped as she told him more about her relationship with her mum and the closeness she had with her dad before he died.
‘Are you angry with your mum for leaving you?’
Rosie shook her head. ‘What’s the point? I’d have been angrier if I hadn’t been happy with Dad, but we were so close that he took away the pain of living without Mum. I saw her regularly, and in a way I realised she was becoming a better person out of the marriage.’
He had to hand it to Rosie, understanding like that. He doubted he would’ve done in her position.
A small smile crept across Rosie’s face. ‘The family Dad helped to rescue wrote to the fire station to say thank you and to pay their respects. It helps lessen the pain to know my dad wasn’t only my hero but other people’s too.’
‘Why didn’t you explain all of this when I told you about my biological father?’
‘Talking about it is still painful, Owen. It’s only been eighteen months.’
She turned to face him and he held his breath at how close they were, bodies almost pressed against one another. He was acutely aware of the heat from her thigh against his own, her breasts beneath her T-shirt almost in contact with his chest.
‘Now do you see why I was so upset about the necklace?’ she asked, relaxing her head against the pillow.
‘Of course I do.’
Her hand rested on her neck. ‘I remember what it felt like when his strong hands fastened the chain around my neck.’ She laughed. ‘You wouldn’t think a firefighter could be so strong yet have hands that put on delicate jewellery and played beautiful music, would you?’
‘I guess not,’ Owen whispered in the still of the night.
Lost in thoughts of her past, she told him, ‘He could make the cello sound weighty and powerful, like he was, yet pure and sensuous too.’
Smiling now, she said, ‘You know, you remind me of him. You’re a similar build, tall, broad shoulders. Brave.’
‘A wicked sense of humour …’
‘I’m not sure about that.’ She giggled, but the smile soon faded. ‘I remember the knock at the door – the knock every relative of anyone in the fire service, police service or armed forces dreads, the knock at the door that changes your life forever. From that day I never wanted to put myself in the same situation, never knowing what was around the corner.’
Owen lay there, disorientated by the emotional intimacy.
‘Now I understand the reluctance to talk about your music degree.’
Her eyes sparkled in excitement, enhanced with the sheen of tears. ‘Dad and I would play our cellos for hours. We were pretty good.’
‘Modest,’ he teased, pushing her on the arm.
‘I wanted to play for him one last time, at his funeral, on his cello.’
‘Bloody hell. You’ve been through the wringer.’ He shook his head. ‘What piece did you play?’
‘Bach’s Cello Suite Number One, Prelude in G Major.’
‘I’m sure it was beautiful. I, of course, have absolutely no appreciation for classical music and have no idea at all what that piece sounds like.’
They both laughed, and when she stopped she turned onto her back and looked at the ceiling. ‘You were playing it in the kitchen the night you cooked me lasagne.’
Finally, an explanation for her mood change that night when he’d given her a glass of red wine thinking she was just uptight and needed to well and truly relax.
‘I spent hours practising the piece,’ she said. ‘I was frustrated because no matter how much I tried, it never sounded as perfect as it did when he played. My efforts felt clunky, a long way from the beauty he was able to coax out of the instrument.’
‘I’m sure a lot of that was in your imagination.’
‘It probably was.’ She shrugged.
‘So you haven’t played since?’
She shook her head.
His voice soft, Owen said, ‘What happened to the cello?’
‘It’s in Mum’s attic. I sold mine, but I kept his.’
‘You’ve never been tempted to play it again?’
Rosie exhaled. ‘I can’t even listen to cello music, remember.’
He waited a moment, and then, ‘When did you get the tattoo?’
‘Not straight away.’ She smiled. ‘I’m not the best with needles.’
He was pleased to detect the note of humour in her voice.
‘I went on holiday with a friend the month after the funeral and got the tattoo on a whim. But I’ve never regretted it. Adam wasn’t too pleased when I told him, but I think he felt he couldn’t say anything, not when my dad had just died.’
They lay there without talking, the sounds of their breathing and their thoughts keeping them company.
‘It’ll soon be Christmas,’ said Rosie after a while. ‘My dad was always big into Christmas.’
‘You never spent Christmas with your mum?’
‘A few times, when Dad was working, but she never got as excited by it as he did.’
Owen clasped his hands behind his head, looking up at the ceiling as they lay side by side.
She watched the ceiling too. ‘The Christmas before he died, Dad and I got really silly and wore winter cardigans, woollen scarves and gloves despite the summer weather. He made mulled wine and we had tacky Christmas crackers with appalling jokes in the middle.’ She giggled. ‘We played Christmas carols on the cello too. When I get my own place, I’ll have the real tree, the big Christmas dinner and the mulled wine. Even if it’s forty degrees outside.’
‘You’ll need air conditioning, then.’ He grinned. ‘So where will this dream house be?’ He turned on his side to face her again and didn’t miss the twitch of her mouth as she stopped herself from saying something. ‘Come on, out with it. Have you seen somewhere?’
‘I couldn’t possibly say.’
‘Oh come on, Stevens. You can’t leave it at that.’
�
�Okay, okay. I’ve seen somewhere.’
‘And …’
‘Well, it’s a house I’d love, but it won’t ever happen.’
‘Why not?’
‘I can’t afford it and besides, Adam will never go for it. I don’t think he’s ready for life in a small town.’
The mention of the boyfriend halted the conversation for a moment, but not for long.
‘It’s in Daisy Lane,’ she said.
‘Around the corner from here?’
‘Yes.’
‘I never realised there was much down there any more. I don’t think I’ve been down there since I was a kid. I pretty much leave the house and, at the end of the road, turn right for the city or left for the main street in Magnolia Creek.’
‘I discovered it when I was out exploring one day. It’s so quiet down there, and the house could look amazing.’
‘Have you mentioned it to Adam?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘I guess I didn’t want him to shatter the illusion.’ She paused. ‘This is embarrassing to admit, but in my dreams I’ve renovated the lounge, I’ve put in a character fireplace with a beautiful surround, and a claw foot bath in the brand new bathroom. I’ve even decorated a Christmas tree to stand in the window.’
‘You live in your own little world, don’t you, Stevens?’
She frowned. ‘I’ve done the finances in my head and it really is a dream. Sometimes we need those though.’ She turned to face him. ‘So enough about me. Tell me a bit about the real Owen Harrison.’
If she’d been a girlfriend, lying next to him in the middle of the night, Owen would’ve taken this as his cue to run a mile. But this was Rosie and she was different.
‘It’s late. Another time.’
‘I’ll hold you to that.’ She lay back, eyes on the brink of giving up their quest to stay open.
He watched her for a while, with every intention of going back to his own room, but sleep grabbed him too and didn’t let go until the morning.
Chapter Eighteen
Rosie stretched out her legs and met someone else’s. Eyes heavy and swollen from the tears last night, she turned to face Owen. Tiny creases fanned out from the sides of his shut eyes. She’d never noticed them before. Her fingers wanted to trace the lines, reach out and feel the muscular arm thrown across the pillow behind his head. The sheet covered his bottom half, and she watched his chest rise and fall with his breath. Her eyes moved down to his stomach and the smattering of dark hair diving down his abdomen and into the sheet below.
What Rosie Found Next Page 14