There's Something About a Rebel.... Anne Oliver
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gazed up at the bright source of illumination. A myriad of tiny crystal spheres exploded from a central orb, splattering rainbows across the room.
Open-plan living gave it an airy atmosphere. The honeyed wood-panelled ceiling slanted high over two storeys, with a staircase against a feature wall in the same treacle tones leading to the upper rooms. White-tiled flooring merged with the white walls giving the impression of space. A black leather lounge with cushions in lime and tangerine tones was positioned against the exterior slate wall. The minimal furniture was teak and glass.
Stunning. But impersonal and maybe a little dated. It had been rented out for years to wealthy international jet-setters and lacked that lived-in ambience. A tingle of excitement lifted her. Maybe she’d ask if he wanted to redecorate.
They offloaded the stuff in one corner.
‘I’ll go back for the rest in a moment,’ he said, already walking towards the stairs.
As he led her to the mezzanine floor she admired a wall of rich wooden patchwork. She did not admire the shape of his taut backside encased in those hip-hugging black jeans—she imagined a painting or feature of some sort in soothing blues on the wall instead.
She thought of all the times she’d looked at the house and never known Blake owned it. In fact, she hadn’t thought about Blake in a while. But now … now it was as if those intervening years had never happened. Her feelings were as bright and strong as they’d been back then. And just as futile. But they zinged through her body and settled low in her abdomen at the prospect of dreaming about him again. They’d always been such. interesting dreams.
He indicated an expansive room with thick cream carpet and a mountain of quilt in striped olive green and black. The glossy black furniture was devoid of the usual knick-knacks. The window looked out onto the house next door and a view of the river. But not the houseboat.
Perhaps he’d chosen it intentionally, she thought as she walked past him and set her bag and clothing on a silk-covered boutique chair next to a chest of drawers. No way to spy on him. No way to drool over him and think lustful thoughts while she watched him work. Bare-chested, his skin gleaming, those rippling muscles—
‘Shower’s through there.’ He spoke behind her. ‘I haven’t looked yet but I’m informed the pantry’s been filled today so help yourself to breakfast in the morning.’
Breakfast. A sudden tension gripped her. She hoped Blake didn’t decide to look in her pantry or her fridge because she hadn’t stocked up for a week. She’d been skimping on meals, counting her last dollars. Breakfast was a luxury she’d managed without. And she loved breakfast.
Blake looked like a man with a large appetite. A breakfast-with-the-lot kind of appetite. In fact the way he was watching her, eyes kind of slumberous, lips slightly parted, he looked hungry right now.
Hungry enough to take a bite out of her … No. Bad thought. Her stomach turned an instant somersault and she licked suddenly dry lips before she realised she’d drawn his attention to them.
‘I don’t normally eat breakfast,’ she lied. ‘My cupboards are a bit Mother Hubbard at the moment.’ So don’t bother looking. ‘Why don’t you join me here in the morning?’ Why don’t you stop staring and say something?
‘I was planning to walk into town and grab something there.’
Okay, so he didn’t want to be anywhere near her. Humiliation vied with embarrassment and she was that attention-seeking thirteen-year old again. ‘Suit yourself.’ She huffed silently. Now she even sounded like a thirteen-year-old, all wounded pride and disgruntlement. She’d always acted differently around him. Why hadn’t that changed?
To her chagrin, after all these years she was still allowing him to affect her. Helpless to stop all those teenage emotions exploding into her mind like big red paint splotches on a blank wall. As if time had wound backwards. As if he’d never left.
Disgusted with herself, she was already turning away when he touched her shoulder. A feather-light touch, barely there. So gentle. So sensual. She imagined suddenly, and with devastating clarity, how it might feel if her shoulder were bare and it were his lips rather than his hand. Heat blossomed where his palm rested and she jerked to a startled stop.
‘But since we’ve a few matters to discuss …’ he began in a neutral tone that belied the fact that his fingers sculpted over her shoulder were pressing ever so slightly into her flesh or that his thumb was creating tiny circles of friction on the back of her neck ‘.breakfast might be a good place to start.’
And for a few unguarded seconds she found herself relaxing into the sensations he was creating. The fresh scent of the soap he’d used to wash his hands. The shimmer of heat down her back from his body—No. She pulled away. ‘All right.’ Spoken coolly as she swung to face him. His hand slipped off her shoulder and she almost sighed at the loss. ‘How do you like your eggs?’
‘You’re going to cook?’
He looked so surprised, she had to grin. ‘I do know how these days.’ And she had every intention of being up and dressed and prepared before he arrived.
He nodded without a glimmer of humour. ‘Shall we say oh six hundred?’
‘Make it seven.’ She needed time to acquaint herself with the kitchen.
‘Seven, then. I’ll rescue the rest of your gear then take a look at the boat. Do you have anything I can use for repairs?’
‘Try on the deck by the door. Under the tarp.’
He nodded. ‘Goodnight, then.’
‘Goodnight. And be careful.’
‘I’m always careful.’
She watched him turn and walk away. Was he? What about Janine Baker? a little voice whispered. Janine had left town too and Lissa had never heard, nor asked, what had happened to her or her baby.
She was still watching when he turned back. ‘And the eggs.? I like them hard.’
‘That makes it easy, so do I.’
She had the distinct feeling neither of them were talking about eggs.
As soon as she heard the front door close she headed for a better view of the river. And Blake. She found it in the master bedroom. With the living-room lighting spilling onto the rain-swept patio, she watched him stride swiftly down the path. Past the pool. Along the jetty. A tall, impressive masculine figure, an image no less powerful than when he’d been standing outside her door as a possible intruder. And no less unsettling.
When he’d disappeared onto the deck, she turned and gazed at the room. The light from the hallway slanted onto the rumpled king-sized bed, the upper sheet twisted and hanging off one side. The imprint of his head on the pillow had her stomach fluttering with the kind of nervous excitement he’d always instilled in her whenever she’d thought of him.
She crushed a hand against her middle and ordered herself to settle down. He’d been sleeping in here. Or trying to. What had made him up and leave such comfort and seek out the houseboat in the middle of the night? Bad dreams? Or physical pain—she’d seen it behind his eyes, hard and brittle as if he’d been fighting it a while.
Or was he missing a special woman that he’d left behind in some foreign country?
She looked about for some hint. His open bag lay on the floor against a wall, clothes neatly stacked inside. A pile of sail-boat brochures were stacked on the dresser along with his passport and some loose change. She was so tempted to look at his passport and see where he’d been, but she couldn’t bring herself to invade his privacy.
Instead, hardly aware of what she was doing, she moved to the bed and picked up his pillow, closed her eyes and breathed in. It smelled of sunshine with a subtle whiff of masculine scent that she’d come into close proximity with earlier. It had been a long time, but she remembered that