The Rebel And Miss Jones. Annie Claydon
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You already said that. And you’re not. You’ll have to fend for yourself while I’m at work, but treat this place as your own.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s half past ten now … an hour’s drive to the hospital … We can catch our breath, have something to eat and be with Simon by lunchtime. What do you say?’
‘That sounds wonderful. Thank you.’ If she was going to stay here, she may as well do it gracefully. Her mother had told her that. Whatever you do, do it gracefully. Sara had been berated too many times for almost never following that advice.
‘Good. Shall I call Simon, let him know that we’re here, or would you like to?’ He nodded at the phone extension next to the bed.
‘I’d like to if that’s okay.’
‘Of course.’ In one fluid movement he caught her hand, and Sara felt her cheeks redden. He produced a pen, pulling the cap off with his teeth in a gesture that was oddly almost piratical, and wrote on her palm. ‘Here’s the number. It’s the main switchboard, but if you ask for Simon, they’ll put you through to his room. Tell him that you and Trader are staying here.’
‘Yes. I will. Thank you, Reece.’ There was something else that she needed. The thought that Gran might have somehow heard about the fires was thudding at the back of her skull, like a headache about to happen. ‘Would it be okay if I used your phone to call England?’
‘Of course. Call whoever you want, you don’t need to ask.’
‘Thanks. I’ll just be quick …’
He dismissed the notion with a weary gesture. ‘Take as long as you like.’ Turning swiftly, he strode out of the room and closed the door behind him. Sara heard the sounds of his footsteps along the hallway and another door opened. A thud as his heavy boots were dragged off and hit the floor. Then silence.
CHAPTER THREE
SARA had made her calls and taken a shower. She sat on the bed, wrapped in a towel, and forced herself to take a couple of deep breaths. Gran was okay, Simon was okay. It was going to be all right.
Kath had left T-shirts, sweatpants and a skirt with a drawstring at the top, which would pretty much fit any size, along with a pair of open sandals. There was also a cotton nightdress and a note, saying that she should call her and let her know if there was anything else she needed. Sara smiled. The resemblance in tone to Reece’s, kind but brooking no argument, was striking.
She dressed in her own jeans and one of Kath’s T-shirts, and padded barefoot along the hallway and into the open-plan living area. Reece’s car was still parked out front, but the house was silent and there was no sign of him outside on the veranda either. She took a deep breath. She knew exactly where he was, and it was the last place that she wanted to have to go and find him.
The door was slightly ajar, and she tapped on it nervously. Not a sound. Frowning, Sara cautiously craned her neck around the door to see inside.
He was lying on the bed, fast asleep. His boots, jeans and heavy shirt had been slung in the corner in the approximate direction of the laundry basket. It was as if he’d stripped down to his boxer shorts and then lain down, thinking just to close his eyes for a few moments, until it was time to move again.
His skin was smooth, golden. One arm thrown out to the side and the other rested across his chest. Sara caught her breath and for the first time allowed herself to stare at Reece. He looked so peaceful. The temptation to join him there on the bed, feel the steady, reassuring swell of his chest against her cheek, was almost irresistible.
Stop this! Peaceful he might be, but that wasn’t what was freezing her to the spot. He was so beautiful. The snapshots that she’d already dared to glimpse—his chin, his brow—were nothing in comparison to being able to look for as long as she liked at the whole thing.
Just a moment more. One minute, to fantasise that she wasn’t who she was, and he didn’t live ten thousand miles away from where she had to be in another couple of weeks. It didn’t work, and a minute wasn’t enough. Sara drew back, and headed for the kitchen.
She’d made coffee for herself and sat in one of the wicker chairs on the patio with a book from the stack on the breakfast bar. She’d reckoned that she ought to wake him, and then chickened out and read another couple of chapters. Finally she decided that food would probably do the trick.
The amount of chopping, clattering and general commotion that it took before she heard his footsteps in the hallway attested to how tired he’d been. As did the fact that he was still half-asleep and had clearly forgotten that having company generally meant you didn’t walk around the house half-naked. Sara concentrated on not slicing her finger along with the vegetables on the chopping board. She’d already seen what Reece had to offer, and there was no point in staring at what she couldn’t have.
‘Ready for something to eat?’ She flung the words over her shoulder and then gave in to the inevitable and looked in his approximate direction.
‘Uh? How long have I been asleep?’ He ran his fingers backwards through his hair in a lame effort to tame it a little.
‘It’s two o’clock.’
‘What?’ He straightened, suddenly seeming to come to. ‘We should be at the hospital by now. Sara, I’m sorry. Why didn’t you wake me?’
‘Because you were asleep. How do you like your steak?’
He stared at her as if she had just landed in his kitchen from outer space. ‘What?’
‘Kath left some steak in the fridge. I hope you weren’t planning on saving it for anything else?’
‘No … no, of course not. What about Simon?’
‘I called him and told him we’d be with him later on this afternoon.’
He grinned. It was the kind of easy, open grin that melted your heart, set it sizzling like butter in a pan. ‘How is he?’
‘He says he’s fine. I’d like to see for myself, though.’
‘Yes, we’ll go as soon as we’ve eaten.’ He tried to see what she had on the cooker. ‘What’s that you’ve got there? Smells great.’
Sara stepped in front of it. ‘Wait and see. Are you hungry?’ She was getting a crick in her neck. Fixing her gaze on his face, not allowing it to wander down to his chest, to the tiny line of sun-bleached hairs that disappeared into the waistband of his shorts, was making her jaw throb.
He grinned. ‘I could eat a horse.’
‘Bad luck, then. That’s not on the menu. You’ve got ten minutes to have a shower if you want to.’ Sara hoped that was enough of a hint to get out of her hair and stop distracting her. Maybe put some clothes on.
‘Oh. Yeah, thanks.’ One hand wandered to his chest and stayed there, as if he had only just realised that he had no shirt on. He turned quickly, and Sara allowed herself just enough of a glance in his direction to confirm that the view from the back was as good as that from the front. ‘Pink.’
‘What?’
‘The steak. Pink but not too bloody, thanks.’ He threw the words over his shoulder and disappeared.
He was back in five minutes, thankfully wearing a clean pair of cargo pants and a shirt, his short hair already half-dry. Banished once more from his own kitchen, he busied himself with laying the table in a shaded part of the veranda.
Sara laid his plate down in front of him and he grinned appreciatively.
‘Looks good! If I’d been awake, I would have thrown myself in between you and the cooker.’
‘In case my cooking’s like Simon’s?’
‘Yeah.’ He waited for her to sit down, and cut into his steak. ‘This is just perfect.’
Steak with a