Читать книгу Man About The House - Alison Kelly - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

BRETT climbed the steep stone steps rising from the beach to the grassed area that his mother always referred to as ‘the backyard’. It was, in fact, only a small patch of painstakingly laid and maintained lawn which people failed to notice because it was overwhelmed by the sweeping Pacific view beyond it. For Brett it was the pristine sand and thick rolling waves of Whale Beach which had been his true backyard growing up. There’d only been a handful of days from the time he was ten until he was nineteen that he hadn’t felt the urge to grab his board for a quick surf even if the waves weren’t ideal.

Today, having woken to discover a surf breaking to near perfection thanks to a pre-dawn storm, the fact he was thirty-four and it was smack in the middle of winter hadn’t mattered a whit. Of course, after about twenty minutes, when the initial adrenalin rush of making a ride all the way to the beach on his first choice of wave had worn off, cold and old age had started to prove a diabolical combination. Not his age, of course, but the wetsuit he’d fished out of his wardrobe was about thirteen years old; as insulation it was as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

He laughed aloud when he caught himself giving his most beloved tri-fin an affectionate pat as he leaned it against the wall of the laundry, yet in that instant he knew that even though he’d come to no firm decisions about his professional future he’d made the right personal one in coming home. He’d missed this...really missed it. Oh, sure, he could’ve surfed in California, and on occasion he had, but somehow it suddenly seemed more natural, indeed essential that the rest of his life be spent seeing the sun rising over the Pacific rather than setting on it.

Reaching behind his neck, he snared the plaited tail of the wetsuit’s zip and was tugging it down when a startled yelp behind him caused him to almost leap free of the clinging latex.

‘Lord, Joanna! You frightened the life out of me.’ His heart was still beating out of whack. ‘You always sneak up on people like that?’

‘I... I...I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you were home.’ She was hugging a pile of bedding and looking everywhere but at him. ‘I...er...just wanted to use the washing machine. But it’s okay. It can wait. I’ll do it later.’

When she went to dart from the room, Brett snagged her arm. ‘Whoa, there. Contrary to whatever stories you’ve heard, I don’t bite.’

Though she stilled, her head was downcast, and he used his free hand to tilt it. The minute their eyes made contact she flushed the most vivid red Brett had ever seen and he couldn’t help smiling. ‘Now your skin matches the red lines in your eyes.’

If possible she turned even redder. With the exception of last night, when she’d been totally plastered, whenever she was around him Joanna Ford acted as if she was being asked to deal with an alien. It put an irritating dent in his ego, since women usually made no secret of the fact they enjoyed his attention.

‘So, how are you feeling this morning?’ he asked. ‘And if you say anything but “half-dead”, I’m not going to believe it.’

Her tongue came out to graze her lip a split second before she spoke, so mesmerising Brett that it took him several seconds to realise he hadn’t heard her response. Releasing her chin, he shook his head to clear it. ‘Sorry...what?’

The sigh she gave was so heavy he regarded it a disguised blessing she was still hugging the laundry. Considering his lower body was clad in a wetsuit, the less he was reminded of the fact she even had breasts the better off he’d bel

She’d been out cold when he’d finally summoned the courage to strip her wet top from her last night, but, as swift and circumspect as he’d endeavoured to be in averting his gaze, images of their translucent white firmness and cherry-red peaks had tormented him for the better part of the night.

‘I said...I’m mortified about what happened last night.’

Her voice was slightly shaky and her knuckles whitened as she tightened her grip on the wad of bedding. She swallowed hard before continuing, ‘I don’t remember much, except being sick and you talking to me, then helping me inside. I’m sorry you had to find me like that... I know how...how revolting it is to see someone vomit, and I want you to know I appreciate you staying with me and taking care of me.’

It irked the hell out of him that while the tone of her apology was polite and sincere she’d delivered it without once looking at him. He didn’t know if she realised he’d been the one to undress her, but suspected she didn’t; her embarrassment didn’t seem that extreme.

‘Listen, Joanna, I realise getting drunk and pulling a hangover can blur the brain a bit, but it wasn’t the washing machine who carried you inside and tucked you into bed.’ His bored tone had her head swinging around to him and her mouth opening and closing like a beached fish.

Eventually she managed a sound. A loud, indignant sound. ‘I was not drunk!’ The declaration was immediately followed by a painful grimace that called her a liar.

‘Sweetheart,’ he said through a chuckle, ‘if they took blood from you now, they could sell it as eighty proof.’

‘I tell you, I don’t drink. I didn’t have anything last night but punch and cola.’

‘Uh-huh.’ He didn’t bother to hide either his scepticism or amusement at her straight-faced avowal. ‘And I suppose you don’t have a hangover this morning either, even though you look like death warmed up.’

‘Having never been drunk, I don’t have the slightest idea what a hangover is,’ she told him, devoid of all trace of the previous shyness she’d exhibited around him. ‘And if I look a bit off colour it’s because I’m obviously coming down with some kind of flu.’

She was absolutely serious, Brett realised. She truly believed she was feeling the way she did because she was getting a bug. Meaghan had said she was naive, but this... Hell, it was criminal to let someone as innocent as Joanna Ford out alone!

‘The flu, huh?’ he said casually. ‘Running a temperature?’

‘No, but I think the aspirin I took earlier is keeping it at bay.’

‘And the aspirin was for...let me guess...that mild headache you have?’

‘There’s nothing mild about it. It feels like—’

‘Like your skull is being split in two from the inside?’ he inserted, knowingly. ‘Except, of course, when a raised voice, a slammed door or even a sneeze makes it seem like someone is using a jackhammer to clear your sinuses.’

Thick black lashes blinked over surprised turquoise eyes. ‘Well, yes...I guess that’s one way of putting it,’ she conceded, her tone tinged with the same hint of doubt that was beginning to show in her wan-looking face.

Brett gave a sage nod and went on. ‘And I’d say the odds would be in the red that, despite the fact you’ve probably brushed your teeth three or four times now, your mouth still feels like it’s coated with old cotton wool that’s been dipped in vinegar and rolled in sand. Oh, and your stomach probably feels like it’s going to cave in too, but the mere thought of actually introducing food to it makes it start recoiling in dread.’

He raised an eyebrow at her ever-increasing frown. ‘How’s Dr Brett’s description of your symptoms so far? Ah, yes...and shaking your head hurts,’ he added, seeing her grimace after doing so.

‘Well?’ he prodded.

‘That’s what a hangover feels like?’

‘Yep, ’fraid so.’ As concern battled with confusion for dominance in her pretty face Brett wished he’d been a little less smug. “I know it’s small consolation right now,’ he said, ‘but you aren’t the first person to have one, Joanna.’

‘But my stomach doesn’t feel like you said,’ she told him, in a grasping-at-straws tone.

‘Ahh,’ he said sagely. ‘Then you’re obviously what I call a cast-iron gut drunk,’ he told her, softening the description with a smile. ‘The majority of hangover victims, myself included, cannot look at anything even remotely greasy the morning after. But there’s a second category who swear ingesting as much cholesterol-laden food as quickly as possible restores them to a reasonable facsimile of health.’ He grinned. ‘My bet is you’re in the latter category and that you’re craving...oh, say, a big plate of bacon and eggs? Or maybe a nice, thick juicy hamburger?’

He allowed himself a smug chuckle as her expression came close to a drool. ‘Tell you what, you put those sheets in the machine while I go get dressed, then meet me in the kitchen.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it just so happens I’m the cure for your hangover,’ he said, returning to the task of peeling off his wetsuit. ‘I happen to cook the best damned bacon and eggs you’ll ever taste.’

‘You can’t do that while I’m here!’ The adamant declaration surprised him.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t expect you to do all the cooking.’

‘I mean you can’t just take your clothes off like that!’

Take my—’

There was no containing his amusement once he’d caught on to where she was coming from, but he sobered quickly when she dumped the bedding onto the floor and pivoted towards the door. Acting purely on instinct, he threw out an arm, barring her escape; he instantly regretted the action when fear flared in those gorgeous eyes.

‘It’s okay, Joanna,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I’m dressed. That is, I’ve got a pair of swimmers underneath.’ Once again she flushed pink.

A week ago he’d have sworn blushing had been entirely bred out of the last few generations of females, but Joanna Ford was a real revelation. A very attractive, very sexy revelation. It was clear she didn’t know what to say or where to look. Or rather, she was working hard to look at everything bar his bare chest, to which she was currently close enough for him to feel the warmth of her stuttered, ‘Oh. Well... I...’

The husky quality of her uncertain whisper sparked interest in muscles of Brett’s body which in the wake of the emotional workout Toni had given him weren’t supposed to be looking for exercise. They especially weren’t supposed to be motivated by a petite twenty-two-year-old with more curves than common sense and a way of nibbling her mouth that made a man want to say, Hey...taste mine.

When she did eventually bring her gaze to his face, her demeanour of shy expectation as she slowly slipped a strand of silky jet hair behind her ear almost made him groan. Had any other woman looked at him like that he’d have read it as a come on and accepted the invitation. Hell, he wanted to accept it now! Trouble was, as difficult as it was to believe, he doubted Joanna had a clue about the signals she was emitting.

Deciding they both needed space Brett lowered his arm and stepped back. Producing what he hoped was a reassuring smile, he excused himself and headed to the bathroom.

Brett heard her enter the kitchen scant seconds before a soft, awed voice officially announced her. ‘You really can cook.’

‘You seem surprised.’ He spared her a quick glance. ‘Can’t you?’

‘Can’t I what?’

‘Cook.’

Her laugh was incredulous. ‘Of course I can. I’ve just never met a man who could.’

‘Then you must’ve met a lot of useless, skinny, hungry men.’ His teasing comment limped into an awkward silence.

The way she was fidgeting with the carton of eggs lying on the benchtop hinted at her still being uncomfortable in his presence, for which Brett was grateful. It meant she’d be too distracted to notice any semblance of unease he might display, because there was no denying this girl seriously raised the level of his awareness meter. In the half-hour or so since their earlier encounter, she’d donned make-up and a trendy trouser suit and it irritated him. To his way of thinking, the sexy fashion-plate image constituted false advertising by promising things that were way out of this kid’s league and strictly off limits to him. Sans make-up, dressed in the blue jeans and sweatshirt of earlier, she’d been less of a threat to his good intentions by at least looking as innocent and unworldly as she so obviously was. Now she looked as if she not only knew the score but wanted the role of captain-coach in the game.

He tried hard to concentrate on what he was doing, but was so aware of her watching his every move her gaze was almost like a physical touch.

‘Um, would you like me to set the table?’ she offered, after several minutes of razor-sharp silence which Brett figured had to have made her as uncomfortable as him.

‘Sure. Thanks.’

Instantly she started into action, moving with the familiarity of having lived in the house for two months.

The kitchen was by no means small, but somehow Joanna’s aura managed to fill every atom of space. Brett had never been so aware of another person’s presence in his entire life. On two occasions they got in each other’s way, and brushing against her felt like being zapped by a current of electricity. But her movements between the cupboards and the table, the sink and the fridge were a distraction even when she wasn’t in his line of vision or within touching distance. Bit by bit the musky scent of her perfume won dominance over the aroma of the cooking breakfast. and his heartbeat drowned out the sizzle of the bacon.

The relief when he could finally sit down and have the width of the breakfast table between them was enormous. Well, it was until the silence again became a stilted roar. They might have both been going through the motions of eating with the automation of two robots oblivious to the other’s presence, but Brett figured between them they’d exercised more covert glances than a CIA agent did in a career. This was getting ridiculous! He was thirty-four, for God’s sake, not fifteen!

‘So,’ he said, quickly lowering his unintentionally loud voice when she physically started, ‘are you feeling any better now you’ve eaten?’

Nodding, she quickly swallowed. ‘A bit.’ A tiny smile tugged at her mouth. ‘You were right; you are a good cook.’

1 did warn you.’

His teasing didn’t draw more than another small smile, but its briefness didn’t dull its impact. Brett scrambled to keep the conversation going. ‘You like Thai food?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never had it. I had Italian once.’

‘Once?’

‘My family didn’t eat fancy stuff.’

‘Well, then, I guess I’ll have to introduce you to a wider culinary range while you’re here.’

‘Oh, no! Really. I wouldn’t feel right letting you fix meals for me.’

‘Why not? You have to eat, and it’s no fun just cooking for myself.’

For several seconds she seemed nonplussed by his logic, then produced another of those killer smiles. ‘All right, but only if we take turns. You cook one meal, I’ll cook the next’

‘Fair enough.’

Their gazes met and held, and Brett had a difficult time convincing his libido that he really wasn’t interested in any woman right now—much less the young girl across the table. Even if she was the most incredibly beautiful female he’d ever seen. Yet the hypnotic effect of those turquoise eyes made it impossible for him to look away, and they suffused his body with an inner warmth that was as tranquil as it was disturbing.

It wasn’t until she lowered her lashes and rose from her chair that Brett was capable of blinking and breathing again.

‘Would you like tea or coffee?’ she asked.

Caught up in trying to unravel his bemused thoughts, he had to rerun her words twice before they made sense. ‘Whatever you’re having is fine.’

‘I only drink tea,’ she told him. ‘But I don’t mind making you coffee if that’s what you want.’ The curve of her mouth was almost as bewitching as those of the body she leaned gracefully against the counter, and the item which sprang to the top of his immediate ‘want list’ wasn’t anything as innocuous as either beverage. He managed to bite back the admission. ‘Thanks, but tea’s okay with me.’

‘How do you have it?’

Brett found himself actually having to think before making what should have been an automatic response. ‘White. No sugar.’

‘Darjeeling, Earl Grey or Irish Breakfast?’

It was then his trouble alarm started clanging!

The truth was he had no damn interest in what sort of tea he drank and way too much in the woman making it; all of it sexual.

The problem was he wasn’t supposed to be in the market for sex. Even more disturbing than discovering he was, was finding himself window shopping in an area outside his habitual interest zone.

Which, of course, was Meaghan’s fault! he thought testily. She was the one who’d placed him in Joanna Ford’s proximity. It was bad enough she’d exposed him to the ethereal raven-haired witch currently holding up boxes of tea like a quiz show hostess, but if his sister hadn’t erected neon ‘keep off the grass’ signs around Joanna, he probably wouldn’t have given the girl a second glance. After all, as attractive and sexy as she was, it didn’t alter the fact she was only eight years older than his niece and twelve years younger than him.

What was more, he decided, she was only proving a distraction because he was allowing her to be one. Determined to correct that situation right now, he responded to her repeated query about the tea with an uninterested, ‘Surprise me,’ then stoically refocused his attention on finishing his breakfast. His only reaction to the steaming mug which moments later was placed near his right hand was a headbent murmur of, ‘Thanks.’

Ruing the absence of a newspaper to bury his head in, Brett continued to eat and to drink his tea without once letting his gaze shift beyond the centre of the table. With the passing of each loud, silence-breaking tick of the wall clock he congratulated himself on having triumphed over the temptation to look at his breakfast companion. See? It wasn’t hard. He could be as indifferent to Joanna Ford and her seemingly mystical intrigue as he could the salt and pepper shaker her long, elegant fingers were idly tracing with slow, sensuous strokes.

‘Brett...’

The husky utterance of his name was his undoing, immediately snapping his gaze up to hers.

‘I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t drink last night,’ she told him. ‘But I think you’re right about me having a hangover.’

A curt nod would have communicated his lack of interest in further discussion on the subject, but instead Brett heard himself say, ‘A contradictory comment, but I take it as meaning you think it’s possible you were slipped a mickey.’

Her brow wrinkled. ‘Slipped a mickey?’ The confused shake she gave her head set her dark hair glittering in the sunlight. ‘What does that mean?’

Aw, hell! There ought to be laws against women this unworldly being allowed within a thousand-kilometre radius of a major city. Especially one with a male population. Deciding the sooner Joanna had her beautiful but innocent eyes opened and developed a cynical edge the safer every red-blooded man she was likely to encounter would be, he went on to explain what a Mickey Finn was, concluding with, ‘Some idiot with a juvenile sense of humour probably spiked the punch.’

‘But mostly I drank cola.’

‘Out of a can or bottle?’

She stiffened in her chair and glared at him. ‘Look, I mightn’t be all that terribly chic and sophisticated...’ hearing anger in her voice startled him ‘...but I do know it’s good manners to use a glass!’

Prudence had him swallowing the smile trying to force itself from his lips. ‘While that social nicety has its place, Joanna, sometimes good manners have to take second place to good sense.

‘So.’ he said, ‘I’ll tell you exactly what my father told Meaghan and me when we were sixteen and just starting to hit the party circuit. One: never accept a drink from anyone at a party unless the bottle cap or ring tab is still sealed. Two: never leave a drink somewhere and then go back and drink it later. And three: avoid punchbowls at all costs.

‘As Dad used to say, “The most innocuous thing someone will spike a drink with is alcohol, which can leave you sick as a dog. Other things can leave you dead.’”

‘You mean some people might put drugs in someone else’s drink?’

‘No... Some people do.’

At her look of alarm, he hastened to reassure her. ‘Relax, Joanna; you might’ve been plastered last night, but you didn’t appear doped.’ But then, because she still looked so shocked, concern caused him to add, ‘Well, at least I didn’t think you did. You don’t think you were, do you?’

‘How would I know?’ she demanded. ‘Until this morning I didn’t know I was drunk.’

‘Good point!’ He laughed. ‘Well, you’ll know next time.’

‘There’s not going to be a next time,’ she told him. ‘If I ever have to feel this ill again I want it to be because I’m dead.’

The droll retort indicated Joanna had a sense of humour, which wasn’t good. Because after three years of Toni’s pouts and petulance, a woman with a sense of humour was all too appealing, especially when she came gift-wrapped with sexy curves and wide-eyed innocence that practically begged to be educated.

Once again enmeshed with his own worrying thoughts, it took him several seconds to notice Joanna had already cleared the dirty dishes and was running water into the sink.

‘Don’t bother washing them,’ he told her. ‘Just rinse them and shove them in the dishwasher.’

‘I don’t mind doing them. I enjoy standing here and looking out at the beach.’

‘Yeah? Gee, Meaghan and I always thought it was more fun being on the beach, which is why Mum got the dishwasher in the first place.’

‘True.’ She sent him another of her breath-defying grins. ‘But, since I never saw a beach until I was sixteen, I don’t consider having to look at one from this distance any real hardship.’

Brett knew his curiosity showed, but rather than voice it he merely crossed to the kitchen linen cupboard and, pulling out a dishtowel, joined her at the sink.

‘It’s so incredibly beautiful. It must have been wonderful growing up here?’

Though she phrased the words as a question, her attention was fixed firmly on the other side of the ceiling reaching window, and her enraptured expression as she surveyed the surrounding cliffs, crags, sand and surf suggested she’d merely been uttering her thoughts aloud. Clearly she was in awe of all that lay between them and the horizon.

It was, be supposed, only natural that growing up here had bred a familiarity which to a degree had immunised him against the natural beauty the scene presented, but for some reason Joanna’s reaction to it urged him to look back and try to see it through less jaded eyes. When he did it was as if each new wave that rolled in and collapsed on the beach carried a precious but too long ignored memory of the past.

His father teaching him and Meaghan to swim. The Christmas he’d been given his first surfboard and had been practically tied to a chair to get him to stay out of the water long enough to eat dinner with the multitude of relatives who’d turned up for a hot turkey dinner. He remembered how they’d all been politely appalled when his ‘radical’ father had served up salad and exotic seafood instead. James McAlpine, whose motto had been ‘Tradition is for the gutless and uninspired’, had been highly amused by the predictable reaction, yet he’d still produced an alternative menu of baked vegetables, roast turkey and pork with all the traditional trimmings.

Growing up. Brett had at times been embarrassed by the fact his parents had rejected most of the middle class values embraced by his peers’ families and teachers, who’d viewed his upbringing as being at best unconventional—especially after his mother was arrested at an anti-nuclear rally. Yet now, from the distance of maturity, he could appreciate that James and Kathleen McAlpine had provided their children with a loving and secure environment that went far beyond their material comforts and liberal views on discipline. They’d taught love and tolerance by example, and yet while firmly adhering to their own beliefs had never tried to force feed them to their children.

Yeah, he thought, gazing out at the beach but seeing much more. It had been wonderful growing up here.

As his eyes drifted to the outcrop of rocks at the northern end of the beach yet another time-locked image floated through his mind. One that not only made him smile, but kindled a desire to snatch a piece of the past. But this time, unlike this morning, when he’d dug out his old wetsuit and board, he felt like sharing it

‘Joanna,’ he said, ‘have you got some ratty old jeans and a pair of runners?’