by Evie Snow
All he had to do was be his usual charming, easy-going self. The problem was that he wasn’t feeling all that easy-going right now given Mike’s agenda, which was to either get in Jo’s pants or wind him up. He couldn’t be sure.
The knowledge that he still felt jealous of Scott and Jo’s . . . friendship or whatever it was wasn’t welcome either.
“So are we gonna talk?” Her eyes flickered to Stephen’s before she looked at Scott and Mike.
“Yeah. That’d be great,” Scott replied. “Though we gotta get going soon. Doors open at eight.”
“Alright. Take a seat and let’s get down to business.”
* * *
Jo ignored the unwelcome flutter low in her belly when she saw Stephen’s eyes were on her as she took a seat on the couch. Much to her chagrin, he was even better looking than he had been years ago. His features were a little more tanned, a little more weathered, but all the better for it. His body had filled out to match the width of those wide shoulders too. He wasn’t overly bulky, but he had some nice definition in the muscles on his arms and chest from what she could see through his T-shirt. His sun-bleached hair was shorter now than it had been when he was sixteen, the curls contained in a cut that just brushed his nape and the tops of his ears. And his eyes . . . sea-blue and just as intense as she remembered.
Damn. He was hot. Even hotter than his brother. Of all the bad luck.
Scott broke the awkward silence that filled the room as the three men took places on the opposite couch. “So, I’ve talked to Mike, and he’s going to stay with me while he’s in town—as long as he doesn’t even think of getting drunk and stripping off in my bedroom like he did in yours last night.” He thumped Mike on the arm as punctuation.
“Ouch! Man, that hurt.”
“What about Stephen?” Jo ignored the injured look Mike was giving Scott and met Stephen’s gaze, feeling the bottom of her stomach hit the floor. She willed him to look away, but instead, he kept up eye contact, his expression earnest.
“Jo, I know you’re probably pretty upset with me right now and that’s totally understandable, but I’d like to talk to you about the possibility of me staying.”
Panic rocked through her. Everything in her wanted to say yes, but this attraction thing she was feeling wasn’t good. Not good at all. He was still Stephen Hardy. There were still too many secrets between them. Too much history. “W-why? Why would I agree to that?”
“Because it’s a good idea.” Scott darted a look at Stephen before looking back to her. “I know you’re pissed off with me and Amy for lining this up, but you can’t hold it against Steve. He went along with this in the first place to help you out and he can still help you out.”
Stephen spoke up, his expression earnest. “Yeah, I’m sorry Mike messed things up, but Scott’s right. This whole thing was meant to give you a hand. I owe you and I wanted a chance to make things up to you.”
She knew then and there that if she let him stay, she’d end up trying to jump him at some stage. Given their past history, that was not a good idea.
“I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” Jo said, feeling every hormone in her body screaming insults at her. “I don’t need anyone to be here while I’m away. I don’t understand why we’re even having this conversation.” She turned to Scott. “The old set-up works. Amy looks after Boomba and my apartment stays empty.”
Stephen answered before Scott could reply. “I know you probably see it like that, but think of it this way. I can help get things done around the house, you’ll have the peace of mind your cat’s being taken care of, and let’s face it, it’s not like you can’t hunt me down if you needed to. Your parents still live on our farm.”
Jo went cold at the mention of her parents. From what Amy had told her this afternoon, Stephen had no idea about her dad or what had really happened years ago; if he stayed, she’d have to keep up the façade again. Worse, she’d have to stop him from telling her dad where she lived. Why hadn’t Amy and Scott thought this through?
“Stephen, you’re not helping, mate.”
They all looked at Scott. The discomfort on his face would have been comical if not for the seriousness of the situation. Scott frequently faced down bullets armed with nothing more than a camera.
“But Jo,” Scott continued, “while I feel terrible about what’s happened here today, and I know Stephen does too . . . the fact of the matter is that Amy’s boyfriend is allergic to cats. That’s why we asked Stephen to stay here when I heard he was currently between houses. I’m surprised Amy didn’t tell you earlier. You know I’d do it, but I’m out of town almost as much as you are. So it’s either Boomba goes into a kennel for eight weeks at a time while you’re at work or—”
“You let me help you out,” Stephen finished for him, glancing down at the cat who was now purring smugly in Mike’s arms. “You wouldn’t want that for the little guy, would you?”
“Dammit,” Jo muttered.
When she’d taken the job in Africa, she’d promised Amy she’d come up with alternative arrangements if looking after Boomba was ever a problem. And if Amy’s boyfriend was allergic, that was a problem. Right now, having someone house-sit her place was the simplest solution. And if that person was hot with an amazing body and gorgeous eyes, well . . . No. No. There were too many reasons why all this was a bad idea. Stephen’s earlier mention of her parents was the biggest one.
“I promise you I’ll treat him like royalty,” Stephen said, his voice cutting through her internal conflict.
A thick silence filled the room as Jo tried desperately to think of a way out of this so she wouldn’t have to live with the blond god and bane of her adolescent hormones. It was no use. As fraught with potential landmines as this whole thing was, she simply didn’t have time to come up with a better arrangement.
“Alright,” Jo sighed, turning to Stephen. “You can stay.”
If the smile she got in response made her a little shaky in the knee region, she told herself it was only jet lag.
* * *
Stephen leaned his back against a pillar and ran his eyes over the crowd surrounding him. The artfully lit concrete-and-steel gallery space on King Street was packed wall to wall with the usual suspects, all perfecting the art of mutually agreeable narcissism. The whole process was aided judiciously with free champagne and wine care of Stephen’s generous donation of Evangeline’s Rest’s finest.
Looking around at the photography and paintings, he experienced a brief moment of pride by association. The tone of the evening spoke of how much recognition Scott had earned for his photography in recent years. The other artist featured, Myfanwy Lane, was obviously lesser well known, but Stephen knew her profile would be raised a few notches by the end of the night.
Scott and Myf hadn’t needed any help getting people to attend. In fact, Stephen had just fielded a few complaints from a couple of local celebrities over how crowded the small room was. Laughing it off, he’d set them up with a modest tab at the bar and they’d quickly mellowed out. They’d chilled out even more when he’d made sure they were photographed with Scott and Myf for the local press. The publicity wouldn’t mean a hell of a lot to Scott, who was already a big name internationally, but Myf’s fledgling career would benefit. Besides, it didn’t hurt to have the Evangeline’s Rest label prominently showing on the bottle of champagne Stephen made sure to hold in every photograph.
He was in his element. This is what he did best and he was in a particularly good mood given the deal he and Scott had worked out with Jo Blaine, even if he didn’t want to analyze his elation too closely, or the fact that he’d spent most of the night keeping an eye on her wherever she was in the room.
She’d been avoiding him. He would have had to be blind not to notice it, but he didn’t let it bother him. Since the two of them were both over six feet tall, he’d been able to keep track of her wherever she was in the room, just waiting for a chance to wander over and strike up a conversation.
&n
bsp; The only problem was that he was currently boxed in.
Not long after he’d taken up a post in a corner, he’d been sandwiched against the wall by two immaculately dressed blondes who’d launched into a spirited discussion about their respective Louis Vuitton handbags after giving him an up-and-down that made him feel like the last sausage roll in a truck stop café.
As far as he could gather, neither of them had even glanced at the powerfully evocative black-and-white photographs or violently colorful paintings or even knew who their creators were, for that matter. They were merely in attendance because this was a gallery to be seen at, and “being seen” was probably their main occupation in life.
According to the woman on the left, her model of Louis Vuitton was infinitely “classier” than other shoulder candy in the room. The blonde on the right gushed agreement with an exaggerated Aussie twang that made Stephen wince. He hoped to hell she never traveled overseas. That accent was an embarrassment to the nation.
It was a conversation he’d heard many a time over the years—more frequently since the Western Australian mining boom that meant there was more disposable income to throw away on luxuries. Right now, he was just happy the ladies were looking at their shoulder candy now instead of looking at him.
When he’d been in a relationship, female attention had been flattering because he could just brush it off. Now it felt . . . uncomfortable. It was moments like this that he missed having Lauren at his side. In the old days, they would have joked about all the pretentious wankers present tonight and it would have been fun.
Just the thought of Lauren turned his mood.
He’d done everything to make her happy, but one day she’d just started acting distant and moody, avoiding any attempt he made to work through their problems. In the end, he’d confronted her only to have the woman he’d loved for over a decade tell him she wanted to end it because “he didn’t get it.” It had been six months since their split, and although Stephen had dealt with the worst of it, the memory of her words still felt like a knife between his ribs.
He’d felt like his world was ending the afternoon he’d packed up his stuff and moved out of the apartment they’d bought together and lived in for ten years. Lauren was still living there now, refusing to sell it so they could split the profits and move on.
Stephen knew he could have legally forced the issue months ago, but he hadn’t wanted to. That kind of acrimony just wasn’t his style. If he were honest with himself, the stress of not understanding where the hell he’d messed up was why he’d taken Bridgett Cowcher up on her offer to have a fling. Bridgett was a beautiful blonde cougar with an acute business sense, killer legs, and the most amazing rack a woman could buy. When she’d introduced herself at a wine expo, she’d been a breath of expensive fresh air. To Bridgett, he was the younger guy with a winery she could brag about. The businesslike way they’d approached things out of the sack so far was appealing. It didn’t feel anything like the car crash he was still recovering from with Lauren.
A high-pitched laugh snapped him out of the moment. Good thing too. He didn’t want to think about Lauren right now. He didn’t want to dwell on Bridgett either—their thing pretty much amounted to a horizontal workout and mutual self-interest. Nope, much better to dwell on the present, more specifically Jo Blaine.
He hadn’t expected the attraction he’d felt this afternoon, nor the sheer relief that had come when she’d gone along with Scott’s plan about the apartment. It felt good. It felt like he was making something right.
He searched for her through the crowd, stifling a yawn. He’d had a full day yesterday showing Bridgett around Evangeline’s Rest before she’d had to drive back to the city. And then he had gotten up first thing this morning to help his dad with the milking. The lack of sleep was catching up with him.
Mike sauntered up to him with two full wineglasses, handing one over. “Geriatric Barbie wore you out last night, mate?”
Stephen knew better than to bite. Instead, he took a glass, raising it to his mouth and letting the familiar taste of his family’s shiraz mellow his mood. “Bridgett, and fuck you.”
Mike turned and looked over the crowd. “Scott’s done alright for himself. He scrubs up pretty good too, doesn’t he?” He nodded at the clump of admirers surrounding their cousin.
Stephen had to agree. Scott was looking sharp in a tailored black suit and white shirt, open at the neck, his long hair left to hang freely down his back. He was flanked by Amy Blaine, who was wearing a body-hugging dress in eye-popping red, and Myf Lane, the other star of the evening, a petite, whippet-thin woman with a head of wildly chaotic ginger curls.
A couple of football players blocking Stephen’s view finally moved, revealing Jo standing beside Myf. Towering over the other two women, she was deep in conversation with a short balding man in a yellow turtleneck.
Stephen shook his head in bemusement. She stood out. It wasn’t just her height, it was that she was so blatantly a tomboy. While everyone else was wearing Gucci, she’d gone for Gap.
Mike whistled appreciatively. “You know, I think I’m feeling a bit jealous. How about you share with Scotty boy and I’ll stay with Jo?”
“Yeah, and how about I rip your head off for almost screwing things up in the first place?” Stephen growled.
“That bug up your ass biting by any chance?” Mike asked, his eyes still firmly fixed on Jo. “Actually, nix that comment, keep being an asshole. It’ll lessen the competition. I’m going over to start again. Coming with?”
Stephen narrowed his eyes, trying to gauge how much Mike was looking to wind him up. All he saw was Mike’s usual smug grin.
“Yeah, sure,” he capitulated. “I’ll just grab us another bottle.”
Stephen headed towards the bar, not wanting to approach Jo empty-handed. By the time he worked his way back through the crowd, it was to find Mike with one arm draped over Amy Blaine’s shoulder and the other around Jo Blaine’s waist.
Neither woman seemed to mind the attention. In fact, Amy Blaine was laughing at something Mike had said while Jo was still in conversation with the yellow turtleneck. Stephen flashed her a smile when she glanced over, but she went back to her conversation like she hadn’t seen him. The reaction was understandable given everything. Although, if Mike didn’t remove his arm sometime in the near future, Stephen would be “accidentally” pouring a bottle of red all over his brother’s Hermès shoes.
Mike gave Stephen a look that said he knew exactly where his thoughts were headed. “I’ve promised Jo an apology beer or two, and Amy’s up for joining us. You want to come?”
Mike knew full well Stephen had agreed to stick around until the end of the show to help Scott and Myf work the crowd, just like he knew just how much Stephen would want to come along.
Stephen was forced to give an apologetic smile. “Nah. I’d love to, but I’ve gotta stick around to help out. If I haven’t said it, you look amazing tonight, Jo.”
Jo’s eyes widened and he enjoyed the color he saw rising in her cheeks, even in the muted lighting. “Yeah? Thanks.”
“What about me?” Amy poked him in the chest.
“That goes without saying.” Stephen tweaked her nose. He’d gotten to know Amy Blaine once he’d started visiting her salon a couple years back, and although he’d never been able to get her past the small talk, he enjoyed her company.
“Jo’s just enlightened me about a brilliant tradition of hers,” Mike said. “She gets completely hammered at least once every time she comes back to town. I gotta say, after today, I’m in the same frame of mind.” Mike grinned at Jo, who rolled her eyes.
“You get hammered every time you come back to Perth anyway, you idiot,” Stephen replied.
“Yeah. But I’ve never been smart enough to call it a tradition.” Mike chuckled. “Besides, with the place being so packed, I couldn’t get a look at Scott’s and Myf’s stuff even if I wanted to. I’ll come back tomorrow.” He twisted around and waved to Scott, who was
in conversation with Myf and a Goth vamp in sprayed-on leather pants. Scott waved back, obviously too occupied to bother a verbal goodbye.
“You sure you can’t come?” Amy asked Stephen, eyes twinkling. “Someone needs to keep Mike in line.”
“Nah, you’re on your own there. But if I can get away later, I’ll give you a call.” Stephen glanced at Jo again. To his chagrin, she’d become engaged in conversation with Yellow Turtleneck again over something to do with welding.
“Take your time, mate. I think I’ll be able to handle the ladies just fine on my own.” Mike gave Amy a wink, only to earn himself a nudge in the ribs before she went to say goodbye to Scott and Myf.
“You’re pushing it,” Stephen warned in a low voice when he was sure neither woman would hear.
Mike’s expression turned innocent. “Can’t help it if the ladies love me.”
“You won’t be able to help it if you can’t breathe later either after I’m finished with you.”
“Well, the sheer intelligence you display often leaves me breathless,” Mike shot back, then turned to call out to Jo and Amy before Stephen could reply. “Hey, you two. Ready to go?”
Chapter 3
The Blaine girls knew how to drink. They’d drunk until Mike was a puddle on the pavement outside Scott’s townhouse.
“Bl-Bloody hell. I’m defeated,” Mike slurred, slumping against Scott’s front door while Jo went through her key ring, blearily trying to work out which one was Scott’s. She hoped to hell Scott was either still at the gallery or alone in the house. He wouldn’t be too happy if he’d managed to hook up with the Goth glass artist he’d been chatting up earlier and Mike interrupted.
“Mike is a bit of a lightweight, isn’t he, Jo?” Amy chirped as she tottered unsteadily over to Mike, who was now sliding sideways, looking pitiful. She gave him a prod with her shoe, giggling when he yelped.
When Jo finally managed to get the door open, it took Mike with it, and he fell backwards, head thumping on the Persian rug–covered floor in the hallway.