The blithe belief that she was doing a good thing for someone in a tough spot carried her all the way to Seth’s front door. Then doubt kicked in, and her courage—or whatever it was—failed.
She had no idea why she was here. They weren’t buddies. In fact, he’d gone out of his way to prove just how not-buddies they were only a few days ago, doing his best to talk her sister and Jason out of appointing Vivian as co-guardian. He’d proven himself to be a jerk of the highest order, and the fact that tragedy had since come crashing into his life didn’t change that.
So why was she on his doorstep, the harsh afternoon sun burning her back through her jacket, a bottle of Johnnie Walker in her damp hand, her heart pounding a little faster at the prospect of seeing him?
Put the bottle on the porch, text him to let him know it’s there and go home.
Excellent idea. Much, much smarter.
She placed the bottle in the corner, where it couldn’t be seen from the street. She was turning away when an image flashed across her mind—Seth offering comfort to Zara on Saturday night, his face creased with worry. There had been so much kindness and goodwill in that small act. So much decency.
Seth might have royally ticked her off recently, but he had a good heart, and right now he was hurting. She didn’t have it in her to ignore that.
So...
Rolling her eyes at herself—had she been this indecisive and dithery even when she was a teen?—she collected the Scotch and knocked on the door.
Butterflies took flight in her belly as she heard the sound of someone approaching. She frowned. This was not a butterfly-worthy occasion. This was a mission of mercy. End of story. Then the door opened and Seth was standing there wearing a pair of jeans cut off at the knees, a sheen of sweat and nothing else.
“H-hey,” she stuttered, trying not to stare at the bare expanse of his chest. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop in, see how you were doing. And if you needed this.” She offered him the bottle of Scotch, the movement so jerky she could hear the violent slosh of liquid against glass.
He’d been scowling when he opened the door, but his expression cleared when he saw her. Or maybe it was the alcohol that did the trick.
“Don’t they normally send in a Saint Bernard with a little whiskey barrel on his collar?” he asked.
“You’re thinking of Alpine disasters. For the run-of-the-mill urban kind you get a bottle and a hot babe.”
His mouth turned up into a grudging smile. “You want to come in? I’m probably due for a break anyway.”
He stepped aside, and she walked into the house. She hadn’t noticed much of anything when she’d steamed in the other day, but this time she looked around. The floors were polished wood, the small hall opening into a spacious, high-ceilinged living room. The decor was Early Bachelor—leather couch, chunky coffee table, no cushions—but he had some funky black-and-white photographs on the wall and a huge, colorful canvas over the open fireplace.
Seth noticed her looking. “There’s a gallery near the bar, and the owner and I are mates. She recommended this guy to me. Told me it would be a good investment.”
“I like it. It’s got good energy.”
Before she’d narrowed her focus to fashion styling, she’d dressed her fair share of interiors and the professional in her wanted to soften his couch with some throw cushions, and maybe a couple of blankets. A rug wouldn’t go astray, either. And the curtains... She’d bet a month’s salary they’d come with the house and he hadn’t even thought to change the heavy dark green velvet for something more modern and light.
“You want something cold? Or maybe Scotch on the rocks?” he asked, indicating the bottle.
“Scotch sounds good, but I take mine neat.”
He raised his eyebrows. “That’ll put hair on your chest.”
“And yet somehow it remains resolutely hair-free.”
His gaze dropped to her breasts. “I remember.”
“’Course you do. Luckiest night of your life.”
The look he gave her was pure cocky male. “Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Nah. I’ve gotten luckier.”
He laughed as he turned away. “Sure you have.”
He led her into an airy kitchen that had clearly been recently updated.
“This is nice,” she said, scanning the shiny dark grey cabinets and the crisp white stone counters.
“The owners had this all geared to go when they were forced to sell, so I decided to go ahead with it anyway.” He sounded almost indifferent.
“I take it you’re a big foodie,” she said dryly.
“No one makes toast like me. As for what I can do with a can of soup...”
“Wow. Be still my heart. You’re a regular Renaissance man.”
“I’ll show you my etchings later.” He grabbed two tumblers and poured a couple of fingers of Scotch.
“Feel free to ruin yours with ice and something fizzy if you have to. I won’t tell anyone,” she said as she accepted the drink.
“I’ll cope.”
She took a mouthful, grateful that the warm burn of alcohol sliding down her throat gave her something else to concentrate on apart from his bare chest and the overexcited thud of her own heart.
“Jodie said that Lola’s parents arrive tomorrow.”
His expression sobered. “Yeah. It took them a day or so to get themselves sorted. Her father had a heart bypass six months ago and they had to get the all-clear from his doctor before they could fly. I’m picking them up from the airport in the afternoon.”
She grimaced. “This must be so horrible for them. Do they have any other kids?”
“A son. I get the feeling they’re not close, though.”
He scratched his chest absently and she couldn’t stop herself from following the movement. She’d never really had a chance to get a good eyeful of his chest before, but it was very nice, verging on exceptional. His pecs were clearly defined, his chest hair neither too wild nor too sparse. Just right, as Goldilocks would say. As for his flat belly...
A woman would feel awfully good pressed up against all that hardness.
There was a gleam in his eye when she dragged her gaze to his face and she knew he’d caught her looking.
“Any reason you’re stroking around looking like a reject from an all-male strip club?” she asked, offense being the best form of defense and all that.
“I’m setting up the nursery. Finished painting last night, so it’s down to assembling the furniture now.”
“Ah. That explains why you looked like an angry bear when you answered the door. I’m betting you’re one of those men who doesn’t bother reading the instructions before he wades in,” she mused.
“It’s a crib and a change table. How hard can it be?”
“How long have you been at it now?”
“I suppose you’re an expert on self-assemble furniture, as well as all-male strip clubs?”
“You want my help or not?” As the words came out of her mouth she wondered at herself. She should be cutting this encounter short, not prolonging it.
“I’ll take whatever is on offer, but in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have air conditioning. I wouldn’t want to ruin your look.”
She glanced down at the slim-cut black linen trousers and jade silk jersey tank she’d paired with a light grey short-sleeved bolero jacket. “I’ll survive.”
“Just remember, you asked for it.”
He walked ahead of her, and she allowed herself a single glance at his ass. She’d dressed men in Gucci, Armani, D&G, in silk, wool, linen and cashmere, but there was no getting away from the fact that a firm, round masculine butt outlined in soft denim was one of nature’s miracles, and Seth’s ass scored extra miracle points thanks to his slim hips and cocky, cowboy-moseying-to-the-rescue walk.
Maybe you need to stop by the convenience store on the way home, stock up on batteries.
Because this man is family, in case you had forgotten, and strictly verboten.
Maybe she did need to get some batteries for her buzzy boyfriend. And maybe she needed to start thinking about getting out there again. Now that the business was up and running, she could afford to invest a bit of attention in her private life again.
Seth waved her into a butter-yellow room with a large white-framed window that overlooked the yard. “Should I start the clock now?”
A half-assembled crib sat in the middle of the space, hand tools strewn around it, while a heavy-looking carton leaned against the wall. The change table, she presumed. The smell of fresh paint hung thickly in the warm air, despite the fact that the window was open.
“Have you got a fan?” she asked, shrugging out of her bolero jacket.
“In the bedroom.”
“That seems like good logistics,” she said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in her tone.
“I bet you’re a pain in the ass to work with,” he said as he headed up the hallway.
To fetch the fan, she assumed.
“People love working with me. I’m intuitive and awesome at anticipating problems,” she called after him.
“Is that what they tell you?”
She was toeing off her shoes when he returned with a floor fan.
“So. Where are the instructions?” she asked, taking a sip from her Scotch.
“I can already tell this is going to be so much fun.”
“I know. So can I.” Even though a part of her knew she shouldn’t be here, and that she definitely shouldn’t enjoy playing games with Seth as much as she did, she couldn’t stop herself from grinning.
His eyes lit with amusement and speculation. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to with all of this.”
She felt an absurd stab of self-consciousness. “Sorry?”
“Coming over here, helping me out in my time of need, making me feel even worse than I already do about being such a douche bag about Sam and Max.”
“You are so on to me. And by the way, if that was your big apology, you get an F for effort.” She could feel heat stealing into her face, the sensation so unfamiliar it took her a moment to work out what it was. She never blushed. Ever. And not only because it clashed horribly with her hair. Blushing was for virgins and debutantes, and it was a long time since she’d been either.
“Oh, I know I have some serious groveling to do.”
“Good.” Because she found it disturbing to look at him for too long, she made a big show of surveying the half-assembled crib. “So, where do you think you went wrong?”
CHAPTER SIX
T
WO
HOURS
LATER
, she was sweaty, frustrated and ready to unleash a missile on the sadistic torturer who had invented self-assemble furniture.
“These instructions are wrong. You know that, don’t you?” she told Seth. “They don’t even mention these little dowel thingies you’re supposed to use to stabilize the legs. And there is no way this would stay together without glue, which they also haven’t mentioned.”
They were both kneeling on the floor beside the pile of furniture parts that were supposed to slot together to form a change table. She looked up from the much-pored-over, highly inaccurate instruction booklet to find Seth wearing a big grin.
She narrowed her eyes at him. Her hair was stuck to her neck, her tank top to her chest, and she felt about as far from fresh and cool as was possible.
“I know me being wrong is worth its weight in gold, but we still have to finish putting this stupid thing together,” she reminded him.
“Come on, you have to admit it’s a little bit funny.”
His hair had curled into little commas where it was damp at his temples, and every time she breathed she inhaled the sporty scent of his deodorant.
“I’m finishing this. If it kills me,” she said, resolutely ignoring the pull of attraction for the millionth time that night. It was easier when she concentrated on the job at hand, she’d found. And when she didn’t stare at his body.
“I believe you, Red.”
“Pass me the screwdriver.”
“How about we take a break for dinner? The pizza place in the village delivers.”
She barely looked up. “No anchovies, heavy on the olives. And if you have a cold beer in the fridge I will seriously consider forgiving you some of your sins.”
“I have beer. Give me five.”
She grabbed the screwdriver while he was gone, undoing the two side pieces that were supposed to go together but simply didn’t match up with anything else. She experimented a little, reversing their order, then flipped them around. Miraculously, they slotted together as though they were made to do so.
“No way. The instructions are back to front,” she said under her breath.
The realization gave her a second wind, and by the time Seth had returned with her beer she had one side of the table completed.
“Bloody hell.” He stopped on the threshold, a stunned expression on his face.
“The diagrams are back to front. Someone doesn’t know how to use Photoshop,” she said triumphantly, pushing her hair off her forehead as she grinned at him.
“Get out of here.”
He handed her the beer and she closed her eyes in gratitude as her fingers curled around the icy bottle. “Oh, that feels so good.”
She tipped her head back and drank half the bottle in one hit, tapping a fist to her diaphragm afterward to release the gas her guzzling had generated in a short, sharp burp.
Seth blinked slowly. “You’re all class, Walker. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Many times. That doesn’t give you a free pass to fart in front of me, either, by the way.”
“Don’t worry. When I’m around you, everything is clenched.”
She tried not to reward him with a laugh but it snorted out her nose anyway. “Come on. If we motor, we can get this finished before the pizza gets here.”
True to her prediction, he was tightening the last nut when the doorbell rang.
“You mind getting that?” he asked. “My wallet’s on the kitchen counter.”
“Sure.” She pushed to her feet, wincing at how cramped her muscles felt. She’d been crawling around on the floor for hours without a break.
She found his wallet where he’d said it would be and pulled out a fifty as she made her way to the door. The pizza guy handed over two boxes and a long, foil-wrapped parcel that could only be garlic bread. Yum.
She took her bounty to the kitchen, sliding the change into Seth’s wallet. Her gaze was caught by the pronounced ring that time and wear had scuffed into the surface of the leather. Giving in to curiosity, she flipped his wallet open and checked the inside pocket. Sure enough, a condom nestled there.
Trust Seth to always be prepared. Like a really dirty, overgrown, oversexed Boy Scout. He’d had a condom that night in the limo, too, she remembered.
He entered the room, arms stretched over his head as he worked out the kinks. “Tell me they didn’t forget the garlic bread.”
She tore her gaze from his muscular belly. “They didn’t forget the garlic bread.” She gestured toward his wallet. “How did Lola get pregnant?”
He blinked. “Is that a trick question?”
“You’re a condom guy. I remember. So what went wrong?” She wasn’t sure why she was so curious. Maybe because she’d been a little surprised when Jodie told her he was about to become a father. Seth had always been a bit reckless and wild, but he’d never struck her as being careless.
He sighed and looked deeply chagrined. “I have no idea. There was one night when we’d both had a bit to drink and my memory’s a bit fuzzy. But I’m always careful. I had a scare with a girlfriend in high school, and ever since I’ve always used condoms, every time.” He shrugged, clearly unable to explain what had happened.
“It’s pretty much my worst nightmare,” she confessed. Especially in her current situation.
“An accidental pregnancy?”
She nodded. “I don’t want to be forced into a corner, so I’d rather avoid the situation in the first place. If I ever have kids, I want them to be planned.”
“We talked about termination, but Lola always planned on having kids and she figured she was getting a head start.” He frowned suddenly, and shook his head. “Damn.”
“What?”
“I just realized I’m talking about her in the past tense.” He looked stricken and tired and guilty in equal measures.
“Have the doctors said anything more?”
“They did a scan and some other tests this morning. There’s no brain activity to speak of.”
“What does that mean?”
“We’re going to have that conversation tomorrow, when her parents are here.”
They were both silent for a beat, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator. Vivian had never been close to this sort of tragedy before. It was so hard to work out what to do or say.
“Come on, we can eat by the pool. With a bit of luck a cool front will have come through,” Seth said.
“Unless its arrived in the five minutes since I opened the door to the pizza guy, I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
They headed outside anyway, Seth stopping to snag two more beers and some paper towel. As she’d predicted, the night air was close and warm, the outdoor furniture still holding the heat of the sun. Vivian was so hot and sticky, she figured a little more sweat wouldn’t make any difference, so she simply flopped into a seat, flipped the lid on the pizza box and reached for a slice.
“So, what brought you back home?” Seth asked as he twisted the caps off the beers and passed her one.
“Robin was heading home, and he asked me if I’d be interested in becoming business partners. We’d worked with each other a lot, knew we got along. It seemed like a great opportunity.”
“So it was a work thing?”
“No.” She picked an olive off her slice and bit down on it. “I’d been thinking about it for a while. Feeling homesick, I guess. I missed Jodie and the boys. And looking at pictures of birthday parties and Christmas instead of being here was getting old.”
“Vivian Walker, you big softy.” His smile was lazy, teasing.
“Guilty as charged.”
“So tell me about this business you’ve got going. You didn’t say much the other day.”
She gave him a look. “You don’t need to make small talk with me.”
“I’m interested. Humor me.”
She couldn’t tell if he was sincere or not, but she was a little worried by the warm glow that sprang to life in her belly at his interest.
Ah, the ever-present danger of a charismatic man.
“Robin takes the pictures and touches them up digitally, I style them. Which means I select which clothes go together, put them together in a story so that they have context and appeal.”
She was aware of two forces at war within herself as she talked—the need to show off and impress him versus the desire to play it cool.
Because she
was
cool. Normally. Around men. Even gorgeous male models who wore a lot less than Seth was right now. So why did he inspire this heart-beating-too-fast, everything-heightened feeling in her?
Seth polished off a slice and reached for another. “So you’re responsible for the props and the background, all of that?”
“Yep. I scout locations with Robin, and we work together on themes if the client doesn’t have a direction of their own. We don’t always work as a team, though. Sometimes clients want him and not me, and vice versa. If we land this contract with Fairbank and Rose, for example, I’ll be heading up a group of in-store stylists for customers looking for a personalized shopping experience, as well as styling their catalogue and web shoots.”
“Personalized shopping. Smart. Make them look good and feel like movie stars and prize open their purses.”
“I prefer to concentrate on the looking-good part. You’d be amazed how many years you can take off a woman by putting her in the right clothes. It drives me crazy when I see people wearing ugly things because they don’t want to look like mutton dressed as lamb or because someone once told them they had chunky legs.”
Seth assessed her. “You like it.”
“I love it.”
“I wondered if it was a make-do thing, since you didn’t make it as a fashion designer.”
She pulled a face, embarrassed at being reminded of her childish ambitions. “I sucked as a fashion designer,” she said. “Took me a while to work it out, but I finally got the message. I’ve got a great eye for color and structure and texture, and I am awesome at putting other people’s clothes and accessories together. But give me a blank page and a pencil and tell me to design something original and I will hand it back to you with a doodle of a dog in the corner.”
He smiled around the mouth of the bottle as he took a pull. It had been easier to stop herself from ogling his chest every five seconds while they worked on assembling the furniture, but it was much harder to avoid looking at him—okay, at his chest—when he was stretched out in the chair opposite, his long, muscular legs crossed at the ankle.
“What about you? Do you regret giving up the band?”
It was his turn to wince. “No.”
He didn’t say anything else and she raised her eyebrows. “That’s it? I tell you my life story, with appendixes, and I get a one-word answer in return?”
“You want more? Okay. I hated being on the road. I started to hate the other guys. And I really, really hated holding my breath, waiting for people to work out we were freaking sensational, and then watching as some wet-bottom-lip kids with perfect hair rocketed to the top of the charts.”
“Wet-bottom-lip kids? Please explain.”
“You know, those kids who always have a shiny lip.” He demonstrated, adopting a vacant expression and licking his lower lip before jutting it out.
She got the gist of what he was aiming for, but he was so attractive it was impossible for him to ever look truly gormless.
“So, basically you hate every boy band that ever drew breath?” she said.
“Hell, yeah.”
“I never got to see you play. Did you do the whole white-dude-dancing thing like Mick Jagger?”
“You will never know.” He smiled mysteriously, and she threw her pizza crust at him.
“This is why you don’t have hairs on your chest,” he said, picking the fragment off his right pec. “You’re supposed to eat your crusts.”
“Doesn’t eating your crusts give you curly hair?”
He thought about it for a beat. “You could be right. I’m a little rusty on my folklore.”
He set his bottle on the table, then stood and reached for the stud on his jeans. The action was so unexpected, she jerked back in her chair.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice squeaky with sudden panic.
“Going for a swim. Why? What did you think I was doing?” His eyes were so knowing she was hard-pressed not to throw a full pizza slice at him.
She settled for rolling her eyes and trying to look elsewhere as he pushed his cutoffs down his legs.
And failed miserably.
He had spectacular thighs. Beautifully muscular without in any way being beefy, dusted with dark hair. And she wasn’t going to even start on the impressive package that was showcased by his snug black boxer briefs.
“You coming in?” He started for the pool.
“I haven’t got anything to swim in.”
“Hey, swimsuits have always been optional in this pool, babe.”
She could hear the laughter in his voice, knew he was winding her up. He didn’t really expect her to skinny-dip. He didn’t think she’d be so foolish.
So reckless.
Something irrepressible bubbled inside her as she contemplated his dare, an echo of the wildness that had sent her sashaying toward him across the balcony at her sister’s wedding all those years ago.
She stood and reached for the hem of her tank top. Seth was waist-deep in the water at the shallow end but he went very still as she whipped her top over her head. Her gaze holding his, she undid the snap on her pants, then unzipped the fly and shimmied her hips to work the linen down her legs.
She’d been busy establishing the business since she’d landed back home, but her body still retained the muscle tone from the twice-weekly Pilates classes she’d attended religiously when she lived in the States. She knew she looked pretty damn good in her plain black Calvin Klein bra and knickers—not perfect, by any means, but she’d never been one of those women who made a sport of hating her own body. It had given her—and others—a lot of pleasure over the years, and that totally worked for her.
She took a step closer to the pool, arching her back a little to make her breasts pop. Seth’s mouth dropped open a gratifying half inch. Reaching behind herself, she found the clasp on her bra. She held the pose for a long, suggestive moment.
“In your dreams, Anderson.” She took a running jump off the side of the pool, one knee curled close to her chest in classic bombing posture.