by Elle Pierson
Sophy was quiet, taking that all in. “You said you went back for study?” she asked after a moment, and he nodded.
“I made it a clause in my first contract that I would have time to complete a commerce degree.”
Sophy blinked. “So you managed three years of those fucking awful statistics and marketing papers while you were holding down a high-stress, full-time job?”
He shrugged again. “Some of quite liked those fucking awful papers,” he said, smiling.
God.
She complained if she had to work an extra shift at the bar and missed watching Downton Abbey.
Although there was no point getting carried away. A person had to have her priorities.
“And where the does the vineyard in California come into it?” she asked, remembering his revelations at lunch.
They had come to a stop at the gate barring the private entrance to the grape vines. Jeeves chose that moment to lift his leg against a fence post, and Sophy cast a guilty look around for any disapproving vintners.
Lavender grew thick along the path, the smell always reminding her of her grandmother’s hand cream, and the drone of bees came thickly from the bushes. The birdsong in the trees was almost painfully loud; apparently they were interrupting some fairly desperate attempts at attracting a mate. She supposed it was the avian equivalent of putting on your shortest skirt and your highest heels, and hitting the clubs.
“It probably won’t come into it at all soon.” Mick leaned down to scratch Jeeves behind the ears. “I once served in Afghanistan with an American soldier whose family was in the wine industry in Napa. I’d inherited some money from an uncle years ago that was just sitting in the bank, so I ended up buying in. I’ve taken several working holidays out there, but I’ve been intending to sell my shares for some time now. I’m not comfortable having substantial offshore holdings; I’d rather be able to personally manage my assets.”
That seemed sensible. Sophy thought that she would probably prefer to personally manage her own assets, if they amounted to more than a wardrobe full of vintage dresses and the complete set of Firefly on DVD.
She hoped it was something that kicked in when you turned thirty, that you suddenly had all of your personal and professional ducks lined up in a row, but feared it was more a matter of individual competency.
“Your parents must be so proud of you,” she blurted out.
Judging by his reaction, a swift kick to the groin would have been the kinder response.
“Yeah. Probably,” he managed after a lengthy silence, but the look in his eyes was so awful that she instinctively reached for his other hand and brought them together, her knuckles pressing against the hard grooves of his belly.
“Well, they should be proud of you,” she said fiercely, too disturbed to worry for once if her words could make a bad situation worse. “I’m proud of you, and I’ve known you for a week.”
He was staring down at her, his jaw flexing in a repeated tic, looking as if he suddenly had no idea where he was or how he’d got there. He didn’t say a word in reply.
It was just becoming hellishly awkward when his fingers pulled free of hers, his palm came up, slid under her hair to grasp the back of her neck, and his mouth came down hard on hers.
Sophy had obviously been kissed in the past. She had received persuasive kisses at the end of dates, perfunctory kisses at the end of bad dates, overly wet kisses at school dances, kisses that tasted of nicotine and booze in nightclubs.
She had never been grabbed into a kiss worthy of scrolling credits and a soundtrack.
Mick angled his lips against hers, coaxed, delved, explored. Countless times, he drew back slightly and then returned, as if he was savouring her, winning her over with tiny little nudges and caresses. Sophy’s arms, trapped beneath their bodies, twisted and scrambled for purchase on his heavy frame. Her palms slid along his chest, stroked his sides and skated beneath his shirt, inciting a deep rumbling sound that made her toes curl in her ballet flats.
Mick wrapped one arm low around her back, just above the curve of her backside, lifting her slightly. The mismatch in their heights was robbing the encounter of much grace or finesse, but she was too overwhelmed to care.
It was the bleat of a bloody goat, of all things, that brought her back to the realms of sanity. Jeeves took immediate dislike to the intruder and started yapping in high-pitched squeaks unbecoming to his masculinity and substantial girth.
Flustered, Sophy yanked free of Mick’s arms, shoved loose strands of hair out of her face, and pulled back on the flailing lead. “No,” she snapped, in tones more effectively dominant than she had ever before managed. Puppy training had been a disaster; she was pretty sure Jeeves suffered no illusions as to whom was the alpha in their small pack. “No bark. Jeeves!”
Of course the bloody dog would pick this particular time to listen to her. He was suddenly the model of canine saintliness. Useful distraction aborted.
In the interests of not berating herself for cowardice for the next forty-five years, she summoned her last reserves of courage and fair play, and turned back to Mick.
He was standing with his fists shoved deep in the pockets of his pants, his chest rising in rapid, jagged breaths.
They stared at one another.
“Sophy – ” he began, and she panicked.
Her fears of confrontation and rejection loomed. Her nicely ordered, safe life threatened to splinter into tiresome chaos. Her emotions were jumbling and whirling like laundry tumbling in a clothes dryer. She had one clear thought in mind, and that was to slam her hand firmly on the ‘off’ button.
“It’s okay,” she said rapidly. “It’s fine.”
“Is it?” Mick’s voice was rough.
She hurried on, her fingers compulsively gathering and pleating the fabric of her skirt.
“I know; you don’t want to get involved with anyone right now. I don’t want to get involved with anyone right now. We’re friends. It’s all good.”
Mick was silent.
“Really,” she said. “It’s forgotten.”
Good luck with that.
“Right,” he said woodenly. “It’s forgotten.”
“And we’re friends,” she repeated, a bit desperately.
“Sure.”
She usually preferred a little less sarcasm from her friends.
Mick checked his watch. “I should head back,” he said. “I don’t want to be late for this meeting.”
“Right.”
They turned to head back the way they’d come, keeping Jeeves well between them. Sophy watched the ground as she walked, and her fingertips fluttered up to touch her lips.
Friends.
Right.
Chapter Five
Mick was right. His boss was a difficult man to refuse. Sophy hung up the phone after the surprise call from William Ryland, feeling a bit dazed. He’d wanted to thank her personally, he said, for her assistance to the police on the day of the would-be bombing. He understood that she was an artist herself, and he would be delighted to give her a personal tour of his collection that morning. Her polite stammering about a regular ten o’clock class on Mondays had fallen on wilfully deaf ears.
Apparently she would be playing hooky today.
She wasn’t sure if she hoped for or dreaded Mick’s presence at the hotel. They hadn’t spoken since he’d left Silver Leigh on Friday. They hadn’t really spoken since they’d left the copse by the stream. She had stared at her phone several times over the weekend, slowly rotating it in her fingers while she considered sending him a text message. The difficulty of knowing what on earth to write had stopped her.
Short of pushing him in the stream, or accidentally shooting him or something, she couldn’t have handled the situation much worse.
She pulled an ugly grimace into her Froot Loops just as Melissa walked into the kitchen with the mail.
“That’s attractive first thing in the morning.” Her cousin yawned and scratched an itch on
her cheek with the corner of the newspaper. Sitting down at the kitchen counter, she reached for her cup of coffee, and began to sift through the stack of envelopes. “The power bill is really high again,” she said, taking a sip. “Yuck, this is cold. I think you need to stop using your hairdryer to set your sketches.”
Sophy considered it too much effort to remove her forehead from the table in order to respond to that observation.
“Here, two for you,” Melissa continued. Sophy rolled her head to the side, and stared at her through one bleary eye. “Bank statement, and something that looks very official and governmental. I’m going to say unpaid library fines or jury duty.”
“Close,” said Sophy slowly a few minutes later, staring down at the succinct letter in her hand. “Deciphering a bunch of legalese, it’s a summons to give evidence in the arraignment of William Darvie and Maria Harper next week. In Auckland. They have charges pending there for a number of other misdemeanours.”
“God, that was fast.” Melissa finished her coffee. “Bet that millionaire – what’s his name? Ryland? – pushed things through. Probably took the whole thing as a personal insult. You don’t have to pay your own expenses, do you?”
“No.” Sophy bit her thumbnail. God. She had to give evidence for a legal trial. “I suppose I have to go.”
Melissa cast her a sympathetic look. “I’d say so, chicky. Unless you want to end up on the other side of the dock. Look on the bright side. Free trip to Auckland. I wish I could come with you, but we’re swamped at work with the festival. I’ll dog-sit Jeeves for you, though.”
“Oh, thanks.” Sophy absently petted the dog’s head where he stood ever hopeful of a fumbled pass with the breakfast spoon.
“You should see if someone else could go with you. I’m sure Aunt Marion would be up for it if you can’t wrangle a friend from school.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Mick was going to Auckland next week. She wondered if it was to do with the case.
Shaking her head quickly, Sophy looked at the time flashing on the oven, double-checked it against the clock on the DVD player, swore, raced and failed to beat Melissa to the shower.
When she opened the front door to leave, with enough time to walk into town but not enough time to stop at Starbucks on the way, she almost tripped over a cardboard box on the front stoop. It must have been left in the last ten minutes if Melissa hadn’t brought it inside. Her name was scrawled on the top. She recognised the peculiar little curlicue on the ‘S’ from the gift-labelled vase that Mick had found in her office. She’d thought at the time that it reminded her of an illuminated manuscript she’d once seen during her semester abroad in Paris.
Biting down on her lip, Sophy’s gaze moved from the box to the street, scanning up and down the pavement. It was probably ridiculous to be creeped out about this. For sure, she had read too many suspense thrillers in her life. But she had also just received a legal summons to identify a failed bomber. Feeling melodramatic and silly did not prevent her from bending to put her ear to the box before she touched it. She couldn’t hear audible ticking, but it was the twenty-first century, not a fucking Saturday morning cartoon. Bombs were presumably digital these days like everything else.
Gingerly, she slid one finger under the tape securing the lid and lifted it. She could see tissue paper, which softly yielded when she prodded it. Hoping it didn’t contain anything that was going to make her late, due to having to shower with a bottle of disinfectant, she unwrapped it and found herself kneeling on the ground with a beautiful blue-grey mohair scarf. It was hand-knitted by her favourite local textiles artist.
Rising to her feet, she stood stroking the baby-soft wool, a frown pinching her brows together.
What the hell?
She hadn’t so much as casually dated anybody in six months. Nobody had asked her out recently, or shown any overt interest in her.
Well…
No. Mick would never hide behind coy, semi-creepy gifts. Especially not this kind of gift. His idea of a present would probably be more along the lines of a pocket organiser or a spare inhaler. He would never do something that would make a woman uncomfortable either, and he would have the sensitivity and the common sense to realise that leaving anonymous gifts at her home would not necessarily be welcome.
Oh God, there wasn’t enough time to worry about this now. She opened the door and put the scarf and box inside the hallway, then locked up and made a dash for the street.
She felt slightly overdressed walking on the wharf at nine o’clock in the morning in her favourite silk dress and a pair of heels, especially when every second person she passed was wearing a bathing suit and the dregs of a weekend hangover.
By the time she stood under a chandelier, however, shaking hands with a multimillionaire, she wished she had worn her diamond earrings as well.
Ryland was a dauntingly charismatic man with a sharply hooked nose and slightly bulging forehead, who reminded her of Albrecht Dürer’s portrait of Philipp Melanchthon. He was gracious and grateful, and obviously putting himself out to be welcoming to her.
She was so miserably shy of him that she could barely manage the initial greeting.
They were standing in front of a small Monet, which he claimed as a personal favourite in the collection, and Sophy was doing a lot of foolish nodding, unhappily aware of her lengthy silences and the interested eyes of the public around them, when a tall, extremely handsome security consultant approached.
She could feel herself scuttling further back in her shell like a spooked turtle. This was hopeless. She was hopeless.
“Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt,” the newcomer said crisply, giving Sophy a polite, professional nod, followed by a second glance that was decidedly masculine and appreciative. “Palmer is on a conference call from London. There’s a small issue with the Knightsbridge contract.”
“I see.” Ryland looked annoyed. He was full of extravagant apologies as he excused himself to Sophy, although she couldn’t imagine he was finding the visit any less painful than she was. Unless he was such an egoist that he didn’t mind carrying the entire conversation, which on reflection was quite probable.
He asked if she would meet him in his private office for coffee in half an hour. Without resorting to another asthma attack on his premises, she couldn’t think of a polite reason to refuse.
“Excellent, excellent,” he said, clasping her hand again. “Then I’ll leave you in Sean’s capable care in the meantime. Mitchell, please extend every courtesy to Miss James.”
“Of course, sir.” The guard nodded once, his face blank until his boss had departed the display hall in short, purposeful strides. Then he turned a wide smile on her and put out his hand.
“Sean Mitchell,” he said. His fingers were dry and warm; his light blue eyes twinkled. “And you’re our damsel in distress.”
Fucking fabulous.
“Sophy James,” she muttered, at the approximate vocal pitch of a mouse.
Sean took a step forward in order to better hear her. She had noticed that people often did that, which didn’t help her personal space issues with strangers. They also had a tendency to increase the volume of their own words, as if she was hard of hearing and could learn by example.
He was making a determined effort to be flirty; she had to give him credit for persistence. Her return comments and smiles were perfunctory at best. She was well aware of the rudeness of her inattention, but she couldn’t keep her eyes from tracking the perimeter of the hall, looking for a familiar muscular frame.
The only other security personnel in the hall were two women. One was the tall, statuesque blonde she noticed on the day of the incident, and the other was an attractive brunette. Both looked to be in their late twenties and walked with a shoulders-back near-strut that suggested a good deal of confidence. She would bet her chances in the sculpture competition that ten years ago they would have been the sort of girls who intimidated the hell out of her in the dormitory.
�
�So, you’re an artist?” Sean was trying again, his Ken Doll smile unflagging. She couldn’t imagine it often let him down. “You were sketching here the day of the grenade assault, weren’t you? Do you mostly draw people?”
“I – ” Sophy’s belated attempt to retrieve her scattered manners was felled by the appearance of Mick in the archway that led to the archaeological artefacts. He was wearing crisp grey pants and a white shirt jerked open at the collar, the most formal clothes she had seen him in yet, and his gaze came to hers like a missile locating its target.
He didn’t look happy, although she wasn’t sure whether that was due to her presence or her company.
Sean turned to locate the subject of her absorbed stare.
“Oh, don’t let that ugly bastard put you off,” he said lightly, raising two fingers to give Mick a teasing salute. “I know he looks like he just went five rounds too many with Mike Tyson, but he’s all bark, I promise you.”
“Mick’s not ugly,” she snapped, and wasn’t sure which of them was more astonished by the outburst.
Sean’s words had been affectionate rather than malicious. The fact that he was so obviously joking did nothing to appease Sophy’s unexpected flare of temper. It was casual banter, spoken by a man who was clearly his good friend, and Mick probably couldn’t care less.