Aussie Rules (12 page)

B
o watched Mel busy herself in the plane again, and decided she had the sweetest ass he'd ever seen in a set of grungy brown coveralls.

But as he stood there watching her work on the Hawker, he was filled with so much frustration he didn't know what to do with himself.

She didn't believe him.

No one
believed him that Sally had stolen from his father, that his father had been a good, kind man who couldn't have conned a fly—much less a woman.

Putting his fist through a wall sounded good. So did dragging Mel down to the floor and stripping off those coveralls to find the soft, warm woman he knew hid in there somewhere. Oh, yeah, getting her to whimper and pant his name in hungry desperate need would go a long way toward dissolving his temper, that was for damn sure.

But chances were she wouldn't go easy. She'd probably fight and claw and bite, and though that might be fun another time, he wasn't in the mood for that kind of thing at the moment. At the moment, he wanted a soft, warm, willing woman, one who'd wrap him in her arms and offer to kiss his hurt away.

As if she'd ever do that. Because it turned out she was holding a grudge against him for his father's sins.

Sins his father hadn't even committed.

Damn, he was tired. Tired of the battle. He'd come here with some half-baked idea of getting his justice, of selling out from beneath Sally's feet. But now he was thinking of something else entirely.

This woman, the most troublesome, annoying, frustrating woman he'd ever met. “Mel.”

She didn't bother to answer. She still had her head buried in the Hawker. She was filthy, smelled like fuel and oil, and God, he must have hit his head at some point this morning because she
still
revved his engine.

“Shit on a stick,” she muttered.

He stuck his head in next to hers, surveyed both the situation and the spot of grease on Mel's nose—wisely not mentioning the latter—and said, “I can get the bolt off.”

She turned her head and leveled those icy eyes on him. “Yeah, but it'll cost me.”

He wished he understood the female mind better because he had no idea what she was thinking other than wishing he was far, far away, preferably dead.

“Ratchet, please.” She jerked her head toward the toolbox.

Willing to play along, he backed out of the engine and peered into the toolbox. “Not here.”

“Try the parts closet, there's a box of tools there on the floor.”

He turned toward the closet, opened the door.

“Sorry, there are no blondes in there,” Mel called out.

“What?”

“You don't remember the second time I ever saw you?” she asked. “Right there in that closet, banging some blonde?”

He looked at the shelves. He didn't often think about the past. It was filled with memories best forgotten. His mother's cold voice and colder heart. Eddie's plane habit, which caused frequent moves from one small airport to another…

Then, Sally, the woman Eddie had lost his head and then his heart to, despite the fact that
she
didn't possess one.

A heart, that is. Brains, Sally had in spades, and it hadn't taken her long to sink her hungry claws into the love-struck Eddie, or his bank account.

Buh-bye savings account.

Buh-bye hopes and dreams.

And then, finally, buh-bye Eddie.

Bo's jaw tightened as he looked inside the closet. Hell, yeah, he remembered being here, missing home, worrying about his dad, burying all that stress into the one thing a male teenager couldn't stop thinking about.

Sex.

It hadn't been too difficult, not when American girls had flocked to him, drawn by his accent and, as he'd discovered, his earthy nature and athletic body. Yeah, he'd gotten quite the education here in the States. “I had a good time in this very closet
several
times, if I remember correctly.”

Mel had pulled her head out of the engine and was watching him with her own memories all over her face. “I only found you in there the once.”

“You stood right there,” he said. “Mouth hanging open, soaking up the sights.”

She bristled. “I couldn't help but see the sights! You didn't bother to try to hide a thing!”

Ah, he was getting an interesting vibe here. “Admit it. You wanted the same thing the blonde was getting.”

“Did not,” she said hotly. Too hotly.

“Liar.”

Oh, yeah,
there
was that steam coming out her ears again. Damn, she was something all riled up, but a part of him wanted to see the other Mel; the soft, sweet Mel she showed everyone else. But never him. “I can't believe you're going to be so stubborn about me helping you fix that plane.”

“I don't trust you.”

Odd how, given everything he'd been through, it was that that hurt him. “It's a fucking bolt, Mel.”

“Fine.” She tossed down her wrench. “What do you want in return?”

He'd have settled for one of her smiles instead of the frown he seemed to generate at every turn, but that seemed too revealing a request, and besides which, made him feel stupid. “It won't be painful, if that's what you're thinking.”

“Tell me.”

“A kiss,” he said, and shocked the hell out of the both of them.

She looked at him for a long beat, then went back to studying the engine.

And that got him. Had he ever done anything to her? No. Had he ever, in any way, hurt her? Bothered her? Got in her way?
No
. He'd been pretty balls-out patient if you asked him. Now he could help her, and she didn't even want to accept that help.

Or another kiss.

Since he knew damn well she'd nearly gotten off on their last kiss alone, it wasn't a lack of wanting on her part. Which meant it must be fear. Fear of its going too far, of her letting it.
Wanting
it.

Which in turn meant she must like him a helluva lot more than she'd let on, because he'd bet she didn't lose control often.

If ever.

“I can do this myself,” she said stubbornly, and bashed yet a third knuckle against the casing. “Shit.” She sucked on the offended finger, straightened, and bumped her head. “Shit
shit!”
She had a knuckle in her mouth, her other hand on the top of her head as she backed off the ladder, tripped on a wrench on the floor, and staggered backward.

Before he could nab her, she'd fallen butt first into the large tub behind her filled with cleaning fluid and various parts—industrial-strength cleaner that he knew if he dropped a penny inside, it'd clean it down to shiny copper in two seconds. It would skin her alive. “Jesus, Mel.” He reached for her, knowing she had to strip in a hurry. Yanking her out of the tub, he reached for the zipper of her drenched coveralls, one mission in mind: save her skin.

“Hey.” She slapped his hands away.

“Mel, that stuff is going to eat your flesh—”

“No kidding!” She was hopping up and down as she kicked off her athletic shoes. “Ouch, ouch…” More hopping as she shrugged the coveralls off her shoulders, revealing a white satin bra.

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, but the pained sound she made galvanized him. Tugging the coveralls off her hips, revealing white satin panties, which matched her bra.

Don't look. Don't look
. But her skin was already going pink.

“The hose,” she gasped, pointing to the hose coiled against the wall, used for washing down the concrete floors. He ran while she shoved the coveralls past her knees and kicked them off.

Yanking the hose from its holder, he cranked it on, trying not to notice how the scraps of silk covered her. Or
didn't
cover her.

“Hurry!”

Adjusting the spray, he nailed her with the water, telling himself he was a pervert for noticing her underwear.

Mel let out a short gasp at the shock of the icy shower, but not another sound as he ran the water from her shoulders to torso to belly to legs and back up again while she slid her hands over herself, hurrying the process along, skimming her arms over her slightly rounded belly—his favorite spot on a woman—her breasts, making his own breath back up in his throat.

Don't think about it
.

Yeah, right. Her bra and panties were good and sheer now, her nipples pressing hard against the thin material on top, and on the bottom…She was waxed or shaved or something, so the wet satin clung to every fold, every dip, every gorgeous inch, and melted brain cells at an alarming rate.

God
. It was like every wet T-shirt contest he'd ever witnessed, only better. More like every hot fantasy he'd ever had. Only better.

Waaaaaay
better.

Then she turned, presenting him with her back, her ass, and the hose jerked. So did a singular part of his anatomy. He stood there, running the water over her, watching it race in little rivulets down her body, and he wanted to lap it all up with his tongue. He felt like a voyeur, he felt like a jerk, and he'd never been hotter in his life.

Finally she stepped free of the water, crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him as if this was all his fault. Tossing the hose aside, he stepped toward her as he unbuttoned his own shirt.

“What are you doing?” Taking a step back, she came up against the hull of the plane.

He shrugged out of the shirt.

Gaping at him, she unfolded her arms and put her hand in the middle of his chest to hold him back. “You just stay dressed, Bo Black—”

Cutting her off in midsentence, he lifted her arm and shoved it into the arm of his shirt.

“Oh,” she said, and Bo watched humility war with pride as she put her other arm in and hugged the shirt to her. It came to midthigh on her, and she stood there, arms wrapped around herself, staring at his now bare chest. She bit her lower lip, and said nothing.

Was the woman actually tongue-tied? Tongue-tied while looking at his body? Again her gaze flicked over him, lingered.

She was
. And he was just male enough to find that incredibly fascinating. “The word is thanks.”

She sighed. “Thanks.”

She said this so begrudgingly, he had to laugh. “Yeah, don't hurt yourself.” Turning to the plane he grabbed the fallen wrench and worked on the bolt himself. It took him a moment, but he did get it, and dropped the thing into her hand.

She stared down at the rusty bolt. “You win.”

Due to all his blood still pooled behind the buttons on his Levi's, he was only working on two cylinders and didn't follow. “Huh?”

“You win.”

“Just to be clear,” he said warily. “I win what?”

He didn't know what he expected, but it sure as hell wasn't that she'd stalk toward him, grip his arms, and slam her mouth over his.

M
el's kiss left Bo staggered by a barrage of sensations. First, her mouth. God, that mouth. It was the mouth of wet dreams across the land. Warm, eager…She tasted like everything missing from his life, things he hadn't even known existed.

So shocked by that, he let out a dark sound, a bit staggering in its neediness, and braced himself as he hauled her up, kissing her hungrily, frantically, unable to stop himself. Her breasts, covered in that wet sheer bra and by his own shirt, smashed into his bare chest. Her thighs entangled with his. Her heart drummed a staccato beat against him, so fast and heavy it was amazing that people didn't come running to see what the racket was. Or maybe that was
his
heart. Hell, he didn't know, and it didn't matter. Then she pulled back, leaving him gasping for air, painfully aroused.

Her cinnamon eyes dropped to his mouth before lifting once again to meet his. In them was a confusion, a heat, and a temper he wanted to snarl right back at. Or soothe…

“What the hell
was
that?” she asked, her voice low and husky. “I mean
what the hell?”

“You're asking me?” Risking life and limb, he fisted one hand at her back, gripping the material of
his
shirt low on her spine. He sank his other hand into her wet hair, tugging her head back, looking into her eyes…

“All I know,” she said shakily, “is that you need to keep your shirt on always.”

“Why?”

“Like you don't know how ripped you are.”

“Again,” he decided.

“Um…what?”

“This. Again.” And he kissed
her
this time.

Harder.

Wetter.

Deeper.

He did it to keep her quiet, because damn, he liked her quiet. He liked her just like this actually, mouth fixed to his, little whimpery pants escaping her as if she couldn't get enough. Then she sucked his tongue into her mouth and he couldn't think at all because his heart was going to leap right out of his chest.

Her hands ran up his sides, over his ribs, her fingers sinking into his pecs painfully enough to make him suck in a breath. She tasted hot and sweet and felt even better, and she was wet all over, with a hot little bod he definitely needed more of. He was quite certain there would be a price to pay for this glimpse of pure, unadulterated pleasure, there was always a price, but not caring at the moment, he backed her up to the Hawker, pressed her up against the cool steel and took his mouth on a cruise over her throat. Nudging the shirt off her shoulder wasn't a problem, and the wet, sheer bra wasn't, either. He simply tugged it down, groaning when a breast popped out, her nipple pebbled and thrust upward, as if begging for his attention. “Mmm,” rumbled from his chest, and he took it in his mouth.

“Ohmigod.” Mel's fingers sank into his hair, fisting it, doing her best to make him bald before he hit middle age.

He didn't care. He sucked hard, then flicked her nipple with his tongue. She gasped, and her head fell back, thunking against the plane, dislodging a few tools she'd set around the opened engine compartment. As they rained to the ground around them, clanging and clattering, Mel jerked, then stared up at him, eyes huge, mouth open as if she needed it that way just to breathe.

God, she looked like heaven standing there, his shirt off her shoulders, caught on her elbows, opened to reveal her breasts, one nipple wet from his mouth. “Mel—”

“This isn't happening,” she said. “Is. Not. Happening.” Her eyes were dilated, her mouth a little swollen. And he'd left a slight whisker burn on the underside of her jaw that he wanted to press his lips to.

In fact, he did, he leaned in and kissed her there, or tried to, but she slapped a hand to his chest and held him off. “Guess you got another airport quickie,” she said. “Only in the hangar this time, not the closet. Oh, and not with a blonde.”

Wow. Her opinion of him was even lower than he'd thought, and he had to remind himself that he didn't care. “A quickie implies that I got off.”

She stared at him. “I'm a damn idiot,” she muttered and brushed past him. Hauling open the closet with more force than necessary, she pulled out another set of coveralls, shoving her legs through one at a time while he eyed the peek-aboo hints he got of her panties and belly as his shirt rose high on her thighs.

“You have three more rusty bolts,” he said. “I could—”

“I can take it from here.”

Of course she could. “Because God forbid you actually lean on someone, right?”

“I lean plenty.”

“Prove it. I know there's something going on here, Mel. So prove it—lean on me. Let me help.”

She hesitated, as if she just might decide to actually trust him, but in the end she slowly shook her head and walked away, leaving him hot, wet, still turned on…and disappointed. Extremely disappointed.

 

Wayne took Dimi out to the fanciest restaurant in town, and then they drank and danced for hours before going to a five-star hotel and roughing up the sheets.

So one would think she'd wake up with a smile on her face, but instead she drove into North Beach feeling hung-over and…empty.

Intent on getting over herself, she entered the lobby head down, searching through her purse for her favorite lip gloss as she went, then plowed right into Danny. “Oomph,” she said, teetering on her heels.

He put his hands on her hips until she gained her balance, then pulled back immediately, leaving her with the oddest sense of loss.

“Someone on your tail again?” he asked.

She looked into his face, void of its usually friendly smile. He smelled like the coconut wax he'd probably used on his surfboard that morning, and the scent was so familiar she felt a little rush of comfort, despite his distant expression. “No. Thanks.”

“I was going to ask how you are, but let me guess. You're fantastic, right?”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

He gazed at her for a long moment, as if maybe he wanted to say something, but in the end, he simply nodded and let her pass.

She shrugged off the encounter with a big mug of tea and sat at her desk. Because the afternoon before she'd left off in a great part of her book, she dove right back in, and it was thirty minutes before the phone bothered her. After transferring the call to Mel, she sipped her tea and realized someone had left a small box in her top drawer, wrapped in pretty pink paper.

Lifting her head, she looked around. No one. She opened the box and pulled out a small but beautiful candle, decorated with seashells and scented like a glorious summer day. It put a smile on her face as she searched for a card, a signature…nothing.

She looked around again, expecting to see someone watching her—Mel, Char, one of the early-bird customers—but no one was paying her any attention at all.

Hmmm…She lit the candle and went to work. But after a few moments, the smile was gone and worry weeded its way through her as she called Mel's office.

“Hey,” Mel answered, sounding a little breathless.

Dimi frowned. “What are you doing in there?”

“Eating bonbons and watching
Oprah.
How about you?”

“Funny. I'm going through the billing.”

“Yeah? About time—”

“Yeah, yeah. Look, it's a good news–bad news sort of thing. Good news: you've got a message from a few of your receivables, money is coming in the mail for Anderson Air. Bad news: somebody else has been here.”

“Customers are good.”

“Stick with me, Mel. Somebody has been in my billings for North Beach.”

Suddenly she had Mel's full attention. “Doing what?”

“Not sure,” Dimi admitted. “But the date these files were last accessed was yesterday morning, and…”—she hated to admit this—“I haven't worked on them since the day before yesterday.”

“It was Bo. He told me you'd left your accounting up on the screen when he sat at your desk to help with the phones.”

“To help with the planes, not help himself to my files!
Bastard
.”

“Yeah. But Dimi, Jesus. You must have left your computer on all night. You can't leave that stuff up and available to anyone with two eyes.”

“Two eyes, and our deed.” Dimi rubbed the tense spot between her eyes. “I'm so sorry. I'm just…stressed.”

“I know.”

“What if he stays?” Dimi asked softly. “What if he fires us? God, Mel, what else could I even do for a job? I'm uniquely suited for nothing!”

“Look, let's not borrow trouble, okay? We don't even know if the deed's legit.”

“Right. It isn't. It can't be.”

“Exactly.”

Dimi drew a deep breath. “Okay, I'll try to maintain. Oh, and thanks for the beautiful candle.”

Mel paused. “Uh…not me.”

Dimi looked at the flickering wick, inhaled the incredibly soothing scent. “No?”

“No.”

Dimi shook her head as the phone began to ring. “Gotta go.” She switched lines. “North Beach.”

“Dimi.”

Hmmm, deep, mysterious male voice. So far so good. “Yes,” she said. “Can I help you?”

“It's Todd.”

Todd. She didn't know a—

“From the other night.”

Dimi went still.

“I came in on my brother's jet with some other guys, and we—”

“I remember.” Previously Gorgeous Guy.

“Did you like the candle?”

Leaning forward, she blew out the candle, watched the thin line of smoke rise into the air. “I'm hanging up now. Don't call me again.”

“Wait—I just wanted to apologize, and—”

“Apology accepted. Good-bye.” She clicked off and tossed the candle in the trash. Then, on second thought, pulled it out and left it on the corner of her desk as a reminder that she made bad decisions, and in light of that…
no more men
. Not a single one.

 

Mel sat at her desk and stared at her phone. Today was the day she'd hear from her attorney, and knowing that had her body quivering with a high level of awareness.

Or maybe that was just from yet another long night of sensual dreams in which she'd let Bo strip off more than her coveralls, in a world where he could press her naked up against the Hawker and take her….

Jeez, the porno dreams had to stop! She'd managed to avoid Bo this morning by sheer luck, because he'd flown out early and had stayed out. A good thing because he was so damn potently, outrageously, dangerously sexy, she could hardly stand it.

He had customers waiting for him. Turned out he was a popular guy, and had a lot of connections.

Not only that, but he'd brought business into North Beach, a lot of it. Every day someone new stopped by—someone he'd recommended the place to, for fuel or maintenance…or to hire him to find them an antique aircraft. He was single-handedly saving North Beach. She didn't really want to think about that, so instead she went into the café for something bad for her.

Charlene was there, gushing all over one of her customers, a woman with a young baby, both of whom had come in on a flight and were waiting on maintenance. The baby was wailing away, little arms and legs bicycling like crazy, her face bright red from the efforts.

“Wow,” Mel said, realizing the kid was actually putting out more decibels than Van Halen on the radio, and that was saying something. “She's got a set of lungs.”

The mother, looking a little harassed, blew out a breath. “Got that from her daddy. She likes to listen to herself all night long.”

“Give her here.” Char cuddled her close. “Ah, look at you,” she cooed with a smile. “You're such a pretty thing.”

The full-out wail lessened slightly. “Yeah, that's it,” Char murmured, stroking her fingers over the baby's forehead. “That's it. You're nearly all done now, aren't you?”

And unbelievably, the crying stopped.

They all stared at the baby, who looked up at Char with huge, soaked eyes and trembly rosebud mouth.

“My God,” the mother breathed. “Whatever you're doing, don't stop.”

Char smiled down at the baby. “Oh, look at you, you're so precious.”

Al came out of the kitchen, saw the baby in his wife's arms, took in the look on her face, and sighed. “Ah, man.”

“Isn't she beautiful?” Char asked him.

“Beautiful, now give her back.”

Char chuckled. “Isn't he silly?” she asked the baby. “Go away, Al.”

“It's that look in your eyes,” he said uneasily. “Like you want another.”