Out of Bounds (5 page)

Her thoughts ricocheted in all directions as
Anton continued his savage attack. Abruptly he stopped and
straightened, stood the spade against the wall, un-kinked his neck,
and rolled his shoulders.

He breathed harder now, chest rising and
falling under a slight sheen of moisture. In ten minutes, he’d
achieved more than she’d managed in an hour and a half.

“Beer?” she asked in a strangled voice,
remembering the six-pack he’d parked in Gran’s fridge and that
she’d taken such exception to.

“In a mo.”

He squatted to collect up some of the broken
flooring, firing the shards through onto the sheet in the dining
room with deadly accuracy. He looked scarily angry. Was he working
off his frustration at her lack of co-operation about letting him
demolish her house?

She breathed out slowly, then licked her
suddenly dry lips as she admired the snug blue denim over his taut
butt and thighs.

When he rose again and turned in her
direction, she grabbed for the broom, desperate to hide the fact
she’d been practically eating him alive. She avoided his brilliant
blue eyes by dropping her gaze to the floor and sweeping with much
more force than was necessary.

“Don’t go overboard,” he drawled, reaching for the
beers. “There might be asbestos in this old stuff. Come outside and
let the dust settle.”

Anton stood with her under the laden peach
tree, watching her throat as she took small sips from her bottle.
He tipped his up and drank deeply, thirsty after the physical
exertion.

Jetta reached out and tested one of the
peaches for ripeness. “Nearly ready,” she said, apparently wanting
to fill the awkward silence between them. “Gran used to preserve
these. There might be some jars of them left from last year.”

He nodded but didn’t reply. The old lady’s
cooking skills were the last thing on his mind. From this angle the
sun lit Jetta’s breasts perfectly. She’d been braless under her
T-shirt that morning. Not expecting visitors. Not expecting him,
for sure.

She’d been hot and dusty, soft and gently
jiggling.

But she’d dressed up to go out. Now she’d
changed back into the same thin old shirt she’d worn that morning
and he could see the bra she’d left under it.

A very low cut bra. With a just-visible band
of lace or embroidery on the top edge of the cups. Surely her
nipples were barely covered? It was black or chocolate or wine red;
the outline darker against her pale skin. Just the thought of that
pale fragrant skin made him swallow.

He loved underwear. Always thought silly
shiny scraps of lace and ribbon enhanced a woman’s body—not to
mention they gave him the pleasure of slowly revealing what lay
concealed beneath them.

He took another gulp of beer. His groin
prickled and tightened as he speculated.

Damn. Not now. Keep her annoyed. Keep her at
a distance.

“I’ll start moving in tonight,” he said.

Jetta whirled around and faced him. “You will
not!” she ground out between clenched teeth. “You said Monday, and
as far as I’m concerned by Monday lunchtime I’ll have the proof I
need to stop you from moving in
at all
.”

“Not going to happen, babes. Half this old
dump is mine.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Her gorgeous breasts rose with a deeply
gasped breath of indignation. The sensation in his groin
intensified.

“You can’t move in before the funeral
anyway,” she added.

“What time’s that?”

“Ten on Monday morning—and you’re not
invited.”

“Fine by me.” He tore his eyes away from her
sunlit breasts. “I presume you wouldn’t have started ripping up the
kitchen floor if you’d invited people back here afterward?”

She shook her head. “I arranged everything
yesterday with the funeral director and the matron of the Eventide
Hospital, and put a notice in tonight’s paper.” She bowed her head.
“I’ve let Gran’s closest friends and neighbors know what’s
happening. A simple service at the chapel in the cemetery, then
morning tea in the hospital lounge, and that’s it. Indecently fast,
but there won’t be many people.”

“Well, while you’re drinking tea, I’ll get
the legal proof sorted for you.”

Her chin shot up again and her eyes fixed on
his. “God, you’re horrible! It’s not a tea-party—I’m burying my
lovely Gran. How would you feel if she were yours?” Furious, she
reached out, snapped a peach off the tree, and fired it at him. It
hit him on the chest and then glanced off onto the lawn.

“Feeling better now?” he asked, wiping the
juicy splodge off his skin.

“I won’t feel better until I know this is
some sort of stupid dream. Or nightmare.” She huffed out a deep
sigh.

He tipped the last drops of beer from his
bottle and set it down by the trunk of the tree. “Let’s get back to
your nightmare kitchen then.”

Jetta flounced off in front of him, calling
back over her shoulder, “And don’t leave glass in my garden—bring
it inside for the recycling bin.”

He hoped his laugh would set her even further
on edge.

That’s the way. Get her rattled. Keep her mad
at you. This is only going to work if you stay well clear of
her.

He bent for the bottle and strolled
inside.

Jetta poked at the pile of linoleum fragments
with the toe of her sneaker. “You don’t really think there’s
asbestos in this, do you?” She looked so anxious that his resolve
to keep her on edge softened somewhat.

“It’s probably too old,” he said, bending to
examine it. “When vinyl first replaced linoleum they sometimes used
asbestos in the backing, but this stuff looks solid all
through.”

“I knew that,” she said, but she swept up the
rest of the fragments and the dust with care, and tied it into a
plastic bag before carrying it out to the growing pile on the front
lawn.

He surveyed the devastation as he unpacked
the tape and roller and his old brushes. Her final sweeping had
removed almost all of the remains; the finish was not too bad at
all.

“Have a scrape at that last piece,” he
suggested, indicating a patch where the glue had been thicker.
“Good result otherwise.”

Jetta ignored him and glared at the cupboards
instead. “One day,” she said, “I’ll do something about all those
pink doors.”

“We could whack a bit of white over
them?”

“No, the surrounds are too creamy. White
would look terrible.”

“Won’t be for long enough to worry
about.”

She sent him a sub-zero glare. “Maybe a
neutral sisal shade until I can afford to do the proper kitchen
remodeling,” she challenged.

“Waste of paint. It’ll be gone in a few
months.”

She poked her tongue out and turned away. A
pointed little tongue as pink as the cupboard doors.

He took a deep breath. No distractions.
Certainly no imagining that moist rosy tongue mating hotly with
his, or sliding like silk over his skin once he’d moved into the
bedroom next to hers...

“We’ll start in the dining room,” he
suggested in a tone as frustrated as he felt. “I’ll unhook those
god-awful curtains, and if we drag the sideboard out together you
can start taping around the architraves.” He hoped he sounded
businesslike. He didn’t feel it. The combination of her cute little
body and sassy face and tart comments had him way on edge.

“So what are you going to do?” She set her
hands on her hips and glared at him.

“Follow along the edges with a paintbrush.
Then I’ll roll the walls.”

“I’ll give some of them a wipe first—they’re
pretty dusty.”

And half a minute later she was crawling
along the floor, pert bottom angled toward him, scrubbing a damp
rag over the top of the skirting boards.

Anton stood back and watched her shuffling
and shifting, rump in the air. As she worked, the old cream T-shirt
crept higher and higher until a slice of slender waistline was
exposed. She seemed entirely innocent of her posture, or of any
effect it might have on him.

He turned and sought refuge in the kitchen,
trying hard not to imagine ripping her shorts down and diving
between her warm, bare, slightly parted thighs.

Man, you’ve gotta stop thinking things like
this about her!

Blessed distraction came in the form of a
calendar featuring a pair of beribboned kittens.

“Hey—it’s your birthday,” he exclaimed,
noticing the spidery old writing under the date.

Jetta looked back over her shoulder. “How do
you know that?

“It’s on the calendar here.”

“Did she really remember?” The husky catch in
her voice told him it mattered a lot.

“Shaky old-fashioned writing—bet it’s not
yours.”

“Oh Gran, you absolute darling,” she murmured
softly. “You hadn’t forgotten everything after all.”

He saw the brightness of unshed tears in her
silver-shadowed eyes, and hoped she wasn’t going to collapse in a
howling heap again.

“So are you partying?” he asked with a degree
of desperation.

“Yeah, right,” she muttered. “Gran’s only
just dead. You’re stealing half my house. I’ve got plenty to
celebrate.”

“Boyfriend taking you to dinner, maybe?”

Why do I want the answer to be ‘no’?

She shook her head. “I had lunch with my old
flat-mates. I’m fine with that, given what’s happened.”

“So that’s where you were. We still haven’t
popped that Moet. We’ve an extra reason to drink it now.”

She sat back on her heels and smiled very
slightly.

“Okay,” she agreed. “Once we’ve got a bit
more of this done.”

Much later, he surveyed the finished effect
of the white painted walls in the dining room and nodded with
satisfaction. “Hell of a lot better,” he said, setting the roller
to rinse under running water. “I’m going home for a shower. Come
over about seven-thirty and I’ll rustle up something to eat with
the wine.”

When Jetta eventually knocked on his door, he
registered red high heels, snug black leather trousers, spicy
perfume, and a silky red top with a neckline that made him clench
his teeth and draw a fast deep breath. He didn’t need this!

Cursing to himself, he ushered her through to
a sheltered courtyard where he’d set up an outdoor table with two
big white dinner plates, two tall glasses, and a selection of
packages and pottles from the best deli in town.

“Birthday dinner,” he said as he pulled out a
chair for her. As she sat, he glanced down. Her bra was definitely
wine red, and defiantly low cut. A line of cobwebby black lace
whispered across the half way line of her gorgeous breasts. He
imagined tiny matching panties, and her curvy body showing them off
to perfection.

This time he didn’t try to rein back his
fantasy. Treats were meant to be enjoyed on birthdays—and she’d
never notice he was hard as hell as long as he stayed standing
partly behind her.

Her gaze roved the table with apparent
pleasure. “You didn’t have to do this for me. I’ve been nasty to
you all day.”

“Well, you’ve just made up for it, looking
like that.”

I’m only being polite. Just complimenting her
on her birthday. It’s not like I’m putting a move on her.

“You like?” she asked, angling a coquettish
look up at him. “Gran really disapproved of these trousers,
but...”

“Yeah—there’s no Gran to disapprove any more.
I definitely like. Truce for the next hour or so?”

She grinned at that. “I could probably last
about that long.”

Anton attended to some of the food, prizing
lids off pottles, and tape from packages. Jetta tackled the rest
with murmurs of appreciation.

“Happy Birthday, housemate,” he said,
reaching for the bottle of champagne.

“You wish,” she drawled.

“I
know
,” he countered. “I don’t waste
my time on projects that go nowhere.”

She pressed her lips together in a determined
line. “We’ll see.”

He uncorked the bottle and leaned over her
shoulder. Wine foamed into the two glasses, and he handed one to
her. “To the future—whatever it holds.”

She nodded, and took a sip. “Whatever it
holds,” she repeated.

He walked stiffly round the table and sat,
telling himself it was just the black lace, just those snug
trousers, just the unexpected sparkle in her big eyes... “What
would you like your future to hold?” he asked, by way of
distraction.

Jetta tipped her head on one side and half
closed those same big dark eyes that attracted him against his
will. “A trip to New York first of all. There’s a design school
there with an impressive reputation. With a qualification from
them, I’ll be much closer to achieving what I want. My own
decorating studio. ”

“Back here in New Zealand?”

“Absolutely. Specializing in heritage work
for people who want to restore older houses. Not necessarily homes
on the Historic Places Register—but maybe some of the big turn of
the century mansions in Thorndon and Kelburn. And the pretty
Edwardian houses, and twenties and thirties bungalows like
Gran’s.”

“Like
ours
.”

“Whatever.” The expression in her eyes
switched from dreamy to exasperated, and she set down her glass too
hard and turned her attention to the selection of deli goodies.
Anton felt dismissed, and didn’t like it.

After a too-long silence she asked, “What are
your plans?”

He watched her across the table as she picked
up morsels of food and set them on her plate. Even before he tasted
his champagne, his reality seemed to have shifted. The morning’s
dusty and shocked caterpillar had transformed herself into a
self-possessed and beautiful butterfly. And his body assured him it
liked the change. Would be happy to get to know the pretty
butterfly who fluttered just out of reach, but temptingly
close.

He brought his glass to his nose and savored
the wine’s bouquet to buy more time. Took a gulp. Swallowed deeply.
“Ten years ago I’d have said ‘to be a partner in a really good
architectural practice’ but things change. I’ve achieved that, and
now I find my heart’s in property development. More risk, more
money, but I get to build more of what I want. Clean modern
buildings. Right at the cutting edge of style.”