Kitabı oku: «The Complete Red-Hot And Historical Collection», sayfa 7
Ring-running. For her own mental health, it was going to have to stop.
So she smiled, as remote as he was. ‘Yeah, we’re over our target, right?’
‘Right,’ Scott said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then—new week, new target.’
‘Not tomorrow,’ Kate said.
‘But you said Sunday.’
‘And now I’m saying no.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘That sounds like pique, Kate. And we don’t have room for pique in our contract.’
‘No, we don’t have any allowances for pique in our contract, Scott,’ she said, very cool. ‘This is not pique. I wasn’t expecting you tonight—as you know very well. I was, in fact, planning to do some work once I’d put the girls to bed. Now I have to play catch-up tomorrow. So thank you.’
‘Ouch. I’m going to need that stapler,’ Scott said.
Then with a mock salute he was gone.
Kate looked at the door, wondering exactly what had happened out there on the terrace.
She crossed her arms against a chill premonition that things between them were not going to work out the way either of them expected.
CHAPTER NINE
THE NEXT MORNING Scott was back at Rushcutters Bay, his finger frozen just short of the intercom buzzer, wondering what the hell he was doing.
Kate had made it clear she was going to be busy today, doing the work she’d planned to do the previous night if not for his inconvenient arrival. Code—and not exactly secret—for I don’t want to see you.
And yet here he was, trying to work out how to charm his way into her apartment, how to apologise for the way he’d run away last night. The way he kept running away.
But how did you tell someone you’d run because you were in too deep and wanted to pull back—even as you were fronting up for more?
He hadn’t intended to see her last night after she’d sent that irritatingly dismissive email about babysitting, but…well, he’d wanted to see her, dammit!
And he’d also known that if he didn’t see her he’d be looking down the barrel of another sleepless night. Because his frazzled brain kept circling round and around everything that had happened on Thursday night, urging him to prove to himself that the way he’d been feeling was a one-off, all caught up in the unforeseen angst of the occasion—Hugo; that shared moment when they’d both just got it; his winning—winning! That was why he’d smiled at her—okay, he smiled a lot…he even smiled at her a lot…but not like that. And that explained the sex too—so straighty one-eighty that it should not have seared him like a barbecued steak, and yet it had been on fire, plated up, skip the garnish, delicious.
So, yeah, last night, he’d intended to prove the one-offness of it all to himself. To turn up off-schedule, joke about Valentine’s Day, dazzle her with a little light-hearted banter, with the girls there to run interference and put the kybosh on anything emotional. Then they’d have sex in a manner in keeping with their contract—he’d thought of something highly technical that would mean they’d have to concentrate on not breaking a bone, so no time for losing themselves in the moment—and voilà: back to normal. Head back in the right place, heart untouched.
No watching her sleep or tracing his finger over her eyebrow, no sniffing her damned perfume when he was alone in her bathroom. None of that creepy stuff.
But instead his dumbass brain had started shooting off on tangents until he’d started thinking about kids. Redheaded, grey-eyed kids. How it would be to bring up kids the Cleary way, with people flinging gooey clumps of love at you—not the Knight way, where you had to prove yourself every damned day just to get a frosty nod. And then had come the blinding knowledge that he’d have to be married to the mother of his kids, so maybe the Cleary way would never work for him.
And then it had hit him that he was really, actually, contemplating fatherhood. Fatherhood! Him!
In too deep—caring too much—needing more—run.
He should have been happy to be barred today, so he could get his brain out of his gonads and back where it was supposed to be. But after one more sleepless night, thinking about that look on her face as he’d left, here he was.
Because… Well, what had that remote smile of hers meant? That she was finished with him? Well, no. Not happening until he was ready. So he was going to charm her into not finishing with him—while simultaneously stepping away from the too-deep chasm that was yawning at his feet.
Simple, right?
Yeah, simple. Sure.
Oh, for the love of God, man up!
He let his finger land on the buzzer. Waited, drumming his fingers on the wall.
By God, she’d better be at home after spinning him that line about work. She’d better not be out somewhere, with someone, doing something. Or he would—Would—Well, he’d…explode! Or…or something.
‘Hello?’ Her voice, husky and gorgeous—and for a moment his breath caught.
Get a grip. Get a damned grip!
‘It’s me,’ he said, and winced—because that aggressive tone of voice was not charming.
Long pause. Followed by an arctic, ‘Yes?’
‘Can I come up?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to see you.’
‘You saw me last night. That will have to tide you over until I can spare the time.’
Pause. Pages being riffled. What the hell—? Was she checking her schedule?
‘Probably Tuesday.’
Yes, she’d been checking her schedule! Scott felt his temper start to simmer.
‘No,’ he said, and there was absolutely nothing charming about that snapped-out word.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Past arctic and heading towards ice age.
‘Let me come up and explain.’
‘The contract doesn’t require explanation.’
The freaking contract. They didn’t need a contract to have sex. He hadn’t asked for a damned contract, had he? She’d forced it on him.
‘All right, I won’t explain,’ he said through clenched teeth. He made a mammoth effort to rein in his slipping temper. Charm. Charm, charm, charm. ‘So…since I’m obviously not coming up, why don’t you come down and keep me company while I have a cup of coffee at the cafe across at the marina? Ten minutes and you can get back to work.’
Long, long moment. He heard the breath she sucked in. Waited for the breath out—waited, waited…
And then the breath whooshed out and she said, albeit grudgingly, ‘All right.’
Not exactly effusive, but Scott closed his eyes in relief.
Five minutes later she was there, wearing a maxi-dress in sky-blue and a pair of flat silver sandals, her hair swinging in a ponytail. Delectable Sunday-morning fare.
His temper disappeared as if by magic just at the sight of her. He wanted to kiss her so badly he automatically leaned in—but Kate flinched backwards.
‘No kissing, remember?’ she said.
‘Sorry, Kate,’ he said, trying to look chastened but not quite managing it. He was just so happy to see her. God, what was happening to him?
They walked in silence to the cafe. Ordered coffee at the counter. A long black for him; a macchiato for Kate. Took their cups to one of the tables closest to the jetty.
‘About last night…’ Scott said, diving in.
Kate stirred sugar into her coffee. ‘I thought you weren’t going to explain.’
He ignored that. ‘It just got a little…a little…heavy. Talking about children—’
‘A subject you raised.’
‘And about… Well, about all that stuff.’ Shaky little laugh. ‘Love.’ Grimace. ‘And…and stuff. I didn’t sign up for deep and meaningful. Neither of us did. So I’m not sure how all that came spewing out.’
‘It happens,’ Kate said. ‘It’s normal.’
‘No, it’s not. Not for me. It’s not what we—’
‘Signed up for,’ she cut in dryly. ‘Got it. No need to labour the point. And no need to explain, remember?’
‘Anyway, I thought we needed a breather—that’s all,’ he mumbled, and hurriedly picked up his coffee, took a sip, burned his tongue and refused to show it. Because people in control didn’t burn their tongues on coffee. And he was. In control. Definitely.
‘And yet here you are, the very next morning. That’s a breather, is it?’
‘I just—I wanted to—’
‘Explain. Yep. Got it.’
Kate looked at him—the epitome of inscrutability. She drew in a breath. Seemed on the verge of speaking. But then something behind him caught her attention and her eyes widened.
‘Isn’t that…? Yes, surely…’
But it was a murmur directed at herself, not him.
She refocused on Scott. ‘That’s Brodie, isn’t it? He really is as gorgeous as his photo.’
CHAPTER TEN
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.
