Playing By Her Rules (Sydney Smoke Rugby Series)

by Amy Andrews

  She was officially pretty damn bothered as his warm, sweet aniseed scent invaded her nostrils and intoxicated her senses. He smelled good enough to eat, like he’d been sprinkled with ouzo and dusted with sugar.

  She wasn’t sure if she wanted a shot glass or some kind of straw for snorting.

  “The dishes await,” he said cheerfully, ushering her toward the kitchen.

  Her heart skipped a beat as the heat from his body and the sizzle from his touch combined for a particularly potent double whammy. Matilda plastered a smile on her face as she pulled out of his grasp. “Lead on,” she murmured.

  He didn’t argue, and she followed him through a set of swinging doors behind the serving area into the stiflingly hot kitchen. With the door and windows shut, the sub-street level room still held the heat from several large industrial ovens.

  “You wanna wash or dry?” Tanner asked as he strode over and opened the door that led out to a stairwell accessing the alley above. He reached up and flipped several levers connected to the bank of high louvers that opened directly onto street level.

  The air stirred marginally. But it was better than nothing.

  Matilda glanced at what seemed to be a hundred pots, pans, and roasting dishes crusted in hard black globules of food that looked incinerated in place.

  “Jesus. Do they use a flamethrower to cook them?”

  “I think the ovens are old and temperamental.”

  “Or ex crematorium stock.”

  He laughed. “I’ll wash. Looks like brute strength is required.”

  Matilda wasn’t about to argue. Might as well put those ridiculous muscles to good use. “I doubt I could write them into submission somehow.”

  “No,” Tanner agreed, heading to the sink and flicking on the taps, intent on filling the industrial-size sink, and agitating the water as he squirted in some detergent. “You could, however, write about how I heroically and uncomplainingly scrubbed pots for hours while being witty and charming all at the service of some of the city’s less fortunate.”

  “You want me to add how woodland animals came in from the alley to befriend you?”

  He grinned. “As long as there are serenading bluebirds.”

  Matilda tried very hard not to respond to his easy teasing. The man obviously remembered her weakness for old-school Disney animations. That sure as hell made her heart beat a little faster.

  “Is that why we’re here?” she asked, picking up a clean tea towel from the pile near the sink, trying not to stand too close. She used to find their height disparity funny and kooky, and they’d often laughed about it. Now it was plain disturbing.

  In all the good ways.

  “So, I can see the man who eats lobster also has a social conscience?”

  She glanced at him in time to see the tightening in the angle of his jaw. “You seem to know me so well,” he said lightly, obviously keeping his temper in check as he dumped the first lot of dishes into the water. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  Matilda shook her head, pulling back on her hostility. She didn’t even know where it came from. After eight years, she should have been over all this crap. But scratch the surface, and there it was.

  Simmering away.

  “Not any more I don’t. I used to always know what you were thinking.”

  She mentally kicked herself as soon as the words were out. It sounded wistful and kind of sad, and she didn’t want him thinking she sat around all day yearning for yesterday.

  Those days were long gone. Dead and gone.

  Thankfully he laughed, throwing his head back, clearly finding something very funny. “Well, that wouldn’t have been hard,” he said. “Rugby and boobs were pretty much it.”

  Boobs. Something she’d lacked. Which Jessica Duffy hadn’t.

  She looked down at her A cups. Still lacked. They were doing their best to look present in one of those magic push-up bras, but they were never going to win a wet T-shirt contest.

  She glanced up to find him staring at them, too. Her nipples ruched into hard points at his blatant interest, and Matilda cursed the humidity that plastered the usually loose fabric of her blouse to said nipples.

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Eyes front, Tanner.”

  “Sorry.” He held his hands up in fake surrender, not looking remotely sorry at all. “You shouldn’t mention boobs if you don’t want me to look at them.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry. Habit.”

  “Bad habit.”

  “Aren’t those the best kinds?” He grinned.

  Matilda rolled her eyes as Tanner returned his attention to the sudsy water and what his hands were doing, not what her nipples were up to.

  Time to change the subject. “How are your family?”

  “Good,” he said. “Mum and Dad are still up north. Dad’s retired. Mum’s still really involved in the school even though none of us are there anymore, and the rugby club. I want them to come to Sydney but they love it too much up there.”

  Tanner came from a small town in a whole other state, a few thousand kilometres north of Sydney. He’d been identified early as having talent and had been given a scholarship to attend the prestigious rugby academy that Matilda’s inner Sydney school was known for.

  “And your sisters?”

  “Kel’s backpacking around Europe. Meggsie’s working on a fishing trawler in the gulf, and Rails is studying criminology in Townsville.”

  “Wow,” Matilda said, impressed. “Go them.” Eight years ago, they’d all been in primary school.

  “What about your grandmother?” he asked. “Still attending protest meetings?”

  Matilda smiled. “Hell yes. The day she doesn’t want to paint a sign for a march or write a letter to the local politician for some cause or other is the day she’ll lie down and die.”

  As a kid growing up, the nice people in the neighbourhood had called her grandmother eccentric. Others had called her plain old crazy. But Hannah Kent was neither. She was someone who believed in justice and a fair go for everyone, and couldn’t bear it when some missed out.

  Matilda knew people thought her gran was odd, but it had never occurred to Matilda to be embarrassed by her. It was her grandmother who’d stepped into the void after her mother had died when Matilda had been two weeks old. And a year after that, when her son, Matilda’s father, had taken his own life.

  She owed her grandmother everything. Her loyalty most of all.

  “Do you think she’d like tickets to see the Smoke play?”

  Matilda laughed. “Unless you want a lecture on the evils of corrupt sporting officials, and how much third world hunger could be wiped out if big money sport fell off the side of the planet, I wouldn’t suggest it.”

  He grinned. “Thanks for the tip.”

  He pulled a large pot out of the water and gave it a quick squirt with a retractable rinsing hose that was fitted with a trigger nozzle. It had gone in looking like something from Chernobyl and had come out pretty clean. He placed it on the drainer. “I liked your gran.”

  “Yeah,” Matilda said, picking it up. “She knew.”

  She’d liked Tanner, too. Gran had always asserted that a man with sisters was a good catch. But damned if Matilda was telling him that when they were standing side by side, their arms occasionally brushing.

  Tanner laughed. “Was I that transparent?”

  The question clawed at her. Hadn’t they both been transparent? Young and in love like nothing could ever tear them apart?

  “Enough of that now,” she said, determined to drag the conversation in a safer direction. “I’m supposed to be interviewing you.” She pulled her Dictaphone out of her bag, pressed record and sat it on the low ledge formed by the splashback, a reasonable distance from the water.

  “Fire away,” he said, his biceps flexing as he scrubbed at the bottom of a baking dish. “Ask me anything.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask why the fuck he’d cheated her on that nig
ht. Had it been just the kiss, or had it gone further after Matilda had run from the party?

  It sure as hell looked like that’s where it had been heading.

  That question had haunted Matilda for a long time. After all, it was no secret that Jessica had wanted Tanner, and why would he resist her perky DDs when he’d already dealt his relationship with Matilda a fatal blow?

  But they were hardly questions pertinent to her feature article. And she really had to stop letting it matter. Wouldn’t Jessica mean-girl Duffy just love to know she was still screwing with Matilda eight years down the track?

  She had to stop giving her nemesis that kind of power.

  “You wanna pick up where we left off?” she asked.

  He glanced at her, a smile turning his mouth wicked, mischief dancing in his impossibly blue eyes. “You mean last week, right?”

  “Yes, Tanner. Last week.”

  He chuckled. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  She shot him a don’t-mess-with-me look. “Don’t bet on it.”

  He didn’t appear remotely chastised as he turned his attention back to the dishes and picked his life story up again. He talked pretty much non-stop over the next hour as they tackled the mountain of washing up that just seemed to grow as diners came and went.

  Kathleen bustled in and out, bringing in plates and crockery as they were used, along with the large metallic dishes where food was kept warm as it was served. Tanner, who appeared to know Kathleen quite well, teased and flirted outrageously with the older woman, who indulged him far too much for Matilda’s liking.

  “Enough of your blarney there, Slick, or I’m going to have to insist you volunteer every time I’m rostered here,” she said cheerfully.

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to monopolise volunteers.”

  “Psshhff,” Kathleen grunted waving her hand dismissively. “I’m in charge of the roster and you’re good for my ego. Plus you’re not too shabby to look at. Don’t you agree, Matilda?”

  Matilda wasn’t sure nuns were supposed to notice such things, but even so, “not too shabby,” was putting it mildly. “If you like that kind of thing,” she shrugged nonchalantly.

  She’d be damned if she was going to puff his ego up any further.

  He chuckled as Kathleen quirked an eyebrow at him and said, “I wouldn’t be getting her to write your biography.”

  By the time the dishes were finally done, Tanner had chronicled his journey from France until joining the Smoke, and Matilda was a pool of sweat. Her blouse had succumbed to the moisture from her damp skin, clinging even more efficiently. The feathery tips of her hair had long ago lost the will to wisp.

  Tanner, on the other hand, looked fresh as a freaking daisy. How could he smell so good when she was so…sticky?

  He smelled like…liquorice allsorts.

  God, yes, that was the spicy-sweet aroma she’d been trying to place all night.

  Great. Now he really was good enough to eat.

  “Man.” She threw the almost soaked tea towel on the bench and fluffed the damp, limp strands of hair off the back of her neck as she tried to blow her equally damp fringe off her forehead. “I think I’ve completely melted away.”

  She pulled at the front of her blouse and fanned it in and out to try and relieve some of the stickiness. It was times like this she was grateful she had no cleavage.

  “Put the fan on,” Tanner said, as he wiped around the sink with a washcloth.

  Matilda blinked. “There’s a fan?”

  “Sure. Just inside the store cupboard.”

  Matilda’s legs followed the direction of Tanner’s finger to discover the storeroom and the fan just inside the door. She turned to him as she hauled it out. “Could you not have told me this before now?” she asked incredulously. “Did you not notice I was a dripping mess?”

  “You told me to keep my eyes forward.”

  Muttering to herself, Matilda carried it to the closest power outlet, which was on the bench opposite. She set it down on the gleaming metallic surface, next to another large sink, quickly plugging it in, turning it on, and pushing the button that said High.

  She dragged it close to the edge and positioned herself right in front of it, bending forward slightly so the breeze was directed straight down her top, grabbing the bench on either side with both hands. She shut her eyes with a low moan as the powerful breeze ruffled her blouse, instantly cooling the sweat and evaporating the stickiness of her skin.

  She only wished she could straddle the damn thing and have it blow straight up her skirt. It was kinda heated up there, too.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t blame that one on stockings and humidity alone. Tanner Stone in those jeans and tats was responsible for most of the heat between her legs.

  “Better?” he asked from somewhere behind her.

  She could hear the thick streak of amusement in his voice even above the racket of the fan.

  “So, so good,” she confirmed. “Better than an orgasm.”

  Tanner’s dick responded predictably to her choice of words. The visual stimulation of her ass wiggling as she rocked from foot to foot and weaved her torso in front of the fan, didn’t help things.

  Better than an orgasm?

  Clearly the woman was having lousy orgasms.

  Another long, low moan came from her direction, hardening his dick to granite. She obviously wasn’t the only one who needed to cool down. “Would you like me to leave you two alone?”

  Although, that was the last thing his dick wanted. It was settling in for the show, and Tanner wasn’t about to disappoint a particular part of his anatomy that had never once let him down. He couldn’t even say that about his kicking foot.

  She didn’t answer, so Tanner assumed she either hadn’t heard, or she wasn’t going to dignify his innuendo with a comment. Knowing Tilly it was probably the latter.

  He lounged against the bench, his feet crossed at the ankles and arms folded across his chest. He knew he should just walk away and leave her and the appliance to it. But not even an advancing All Blacks haka could have dragged him away from the swing of her ass.

  A loud clap of thunder echoed through the louvers and open door. “God, I wish it’d just rain already,” she grouched, angling her head from side to side, the tips of her fine blonde hair fluffing out with the breeze. “Something has to cool it down out there.”

  Out there? If something didn’t cool it down in here, he was going to walk up behind her and bend her over that damn bench.

  She wanted rain? He glanced to his left. He could give her rain.

  Flicking the tap on, he reached for the rinsing hose, pulling it out of its receptacle. Before he could change his mind, he aimed it at her back and squeezed the trigger. A jet of cold water shot from the end and hit her right between the shoulders.

  Chapter Six

  Tanner released the trigger at her audible gasp and the violent arching of her back. She whipped around to glare at him, the fan blowing the wisps of her hair forward. “What the fuck, Tanner?”

  With the light behind her, she looked like a furious punk-rock angel. Her outrage was funny as hell, and he couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I make you wet?”

  Air shunted noisily in and out of her chest as she gaped at him, obviously speechless. But Tanner knew that wouldn’t last for long.

  “It takes a lot more than a hose to make me wet.”

  There it was. Atta girl, Tilly. “I remember.”

  Her brow furrowed, and she opened her mouth to let fly, but he didn’t give her a chance. He squeezed the trigger again, the water hitting her right between her breasts, soaking her blouse.

  “Tanner Stone,” she half squealed, half gurgled as she raised her hands, trying to block the spray, averting her face.

  He released the trigger, and the water cut out. Slowly she turned her face, dropping her arms as she glanced at the front of her blouse. He looked, too. He couldn’t stop. The red fabric was plastered nicely to
the slight swell of her breasts.

  He remembered how much she’d hated her A cups. But he also remembered how perfect they’d been—small, yes, but perky and crowned with the palest of pink nipples.

  And now? They looked as sweet as he remembered.

  Sweeter.

  Slowly, she returned her gaze to his. “This blouse,” she said, the whiskey flecks in her eyes glowing like fire in opals, her nostrils flaring, “is a warm-water wash only.”

  “I can add in some hot,” he suggested, reaching for the tap again.

  “Don’t”—she held up a finger to halt his movements—“even think it. Drop it, this instant.”

  A loud clap of thunder underpinned her warning.

  It was on the tip of his tongue to say make me. But he’d probably already pushed her far enough for one day. “Okay, fine,” he sighed, turning and placing the rinse hose back in its receptacle.

  He didn’t expect the cold slap of water between his shoulder blades, and gasped at the shock of it, whirling around as it seeped into his T-shirt and ran down his back.

  “Oops. Sorry,” she said, the hose from the other sink in her hands.

  She was pointing it at him like a weapon, her arm extended, her finger hovering over the trigger. She looked like one of those chick television detectives in their skirts and heels, looking glamorous and powerful and sexy with their guns out.

  She was totally hot right now.

  A Mona Lisa smile played on her lips as her chest rose and fell, her gaze darting all around, a wariness to her stance and a tenseness to her muscles, primed for his next move, primed to react. Possibly to flee.

  Clever woman.

  “So that’s how it’s going to be, huh?” He reached for his hose again, but she didn’t give him the chance, shooting a stream of water at his chest this time, as he had done to her.

  “Oops, sorry,” she repeated. “Guess I have a bit of a trigger finger going on.”

  The water was bliss on his heated skin, especially with the breeze from the fan, but it was doing nothing to cool Tanner’s engines. His heart banged against his ribs as anticipation tightened his belly and his balls.

  She wanted to spar with him? Bring it on.