Читать книгу Red-Hot Summer - Kelly Hunter, Avril Tremayne - Страница 19

BRODIE.

Gorgeous Brodie.

Instinctively Scott hated that combination of words coming out of Kate’s mouth.

But then the reality of her words hit.

Brodie. Here.

They were about to come face to face. If he could make himself turn around.

But for that first moment he was robbed of the ability to breathe, let alone move, as eight years of feelings rushed at him.

That one hot moment. The sense of betrayal. The bitterness. Shame at what he’d done. Regret at what he’d lost. And…loneliness. A confusing, potent, noxious mix he just couldn’t seem to control the way he’d since learned to control everything else.

Kate was watching him. Any minute now she’d ask him what was wrong. It was a wake-up call to get it together—because he did not want to be asked.

He took a breath, pushed the feelings away, forced himself to turn.

Recognition in a split second. Brodie’s walk. Unmistakable. A loose-limbed, relaxed amble. He was as beach-blond as he’d always been. Tanned. Wearing sunglasses. Boat shoes, jeans, pale blue shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up to the elbows. And a tattoo—an anchor—on the underside of one forearm.

Scott remembered that tattoo. He’d been impressed by it. And a little bit jealous. Because Knights didn’t get tattoos—and yet when he’d seen Brodie’s he’d wanted to be the kind of guy who did. Not that he couldn’t have had one—then or now. But deep down he’d always known it wasn’t his thing. It was the rebelliousness of a tattoo that had appealed to him, not the reality of ink in his skin. Everything about breezy, laidback Brodie had appealed to Scott—who was the exact opposite.

He knew the instant Brodie recognised him from the slight hitch in his stride. The sunglasses were whipped off, the eyes widened, a smile started…then stopped. Replaced by wariness. Then the sunglasses were shoved into the pocket of his shirt—Brodie was not the kind of guy to hide behind sunglasses or anything else—and Brodie walked on, heading straight for them. He stopped at their table.

‘Scott,’ he said.

‘Brodie.’

Okay, it was all a bit ridiculous. Scott. Brodie. Kate would be coughing up her name in a minute. Maybe the barista would pop out and give them a Dean.

Scott laughed—couldn’t seem to help it. And he had the satisfaction of seeing surprise replace the wariness. It felt good.

‘Join us for coffee?’ he asked.

‘Sure,’ Brodie said, recovering from the surprise, and snagged a spare seat from the next table.

Kate reached out a hand to shake. ‘I’m Kate. A…’ Tiny, tiny pause. ‘A friend of Scott’s.’

Brodie smiled as he took her hand, said nothing—but Kate blushed.

She flicked a glance at Scott, then back to Brodie. ‘I’m a friend of Willa’s too. And Amy’s.’

‘Ah, you’re that Kate.’

‘Oh, dear, you’re not going to make a lawyer joke, are you?’

‘Fresh out of lawyer jokes, sorry!’

‘Well, isn’t that a breath of fresh air?’ she said with another of those flicking looks. At Scott, then Brodie.

Scott felt the sting. So he’d made one lawyer joke—just once! That didn’t put him ahead of Dirty Martini Barnaby in the woeful pick-up line competition, did it?

‘I’ll go and get the coffee,’ Kate said. ‘What’ll it be, Brodie?’

‘Black. Same as Scott.’

Nod. Smile. And she was off.

‘Girlfriend?’ Brodie asked, once Kate was out of earshot.

Scott crossed his arms over his chest. Shook his head. ‘Nothing like that.’

Pause. A long one.

Okay—they were back to ridiculous.

Time to suck it up and move on.

‘Are we going to get all girly and talk about things?’ Brodie winced. ‘God, I hope not.’

‘Right. Good. Great.’

Arms were uncrossed. His hand held out. Brodie took it. Shook.

‘That’s it?’ Brodie asked.

‘Well, let’s see…’ Scott frowned, looking as if he was thinking deeply. ‘We were best friends. A girl who never loved me—a girl I didn’t really love—fell for you. I punched you. You got an attack of nobility and took off. She stayed and was miserable.’ He shrugged. ‘I’d say between the three of us we royally screwed that up. It’s sure felt screwed up for the past eight years, and I’m kind of over everything about it. So, yeah—that’s it. From my perspective at least.’

‘I’ve missed you, you know—you bastard.’

‘Hey—we’re not getting all girly, remember?’

Brodie laughed. ‘That’s why I added the “bastard”.’

‘Yeah, well, “bastard” doesn’t make it any less girly.’

‘Still an uptight control freak, then.’

‘And you’re still…what? King of the hair braids?’

‘The sisters have outgrown the braids.’ Brodie shuddered, but he was laughing too. ‘Thank God.’

Slight pause. But not uncomfortable.

And then the question just came out of Scott’s mouth, as though it was just…time. ‘So, have you seen her?’

‘No.’

‘Do you want to?’

Long pause. ‘Eight years,’ Brodie said.

And somehow Scott understood the world in those two words. ‘Okay, enough said. But just so you know—it wouldn’t bother me. Not any more.’

Brodie jerked his head backwards towards the cafe counter. ‘Because of Red?’

Brodie looked over Scott’s shoulder, saw Kate coming towards them with a coffee-laden tray. That rolling walk. So damned sexy.

He blinked. Swallowed a sigh. Shook his head. ‘That’s just an…arrangement.’

Kate arrived, distributed the coffee. Sat down. ‘So, how’s the luxury yacht touring business?’ she asked Brodie. ‘In Queensland, right?’

‘I should warn you,’ Scott broke in. ‘Kate’s main goal in life is to steal a boat and sail off on an adventure—except she can’t sail.’ He smiled at Kate, expecting her to share the joke. But she merely looked steadily back at him.

Brodie was smiling at her too, and she did smile at him—and Scott found himself gritting his teeth. A contract. Just a contract—and this is why.

‘Well, Kate, I’m down for a couple of weeks,’ Brodie said. ‘I’ll take you sailing. Unless…?’ He glanced at Scott. ‘Are you going to teach her?’

Scott shook his head quickly. ‘I sold my boat.’ He looked at Kate; she was still smiling at Brodie. Just a contract. ‘She’s all yours.’

He caught—just—an infinitesimal flinch, the blink of hurt on Kate’s face, and wanted to call the words back. But it was too late. Her smile went megawatt—straight at Brodie. And Scott wanted to claim that wide, gorgeous mouth of hers right there and then, in front of Brodie and everyone else in the vicinity. Screw the no-kissing rule.

‘If you’re still here next Saturday, Brodie, I’ll take you up on that,’ Kate said, and then she was tossing back her macchiato—and that had to burn her damned tongue. Not that you could tell from the next blinding smile she beamed at Brodie!

Brodie and Kate discussed timing, swapped numbers, while Scott sat there like a statue—ice on the outside, volcano on the inside.

And then Kate put some money on the table and Scott had to grit his teeth again. Because—come on!—couldn’t he even buy her a damned cup of coffee?

The contract. Fifty-fifty. No, you can’t buy her a damned coffee.

‘Work calls,’ she said, all cheery and unconcerned. ‘Bye, guys. See you Saturday, Brodie.’

Gone.

Brodie looked at Scott, who had yet to take a sip from his fresh cup.

‘Are you insane?’ Brodie asked conversationally.

Scott laughed, and if it had a slight edge of insanity he wasn’t going to acknowledge it. ‘Tell me about your business,’ he said instead.

When Kate got back to her apartment she was so furious—and disillusioned, and…and hurt, she couldn’t think straight.

God, she hoped Scott hadn’t seen the hurt.

Not that Scott, who didn’t get hurt, would ever understand it. He’d just think she was piqued. The way he had last night just because she’d finally taken a stand and told him not to turn up today.

Well, that had sure worked!

And she really must be a pathetic nymphomaniac. Because she’d been so glad to see him when she should have been annoyed. So very glad…right up until he’d told her he hadn’t signed up for deep and meaningful.

Nobody signed up for deep and meaningful. It just…happened.

But not, apparently, to Scott.

Well, what had she expected? That two weeks of rock-your-hormones sex would somehow make her special? That the guy she was sleeping with might want to teach her to sail rather than palming her off on someone else? That he might actually introduce her to his friends so she didn’t have to introduce herself, when she didn’t have the remotest idea how to categorise their relationship for public consumption? That he might, somehow, claim her as someone just a little bit special?

The way she wanted to—

Ooohhhh.

She shuddered out a breath as reality hit her like a truck. She wanted to claim him. Mine, mine, mine.

Great! Just freaking great. Because Scott had made it pretty clear this morning that he was reading from a different script—and it wasn’t a romance. To Scott she was a collection of body parts, transferable to his friend for any non-bedroom stuff!

She’s all yours!

Well, quid pro quo. There was a legal term for Scott to mull over.

If she was nothing but a collection of body parts to him then he would be nothing but a collection of body parts to her.

Scott Knight: Kate Cleary’s stud.

No more kissing. No dates that weren’t really dates. No unscheduled drop-ins. No fireside chats. Nothing except sex. Only twice a week, because she was no longer in a negotiating mood. Starting with a Play Time that would fry his nether regions!

Before she could think twice she grabbed her phone, pulled up Scott’s number and got texting.

Play Time. Tuesday. 9 p.m. Ellington Lane.

That would shock him. He’d be sitting there with Brodie, never dreaming she’d text him so soon after that dismal coffee catch-up. He probably expected her to be lying face-down on her bed, crying into her pillow because she was piqued. Well, he could just—

Ding.

Text message. She grabbed her phone. Opened Scott’s text message.

Roger that.

With a smiley face.

A…a smiley face?

Now, you see—that was why he wasn’t the right man for her.

Or maybe why he is.

‘Yes, thank you, subconscious. Not helpful.’

Scott was champing at the bit as he approached Ellington Lane on Tuesday night.

He had no idea what fantasy Kate had dreamt up to carry out in this dingy, narrow, deserted laneway, but hopefully it didn’t involve his murder—because Ellington Lane certainly looked as if it regularly saw a dead body, and Kate surely must want to kill him after Sunday.

He wasn’t even certain she was going to turn up, given she hadn’t bothered answering any of his thousand calls since then.

But he was here waiting anyway—he who never had sex in public places—so hungry for her he’d do anything.

He was going to make tonight so damned good for her. Use his body to show her he didn’t mean what he’d said—because clearly he couldn’t trust his malfunctioning brain to choose the right words.

He still couldn’t believe he’d said it. She’s all yours. Just because she’d smiled at Brodie and he’d wanted to grab her and demand she stop. Because she was his, his, his, and she was supposed to smile at him—got it?

God, he was a moron! You’re mine—so go with that guy instead, why don’t you?

He deserved to be standing here, lust-starved and desperate, in an ill-lit, deserted alley, wondering if she’d turn up, shivering at the thought of what she’d do to him, and just…well, longing for her.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

And suddenly there she was.