Читать книгу Forbidden Nights With The Boss - Anna J. Stewart - Страница 12

‘NOT much surf,’ Cam said, obviously checking out the waves while she was muddling around in her head with moonlight on water and other most unsuitable thoughts.

The irony of the situation made her smile. Totally unaware of the effect he was having on her, the man who was confusing her so badly was thinking surf.

She could do surf.

And thinking surf was miles better than thinking romance.

‘You should get a southerly swell coming up on the open beach south of the headland over the next few days,’ Jo told him, having automatically checked the weather report on the internet before she’d left the surgery.

‘You surf yourself?’ he asked, touching her on the arm as he asked the question, so she had to stop walking towards the clubhouse and turn to answer him.

‘Not any more,’ she said, then, before sadness could overwhelm her and spoil the magic of the beautiful evening, she added, ‘All the local kids surf almost from the time they can stand up on a surfboard, but it’s hardly the most sensible sport for someone with my colouring.’

She’d ducked out of the question a bit too neatly, Cam decided as he followed her into the surf club. She led him not into the downstairs part where all the gear would be kept but up some steps to one side and onto an enclosed veranda where the view was even better than it had been downstairs.

The desire to question her further was almost overwhelming, but even on short acquaintance he was beginning to read her ‘keep off’ signs and there was definitely one in place right now.

A keep-off sign and a look of sadness on her face. Not unlike the look when she’d walked into the little flat.

Some connection?

He didn’t like her looking sad.

Not that he should care, but she was his boss.

The restaurant was all but empty, another couple sitting close to the windows on the western side, nodding to Jo who crossed to say hello.

Cam let the young man who’d met them at the door show him to a table on the opposite side of the room, a table that gave a spectacular view out to sea. Jo joined him, explaining the other couple were regular visitors to the Cove, coming for a couple of months each year and having their final dinner for this visit at the club.

‘Do you come here often?’

He trotted out the trite pick-up phrase with just enough amusement in his voice for her to hear it for what it was, and smile.

‘Excellent conversational opening—a little lacking in originality but full marks for sounding sincere.’

She filled their glasses with water from the carafe on the table before speaking again.

‘To answer truthfully, I wish I could but I never seem to have time, or when I do have a free evening, I’m usually too tired to be bothered going out,’ she said. ‘They do the best calamari if you’re a calamari eater. Other places manage to make it taste like stethoscope tube but here it’s melt-in-the-mouth-perfect.’

She turned to greet the waiter who’d approached their table, introducing Cam to the young man.

‘He won’t be here for long,’ she added, and just as Cam decided he’d had enough of being introduced as a temporary gap-filler he realised she was talking to him, not about him. The person who wouldn’t be here long was their waiter.

‘He’s one of the best surfers the Cove has ever produced,’ Jo was saying. ‘He’s off to join the pro tour at the start of next season.’

‘I’m not as good as Nat Williams,’ the young man said.

‘Nat Williams came from Crystal Cove?’ Cam demanded, surprised he didn’t know that the current legend of world surfing was a local boy.

‘Grew up with Jo here,’ the young waiter said. ‘Everyone said she could have been just as good, but of course … ‘

He stopped and blushed so the few adolescent spots on his face turned purple.

Had Jo trodden on his foot to stop his revelations?

What revelations?

‘And you’re having?’ the young man asked, startling Cam into the realisation that he hadn’t looked at what was on offer, and he wasn’t that fussed about calamari, tender or not.

‘Perhaps you could get us our drinks while he looks,’ Jo suggested in a patently false kindly voice. ‘Who knows how long he’ll take to choose now he’s actually opened the menu?’

Was she taking a swipe at him to divert him from the earlier revelations? He had no idea, and knew it shouldn’t matter but why anyone would stop surfing—short of losing a limb to a shark—he couldn’t imagine. In his head he’d still be riding the waves when he was eighty.

Ninety?

He had to ask.

‘You were as good a surfer as Nat Williams? Did you consider the pro circuit? Were you good enough for that?’

She frowned at him, toyed with her glass of water and finally sighed.

‘I might have been,’ she said, looking away from him, out to the ocean where at some time she must have been totally at home. ‘I won junior titles, a few intermediate ones.’

‘And you stopped?’

He couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice, but instead of responding—well, it wasn’t really a question—she diverted him by reminding him he was supposed to be studying the menu.

He ordered the fish of the day, feeling it wouldn’t be right to be eating steak in a restaurant right on the beach, and sipped the light beer he’d managed to order earlier. And before he could follow up on her surfing past, she diverted him again.

Intentionally?

He had no idea, but it was some diversion.

‘You do realise that now you’ve told those two little boys you’ll take them surfing that you’ll have to keep your word?’ she said.

‘I didn’t think you’d have heard that conversation,’ he replied, to cover his surprise. ‘You and Jackie were talking the whole time. But of course I’ll keep my word. Poor kids, stuck in a situation like that. It makes me realise just how lucky I was with my childhood. Are they likely to be at the refuge for long?’

Jo shrugged her shoulders, the little movement drawing his attention to her breasts, which lifted at the same time. His mind went haywire—sending him an image of her in a bikini, riding in on a wave, a slight figure but as shapely as a mermaid on the prow of an old sailing vessel.

‘It depends on so much,’ she was saying. ‘She has the option of staying a month, but usually if a woman is serious about not going back to her husband or partner, the organisation has found other accommodation for her before that.’

She studied him for a moment, then asked, ‘Would you like me to run through the process?’

Not particularly.

Not right now.

I’d rather know your surfing history …

Those were his answers of choice but his reasoning—he’d rather talk about her—seemed far too, well, invasive at this stage of their involvement, so he nodded.

He also pushed the new door, which was sliding open and revealing totally unnecessary but vividly imagined images of his bikini-clad boss, firmly closed yet again.

‘The first thing Lauren will do with Jackie—after they’ve settled the kids into bed—is sit down with her to make a list of her—Jackie’s—priorities. What does she want to do? After safety for herself and the children, what’s most important for her?’

Totally focussed now, Cam considered this, then asked, ‘Will she know?’

Jo smiled. He wasn’t stupid, this big hunk of manhood she’d employed—

Temporarily!

‘Not immediately but they work on a plan for now—what’s most important now. Whenever a woman talks to us about leaving an abusive relationship we give them all the information we can—about keeping as safe as possible within their home until they make the decision to leave, telling someone else the problem, making sure the children know a neighbour they can go to, that kind of thing. We also give them a list of papers to secure somewhere so they can be grabbed in a hurry—all the documents all governments insist we produce in order to prove we are who we say we are.’

‘You mean things like birth certificates?’

Jo nodded.

‘And marriage certificates, kids’ birth certificates as well, driving licence, bank books or bank account numbers, medical scripts, although we can replace those.’

She paused and looked across the table at Cam. He was so darned good looking she couldn’t believe she was sitting here discussing work matters with him.

Well, actually she could. He was so darned good looking she doubted he’d ever discuss anything but work matters with a fairly ordinary-looking female like herself.

A twinge of what could only be regret ran through her, then he smiled—an ordinary, encouraging, I’m listening kind of smile—and something very different in the way of twinges rippled down her spine.

It was followed very quickly by a rush of panic.

Attraction was the last thing she needed in her life right now.

Wasn’t it?

She had no idea. Perhaps because she hadn’t felt it for so long she hadn’t given it much thought. She was reasonably sure she hadn’t missed having a man in her life.

Well, not enough to worry about it.

‘So she has her papers?’ he prompted, and Jo blinked and tried really hard to concentrate on the conversation—tried really hard to ignore twinges and ripples and whatever they might mean.

Jackie’s papers—that’s what they’d been talking about.

‘All of them, I hope. If she has no money she can apply for a crisis payment. Actually, Lauren will ask her how she might go about getting money—letting her take control right from the start.’

How much to explain?

‘One of the reasons women find it hard to leave their abusers is that they’ve become dependent on them, so as well as providing a safe place to live, the refuge staff take whatever steps they can to give the women confidence in managing their own affairs. Staff members provide forms and information and can help but the women have to first work out what they want, think about how it might be achieved and then at least begin to get it organised for themselves.’

‘With support,’ Cam said.

‘With whatever level of support they need, and that varies tremendously,’ Jo agreed. ‘It’s all about helping them take control of their lives and mostly they’ve lost so much control it’s very, very difficult for them.’

‘Which would make it easier to go back to someone who did all that stuff for them even though he batters them?’

‘Exactly!’

She knew she should have let it go at that, but the familiar frustration was building inside her.

‘It is so exasperating,’ she muttered. ‘We—well, not me but the support staff at the refuge—can get them so far along the road to independence then suddenly it all becomes too hard and back they go, assuring us all—and themselves—that he, whoever he is, is really, really sorry and he has promised faithfully never to do it again, etcetera, etcetera.’

Her anger was easy to read, sparking in her eyes, colouring her cheeks—the angry elf again but a very attractive angry elf—differently attractive …

Cam knew he should be thinking about the conversation, but he understood only too well what she was saying. He’d scoured the internet for information on battered women the previous evening and everything he’d heard from Jo fitted into what he’d read.

‘There are successes, too, of course,’ she was saying, pressing her hands to her cheeks as if she knew they’d grown pink. ‘And Jackie could be one. I suspect she’s made the move now because of the boys. Jared is going on ten, which is an age where he could intervene between his parents and get hurt, or he could begin to ape his father’s behaviour and start verbally, or even physically, abusing Aaron.’

‘I kind of gathered the second scenario might be happening—and that was just from a fifteen-minute car ride.’

Fine dark eyebrows rose above the green witch eyes.

‘Ah!’ she said. ‘I did wonder. The good thing is, Lauren will get them sorted. There is absolutely no violence allowed in the refuge—no smacking of kids, no kids hitting or punching each other, no verbal abuse or threatening behaviour full stop.’

Cam kind of heard the reply, but his mind had drifted—well, the new door he’d shut was open again and he was wondering what those eyes would look like fired with an emotion other than anger.

Desire perhaps …

He tried to shut the door—this was not the time to be fantasising about his boss. Fantasising about any woman, really. He was heading north along the coast, surfing to clear his head, working because that helped as well, trying to come to terms with the fact that the emotional baggage he’d picked up in his army life—the damage from makeshift bombs, the deaths of innocent bystanders, the broken, lost and orphaned children—would probably stay with him for ever, he just had to learn how to deal with it.

As Jackie had to learn to deal with the myriad annoyances of officialdom—

‘The fish for you?’

The surfing waiter had returned, sliding a bowl of steaming calamari in front of Jo, then placing Cam’s plate on the table in front of him.

‘Enjoy!’ the young man said, and he bounced away. Cam could feel the excitement the young surfer was trying to keep under control in his body as he looked forward to a future following his dream.

‘Was this always your dream?’

Given the way he’d been thinking, it had been a natural question to ask, but from the way Jo was frowning at him, it must have come out wrong.

‘Eating calamari in the surf club?’ she queried. ‘Well, I do enjoy it but it was hardly a lifelong ambition.’

He had to laugh.

‘Being a doctor, coming back to work in your home town, working with your father? Was it always your ambition in the way going on the pro tour has been our waiter’s ambition? Was it that ambition that kept you off the pro tour?’

She could lie and say yes, kill the conversation once and for all, but his laugh had been so natural, so heartfelt and open and full of fun, she found it difficult to lie to him.

‘Not always.’ She was going to make do with that when she realised he wasn’t going to be satisfied and would ask more questions. ‘Any more than surfing your way along the coast was probably yours. Things happen, people change, dreams are reshaped to fit.’

She put down her fork and looked directly at him, although she knew how dangerous that was. The intensity in his eyes, the quirky lips, a faint scar she’d discovered in his left eyebrow—things that combined to start ripples and flickers and twitches and such churning in her stomach she doubted she’d be able to finish her calamari.

‘I don’t think this is a bad thing. I’m happy with my reshaped life,’ she told him, ignoring all the turmoil going on inside her. ‘Very happy!’

That should stop him asking any more personal questions, she told herself as she picked up her fork and stirred the remaining strips of pale, translucent seafood.

Cam clamped his teeth together so the questions he wanted to ask wouldn’t escape. What had her dream been? What had happened for her to change direction—to reshape her life? Her sister’s death? More than that?

It was none of his business.

He was moving on.

Okay, so now he’d suggested the men’s programme, he could set it up, but someone else could run it.

He looked out at the ocean, black and mysterious, always moving, changing, reshaping itself and the land it slid onto or crashed against, and all at once he knew he didn’t want to move on—didn’t want to leave this place—and not entirely because of the good surf.

Or the fact that getting a programme set up and running would be a terrific challenge.

She’d argued, as he guessed she would, over the bill, but he’d insisted on paying, so she’d walked out of the restaurant in front of him, slowing on the steps, allowing him to catch up as she reached the ground.

‘Is there a good track up onto the headland?’ he asked, thinking a walk would be a pleasant way to end the day.

Actually, thinking he’d like to spend more time in this woman’s company, and what better than a walk in the moonlight?

‘Yes,’ she said, and something in the way she said it—hard, abrupt—stopped him making the suggestion. But before he could decide whether he wanted to argue, she sighed and turned towards the dark shape of the headland.

‘Come on, let’s do it,’ she said. ‘I’ve put it off long enough.’

Cam had no idea what she meant, but he was delighted she would walk with him no matter what her reasoning.

She set a brisk pace, but his strides were so much longer than hers, it made it easy for him to keep up. Low scrubby bushes, wind-bent, leaned across the path, the smell of salt and the moonlight, wrapping them in a secret world. The shushing of the surf onto the beach, occasional cries of night-hunting birds and the ever-present crashing of the waves against the rocks reminded Cam of all the reasons it was good to be alive.

Good to be alive with a pretty woman by his side?

‘The problem with loving people is … ‘ the pretty woman announced, in a voice that told him her mood might not have been as upbeat as his. They’d paused about halfway up the track at a fenced lookout that gave a fantastic view along the southern beach and were leaning on the railing.

‘The problem,’ she repeated, ‘is that you have to give yourself in love—bits of yourself—diminishing you and making you vulnerable so that when something happens to the person you love, it leaves a hole in your soul. You have to regrow those bits to make yourself whole again, but I don’t know whether you can ever refill that hole in your soul.’

He understood she wasn’t really talking to him, more giving voice to her thoughts so she could sort them out. Now she’d been silent so long, leaning on the railing, dark against the light of the ocean’s reflected moonlight, he wondered if he should prompt her, or maybe simply walk on and let her catch up.

No, he couldn’t do that.

He waited, looking at the beach but always with her silhouette at one side of his view, so he saw the moment when she shrugged off whatever melancholy had gripped her and turned towards him, a sad half-smile lingering on her face.

‘I’m sorry—I didn’t know that stuff was waiting to come out. Talk about needing a counsellor!’

She shrugged again.

‘My sister, my twin, was injured off this headland. It had been our playground all our lives, then suddenly I found I couldn’t come here. Even now, I don’t want to go on up to the top. I thought I could, after all this time, but I can’t. She didn’t die at once, brain-injured, though, a paraplegic for the ten years that she lived after the accident.’

‘Oh, Jo!’

Her name slipped from his lips as his arms folded her against him—a comforting embrace for a woman who was obviously still lost in her grief. He knew from the talk of the patients he’d seen that she would do anything for anyone, had seen her care and concern for Jackie, but who supported Jo? The patients’ questioning of him, and their not-so-subtle innuendoes had told him she didn’t have a man in her life.

Had she cut herself off from others because love had hurt so much?

Was her passion for the refuge a substitute for love?

He tightened his hold on her, aware that she was relaxing against him now, although when first he’d held her, her body had been stiff and awkward.

‘You do know a load is easier to carry when there’s someone to help you with it, don’t you?’ he murmured against her tangle of hair.

She stirred then looked up at him, her face lit by the bright moon, the slightest of smiles playing around her pink lips.

‘And just how much of your load are you sharing?’ she asked. ‘The load you’re trying to drown in the surf?’

Had he mentioned his baggage?

Surely not.

So she’d divined it somehow—guessed he’d carry some unresolved mental trauma from his army experience?

Or she was a witch!

He’d never kissed a witch.

The thought startled him so much he dropped his arms, and the moonlit face he’d almost kissed disappeared from view.

Jo eased herself out of his arms, bewildered by her reluctance to move. Surely she hadn’t mistaken a comforting hug for something more personal?

Although a glint, or maybe a gleam-in his eyes—just then at the end—had made her think he might—

No way! As if he’d been about to kiss her …

He must be feeling so uncomfortable, poor man, and wondering if his boss was some kind of lunatic.

Luna—moon—was it moon-madness that she’d blurted out her pain to him?

Made him feel obliged to give her a hug?

The problem was her memories of Jill had come slinking and creeping back into her mind from the moment she’d seen Cam in the flat—the stranger in amongst the roses. Then the talk of surfing and reshaped dreams at dinner, and to top it all off, Cam’s suggestion they walk up the headland.

Jo’s first instinct had been to say no, but she’d known she had to do it one day. She loved the headland and for one crazy moment she’d thought it might complete her rebuilding—make her whole again—ready to move on …

‘To lose a sibling is bad enough, but a twin … No wonder you felt you’d lost pieces of yourself.’

He’d slid an arm around her shoulders and was guiding her back down the path as if the little interlude—the hug and possibly the almost kiss—had never happened. His voice was deep, and gentle, and understanding, and it made her want to cry, which was stupid as she had finished her crying a long time ago.

‘Yes,’ she finally agreed, hoping he hadn’t heard her sniff or swallow the lump that had lodged in her throat, ‘but I’m obviously not as back together as I thought I was. I’m sorry to have dumped all that on you. It just came flooding out.’

‘Better out than in,’ her companion said, and although the remark was beyond trite, Jo knew in this case it was certainly true. She felt a whole lot better—apart from feeling slightly weepy.

They drove home in silence, but as the security lights came on in the carport and Jo knew he’d see the tears she’d been surreptitiously wiping away on the drive, she apologised once again.

‘Think nothing of it,’ Cam told her. ‘Feel free to vent any time. In fact, I should give you fair warning that one day some of my baggage might come tumbling out. You were right in thinking I had stuff to drown during my surf odyssey.’

To Cam’s surprise Jo reached over and touched his arm.

‘I’m sure that stuff, or baggage as you call it, is far more valid than mine,’ she said softly. ‘To have seen young men killed and injured in war—to have to mend their bodies and hopefully help heal their minds—I can’t imagine the strength it must have taken.’

Cam covered her small hand with his large one, and felt the fragility of her bones beneath the warm skin.

Bird bones.

‘I don’t think you can rate the baggage we carry around with us,’ he told her. ‘I think we all have it and we have to deal with it in our own way, day by day, week by week. Then one day it’s not as heavy—at least, that’s what I’m expecting-hoping—and as I said, maybe sharing it.’

Could he do that? Share the images that flashed before his eyes? Talk about the horror of his nightmares?

The thought startled him so much he gave her fingers a squeeze and climbed out of the vehicle, anxious now to get away, even if his temporary sanctuary was covered in roses and he’d guessed who had used it originally so he felt even more uneasy about staying in the bower.

But what bothered him most was that he’d mentioned his baggage. He hadn’t talked to anyone about it—not his parents or any of his sisters, not even, really, his ex-fiancée, who had first labelled the mess in his mind.

Yet here he was warning Jo that he might dump some of it on her.

Not that he could.

Could he?

Headlights probed the sky as a vehicle came up the steep hill. Jo was still standing beside the driver’s door, and some instinct to protect, perhaps not her specifically but any smaller, weaker person, made Cam pause as the big car topped the rise and turned towards the house.

A police vehicle, not flashing red and blue lights but its markings made it unmistakeable. Cam felt the sinews tighten in his chest—police, ambulance, fire vehicles, as far as he was concerned, none of them boded good.

Jo watched Mike Fletcher climb out of his big, official vehicle and felt her stomach clench with anxiety. She was vaguely aware that Cam had moved closer to her, and her body’s reaction was enough to make her straighten up and stride away from him, crossing the carport to meet Mike.

‘Trouble?’ she asked, looking at the chunky, handsome man who’d become a good friend in the two years he’d been at the Cove.

‘Richard Trent,’ he said, and Jo’s clench of anxiety tightened.

‘Jackie and the kids?’ Jo demanded, and Mike put his hand on her shoulder.

‘No, they’re fine. Sorry to give you a fright, but Richard called in at the station to report them missing.’

‘Tonight? Just now?’

Mike nodded, then introduced himself to Cam, who’d closed in on her again.

Protective?

Jo concentrated on what Mike had come to tell her, about Richard Trent and his reaction in calling the police. Why would Richard have acted so swiftly—indoor cricket would have barely finished and surely calling the police would be a last resort?

‘Did he check with any friends or family first?’ she asked Mike. ‘Phone to see if they’d gone there? Not that they have, of course, they’re at the refuge—Lauren would have faxed you.’

Mike shook his head.

‘I couldn’t believe it when I read the fax and I still find it hard to believe. I mean, Richard’s the captain of our indoor cricket team and captain of one of the SES crews—that’s probably why he came to me, because he knows me—but Richard violent? Had he attacked her tonight?’

‘Abuse isn’t always violent, and though he might not have hit her before he left he’d waved his cricket bat at her and warned her he’d be home to deal with her later,’ Jo told him. ‘Something in his tone or maybe in whatever had transpired to anger him convinced Jackie that he meant it. She was terrified when we collected her.’

Realising that this conversation could more easily take place inside her house, she added, ‘Come on in,’ including Cam in the offer with a glance his way. She offered drinks that no one wanted and they settled down on the deck—the magical sheen of moonlight on the ocean making talk of violence seem unreal.

‘So, if he knows they’re in the refuge, why are you here, Mike?’

Cam asked the question and Mike frowned as if he was considering not answering—or maybe wondering what right Cam had to be asking it.

Jo stepped in, explaining Cam was coming to work for her and that he’d been with her when she’d driven Jackie to the refuge.

‘Staying here, is he?’ Mike asked.

‘In the flat,’ Jo explained, ‘but Cam’s right, are you worried about Richard’s reaction that you came up here? Was it to warn me he was angry about Jackie’s leaving? That I might be a target?’

Mike explained that as he’d never suspected Richard might be violent, he’d had no idea what the upset man might do and had thought it best to talk to Jo about it in person.

‘Cam’s suggested setting up a programme for men with abuse issues,’ she said. ‘Something that could be ongoing because, as we all know, physical and mental abuse is like substance abuse, it goes in cycles. So although the offender wants desperately to kick the habit, so to speak, it’s nearly impossible without strong, ongoing support.’

Cam didn’t expect Mike to greet this plan with overwhelming enthusiasm, but a nod of acceptance or a ‘Good idea, mate’ might have been appropriate. But maybe because he, Cam, was a stranger in town, Mike had a policeman’s natural suspicion of him.

Small towns sure were different from the city …

‘If you’re a friend of Richard’s, maybe you could talk to him about it,’ Jo continued.

‘Hard to do that if he doesn’t admit to being abusive,’ Mike replied. ‘It’d put me in the position of deciding he’s guilty whether he is or not, and that would certainly be offensive to him.’

Cam could see Mike’s point.

‘You don’t want to ruin a friendship by stepping in,’ Cam told him. ‘The man might need help but he needs his friends to stick by him as well. From what I’ve read, most of the men attending programmes have been ordered to attend by the courts.’

Jo sighed and nodded at him.

‘You’re right, but less than fifty per cent of our women ever take their partners to court or even get a domestic violence order against them.’

‘I can’t see that a programme would work if we’re expecting men who don’t believe they’re abusive to attend voluntarily,’ Mike told her.

‘But we need to get it started. As well as helping men learn to react in non-violent ways, which I accept is the main reason for such a programme, it’s just the kind of thing that could add to our worth as far as the funding bodies are concerned. That could help keep the refuge open,’ Jo replied. ‘It’s exactly the kind of thing that they—the relevant government departments—like to see happening. It would fit into their blueprint for long-term solutions for battered women, and it would show we have an integrated service instead of just a safe place for women to stay on a temporary basis.’

‘Could we work it through the women’s support group that Lauren runs?’ Cam suggested, not liking the desperation in Jo’s voice and pleased to be able to add something useful to the conversation. ‘What if the women concerned could make their partner’s attendance in a programme a condition of their returning to the relationship—would that work?’

‘It might,’ Jo said, offering a rather tired smile—a tired smile that reminded him that it had already been a long day, with more than enough emotion involved, first of all collecting Jackie, then Jo’s unhappiness on the walk up the headland.

‘It’s not the best time to be discussing this,’ Cam said firmly. ‘We need to get together, maybe get Tom on board as well, and definitely Lauren, and see how we can make a men’s programme work.’ He turned to Mike. ‘Now, do you think Richard Trent represents a danger to Jo? If so, I’m happy to sleep in my camper in the carport. Any vehicle approaching would wake me with its lights.’

Mike looked put out, as if Cam had undermined his official authority somehow.

‘I doubt Richard Trent would take his anger out on Jo,’ Mike admitted.

‘I’ll be fine so go home, both of you,’ Jo told them. ‘We’ll talk again tomorrow. Cam’s idea of all of us getting together is a good one. I can organise an afternoon with no appointments later in the week—is Friday all right for you, Mike?’

‘This week it’s okay—next week is schoolies and chaos. But, yes, if you can get Tom and Lauren, we could have it at the community centre in town and brainstorm some ideas.’

Jo led the two men back through the house to the carport, fully expecting Cam to peel off and go into the flat, but, no, he hung around while Mike said goodbye, hung around as Mike drove off, then, as she was beginning to wonder if he’d ever go inside, he touched her lightly on the shoulder.

‘Why don’t you sleep in the flat—in the second bedroom—just in case?’

They’d been moving enough for the sensor light to have remained on, so she was able to look up into his face, but she could read nothing there but concern and kindness.

‘Just in case this man turns up,’ he clarified, then, as if aware she could barely fathom the offer, let alone make a decision, he added, ‘Go on! You know it’s the safest option. I’ll wait here while you get your gear and toothbrush, but don’t fuss around—I need to get to bed if I’m going to catch a wave before work in the morning.’

Jo went.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t spent time in the flat before, she reminded herself. She’d lived there in the rose garden when her father had still been living in the house—when she had been working with him after Jilly’s death.

And an angry Richard Trent was an unknown quantity to all of them, so it made sense to sleep in the flat.

In a bedroom right next door to Fraser Cameron?

The same Fraser Cameron who’d held her in his arms, comforted her, and for a moment made her think he might have kissed her?

The same Fraser Cameron who made her stomach drop when she turned and saw him unexpectedly?

Well, she wouldn’t be seeing him unexpectedly, would she? She’d be in one bedroom and he’d be in the other and she could stay in bed until he went for a surf then scurry back home to shower and get ready for work.

It would be okay …

And it was.

Right up until she walked into the flat and saw him in the boxer shorts he obviously wore to bed. Not tight enough to be too revealing, they still clung to a butt that could make any woman swoon, while the bare chest, a toasty brown with a scattering of dark hairs, made her knees go weak.

Attraction shouldn’t be so strong so quickly. It must be that she was tired and over-emotional that this man’s body was tugging at hers, as if invisible threads—finer than spiders’ webs—were tangling them together.

‘Hot chocolate?’

She heard the words but the picture they conjured up—licking chocolate off that chest, dipping her tongue into a chocolate-filled navel—made her groan out loud.

‘You don’t like hot chocolate?’

She dragged her eyes upwards to his face and caught an expression of disbelief.

‘I thought everyone liked hot chocolate,’ he added, with such a warm, open smile she felt doubly ashamed of her thoughts and could feel blood rushing to her cheeks to make her shame obvious.

‘Not tonight,’ she managed in a garbled voice, and she fled to the second bedroom, so pleased to escape him she had to open the door she’d shut behind her to call out a goodnight.

After which she shut it firmly once again and collapsed onto the bed.

What was happening to her?

Easy to answer that. She was falling in lust with her employee.

And just where would that get her?

Given that he was the epitome of tall, fairly dark and extremely handsome and could obviously have any woman he wanted and wouldn’t look twice at a scrawny redhead, absolutely nowhere, that’s where.

Not that she wanted this inexplicable attraction to go anywhere. Love led to loss in her experience and she wasn’t ready to lose any more bits of herself.

Love? Where had love come into the equation? She’d been thinking lust—nothing more.