Just in Time
Escape to New Zealand, Book Eight
Text copyright 2015
Rosalind James
All Rights Reserved
Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design Inc., http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com/
Formatting by Dallas Hodge,
Everything But The Book
Will Tawera doesn’t do commitment, except on the rugby field. Moving to Las Vegas to become a kicker for the NFL would be a big change from New Zealand rugby, but then, he’s ready for a change. And when he’s asked to do a little modeling on the side? Thousands of dollars to hold a beautiful blonde while looking dark, dangerous, tattooed, and Maori? He could do that.
Faith Goodwin doesn’t do dark, dangerous men. Especially not when they make her laugh, take her miniature golfing with four-year-olds, and are far too sexy and sweet for comfort. But when Will finds himself in hot water back in New Zealand, who’s he going to call? And who would be able to resist answering?
The Blues and the All Blacks are actual rugby teams. However, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
FIERCE (Not Quite a Billionaire, Book 1)
Chapter 1, Shaken and Stirred
NOTE: A New Zealand glossary appears at the end of this book.
It all started with Mrs. Johnson’s toilet.
Faith Goodwin wielded the blue plastic plunger with everything she had. She was late, and every plunge was making her later. The accordion pleats compressed with a
whoosh
, then released with a sucking sound that…never mind.
“Three”—
whoosh
—“hundred”—
suck
—“dollars,” she chanted in her mind. The amount of rent she paid in exchange for managing the six-unit apartment building. It was a good deal, even though she was wearing rubber boots and rubber gloves, and this wasn’t the first time she’d unclogged Mrs. Johnson’s toilet. Or any toilet.
“It’s the colitis.” The quavering voice came from a nice, clean, dry spot behind her. “I have to use extra paper. And you know, dear, these toilets could stand to be replaced.”
Faith closed her eyes and counted to ten. “You need to start flushing more in…in between, Mrs. Johnson. This makes twice this month.”
“Maybe a plumber…” the old lady suggested.
“He’d charge me a hundred dollars to do the exact same thing,” Faith said, doing her level best to detach from her surroundings. “So, please. Flush.”
She plunged a few more times, then gave the lever a push, crossed her fingers in the yellow gloves, and held her breath. The toilet thought about it for a minute, and then reluctantly decided to resume normal service, the water gurgling its way down the bowl. Yay.
“All right,” Faith said. “Good. If you’ll hand me the mop and the bleach, I’ll clean up.”
Yet another job they didn’t tell you about during Career Day. She was late for work already, she was going to be later, and she couldn’t stay in this spot for another moment. So as usual, she took her mind somewhere else.
She was jogging down the hard-packed sand of the beach in a pink—no, a
black
bikini, which looked great on her, because…well, because this was a fantasy, and she’d obviously put in some gym time before it started. The gentle crescents of blue lapped up onto the shore, delicate scallops edged with cream, and her feet were getting wet, but that was all right, because she was running barefoot, as she did every morning. Past the group of guys throwing a football, and she could see their heads turning out of the corner of her eye. She pretended to ignore them, but she could tell they were watching.
And then one of them streaked past her as if she were standing still, turned and waved an arm, and Faith looked, too. Which was lucky, because the ball was headed towards her like a missile.
She shrieked a little and threw an arm across her face to block it, but even as she did, the man planted a foot, swiveled in mid-step, and was leaping, stretching sideways to intercept the ball. His arms were across her body, the ball was smacking into his palms, and his feet were tangling with hers. She went down on the sand, flat onto her back, the breath knocked out of her by the fall—and by him falling on top of her.
He shoved himself off her where she lay gasping, sprang to his feet in one quick motion, and reached a hand down. “All right?” he asked a little breathlessly. “Bloody hell, I’m sorry. Tell me I haven’t hurt you.”
Ooh. Her fantasy man had an accent. And the sweetest smile as he hauled her to her feet, looking so relieved at the sight of her smiling back. He started to laugh, white teeth flashing in his tanned face, and she laughed, too.
“Yes, dear?” Mrs. Johnson asked. Because Faith wasn’t actually lying on a beach beneath a half-naked man with muscles that required their own ZIP code. She was wringing out a mop into a toilet in an eighty-five-year-old woman’s apartment in Las Vegas, and it was January.
“Nothing,” Faith said. “Just something I thought of. Or the general ridiculousness of life, I suppose.” She gathered her bleach solution and her plunger. Onward and upward.
“Laugh or cry, that’s the choice.” Mrs. Johnson’s smile launched a spiderweb of tiny wrinkles across her face, and her blue eyes twinkled behind her glasses. “Getting old isn’t for sissies, and sometimes the rest of life isn’t either, is it?”
“Nope. It’s not. But, please, next time? Flush more.”
After that, she headed back to her apartment again for a shower she didn’t have time for, because there was no way she was showing up smelling like Mrs. Johnson’s bathroom. No time to dry her hair, either, so she shoved it into a messy bun instead. She was more than twenty minutes late by now, and it was raining. And she still had to pick up the coffee.
“Not exactly Hollywood,” Will Tawera said dubiously when his mate Solomon Salesa pulled into the strip mall parking lot on West Charleston Boulevard and stopped in front of a blank storefront with
Calvin Quisp Photography
painted on the single glass door. “You sure this is legit? Because if anything ever looked like a porn studio, it’s this.”
“And if it is,” Solomon said cheerfully, “that’s your job. Drag me away before I get myself into trouble.”
“Yeh, right. How about if I get carried away myself?”