Out of Bounds Read online

  OUT OF BOUNDS

  Kris Pearson

  Half of the house Jetta has inherited is claimed by an unsuspected cousin.

  She has restoration and residence in mind, but architect Anton has demolition and dollars on his. Neither wants the other as a housemate. Let battle begin!

  Smashwords Edition

  ISBN 978-0-473-20530-0

  For more information about this author, visit http://www.krispearson.com

  Love and thanks to Philip for the covers and the unfailing encouragement and computer un-snarling. And to my writer friend Meryl Brew, who hosts our local meetings with warmth and charm, and sometimes champagne…

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is co-incidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Kris Pearson

  Cover design © by Philip Pearson

  Cover photograph dreamstimes.com

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.

  Free excerpts at the end of this book.

  Prologue

  Jetta Rivers despised herself for snooping on him over the old fence, but with her face hidden safely in the foliage of Gran’s jasmine vine, her eyes still followed his every move.

  He was sex on legs. Sex on very long legs. Maybe thirty—with strong arms, and a smooth tanned back flexing in the bright Kiwi sun as he polished the silver flanks of an impeccable old Porsche.

  She imagined running her hands over his taut muscular body as sensuously as his were caressing the car.

  Then, quick as a wink, her naughty brain stripped the jeans off his very cute butt.

  ‘Stop it Jetta!’ she snapped at herself, adding a couple of frustrated curses as hot little ripples of pleasure pulsed between her thighs. Why did she feel like this when she couldn’t do anything about it? Her body might be bursting with lust but her brain always put the brakes on. In twenty-six years, she’d had exactly one night of sex.

  And it had been terrible.

  CHAPTER ONE

  A week later Jetta swiped at a trickle of tears and drew a deep determined breath. The house she’d just inherited was far from beautiful—Grandma’s loving welcomes had somehow disguised the awful details and softened the scruffiness.

  But it was hers now, and chipping up the old kitchen floor with Grandpa’s spade was only the first of dozens of jobs she had planned.

  Wincing at her new blisters, she gathered up some of the larger pieces of linoleum, carried them along the hallway, and threw her armful of rubbish onto the growing heap beside the path. Then she took a few gulps of fresh summer air before retreating to the dusty kitchen.

  “Hello...?” a man yelled through the open door a few seconds later.

  As Jetta turned to investigate, she caught sight of herself in the small mirror on the back of the kitchen door. Under Grandpa’s ancient painting hat, her face was dirty, tear-streaked and bare of make-up. She looked about sixteen, and really didn’t need a visitor.

  “Hello?” His voice was softer now and very close.

  She whirled further around, heart racing, grabbed for the spade handle, and clutched it tightly. There was only him and her. No one else to save her.

  “What the hell are you doing to the house?” he asked.

  She stood there trembling as the man she’d nicknamed ‘Mr Porsche’ gazed about with very obvious amusement on his far too gorgeous face. She’d never seen him up close before. Never expected his eyes would be so disturbingly blue or that he’d have that little sprinkling of dark hair showing at the open neck of his polo shirt. “It’s my house—I’ll do what I like with it,” she managed.

  “It’s our house, and I’ll be demolishing it,” he replied. “Anton,” he said, thrusting out a big hand. “Anton Haviland. And you must be Jetta Rivers.”

  Already way on edge, Jetta sagged onto one of the 1950’s chrome and leatherette chairs in case his outrageous suggestion was for real. Demolish her house? Never!

  She wouldn’t shake his hand.

  She wouldn’t touch him with a bargepole.

  “Didn’t you know?” He telescoped down to a squat—no point in making her even more nervous. She was younger than he’d expected. Looked a lot younger than Horrie Winters had said, and in total denial.

  “Know what?” Her words came out in an anguished croak. Her knuckles shone white with the death-grip she had around the old spade handle.

  Anton shrugged. “That I even existed, by the look of things. That the house was left to the two of us, fifty-fifty?”

  “The house was left to me,” she snapped. “Gran told me again and again it would be mine after she’d gone.”

  “Your Gran,” he said, choosing the words with care, “was a long way from her original self. I gather she had dementia and didn’t know what was going on half the time.”

  A variety of expressions flitted over the girl’s small dusty face. Disbelief. Outrage. Acceptance for her grandmother’s condition, but not yet for the shared ownership of the old timber bungalow.

  “Gran worried about a lot of funny stuff,” she agreed with apparent reluctance. “I didn’t think she was too bad until a couple of months ago.”

  “Your Grand-dad arranged for their solicitor, Horrie Winters, to have Power of Attorney,” Anton said. “Way back before he died, because he wanted her looked after. He didn’t want to burden you.”

  “Five years ago?” Her eyes accused Anton of crimes he’d never committed. “So why didn’t this lawyer give Gran more money? Her clothes were in rags. I was shocked when I went through her wardrobe.”

  Anton shrugged again, wanting to stand. “She should have been fine. She had her pension for food and clothing. Horrie had all the household bills direct-debited from a bank account. I know that much.”

  Her eyes narrowed in accusation. “How do you know? She was my grandmother!”

  He sighed. He was in no mood to be cross-examined by a girl he’d never met about an old lady he knew only the barest details of.

  “Didn’t you keep in touch with Horrie?” He hoped his exasperation wasn’t too obvious.

  “I’ve never heard of him. I thought now Gran was dead I’d get a letter from someone confirming the details of my inheritance. My inheritance,” she insisted. “My house I’m going to renovate and live in.”

  “Our inheritance,” Anton corrected, trying not to sound too sharp. “Old Lucy had the house for her lifetime. Now it comes to us jointly.”

  “Hah! According to you. Who are you, anyway?”

  He adjusted his balance; squatting on his heels wasn’t easy. “Anton Piers Scott Haviland if you want the whole mouthful. Some sort of relation? A distant cousin I suppose? Sounds like you’ve never heard of me.”

  Her pretty mouth fell open and her eyes expanded to huge black pools of disbelief. Her spare hand grasped at the air as though she was clutching for sanity.

  She lurched up from the old chair and stared down at him in horror. “I don’t have any cousins,” she insisted. “There was my mother Margaret, and that was all. She had no brothers or sisters, so I’ve no cousins. Dad had one brother, but he left New Zealand and he’s been in Canada a long time now. Since...um ...”

  She started to tremble again, and Anton rose to his feet, too, seeing her tiny silver tassel earrings shaking and catching the light. Was she going into shock? What the hell should he do?

  “And you don’t sound Canadian,” she added, aiming a savage kick at the half stripped
floor.

  He assumed she’d rather be kicking his head in. Annoyance more than shock, he thought with relief. “Definitely not Canadian,” he assured her. “Total Kiwi. Born in Auckland, grew up here in Wellington. Spare me the family tree though—second cousins twice removed and all that sort of thing.”

  “So how do you think you fit in?”

  “Not the foggiest. My mother is Isobel Scott if that means anything to you? My father was never...interested.” Her expression softened very slightly. “Your grandfather was David Haviland?” he asked.

  She nodded, dark eyes still fiercely dilated.

  “And I carry his unusual surname. Isn’t that enough proof I’m somehow part of the family?”

  “You could have changed it by deed poll.”

  Anton breathed out slowly, trying to avoid the sharp reply that sprang to his lips. “I didn’t. I didn’t need to. It’s the name on my birth certificate.” He tried for a more conciliatory tone. “This seems to have come as a total surprise to you; we’ll have to go and see Horrie together.”

  She continued to stare at him, eyes ablaze, and then dropped onto the chair again as if wanting to keep some physical distance between them. He couldn’t blame her. In one savage blow, she’d lost half her home and gained a part uncle or a half cousin or whatever the hell he was.

  “I’ll phone Winters and Waterson first thing Monday,” he added. “Although they might still be closed for their summer break. They’re very traditional, and Horrie’s getting on a bit now.”

  “It must be a mistake,” the girl suggested, but more hesitantly this time. “You’re implying we’re related somehow, and I just don’t believe it.”

  “He’ll have the proof you need,” Anton said, trying to put total conviction into his words. All his hard work and planning might be in jeopardy. It was enough to set every nerve jangling. The effort and risk had him exhausted and on edge. He couldn’t bear to think of losing when he’d come so close to the final step.

  She straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath. His eyes dropped automatically to the two soft mounds that rose under her dusty cream T-shirt.

  Whoa, she’s braless and they’re gorgeous...

  He wrenched his gaze away and started to pace around the wrecked floor, trying to concentrate on anything but her breasts. When he glanced back, her huge eyes were still fixed on him, tragic and accusing. Then she swiveled on the chair to stand the spade against the wall, and her skimpy blue denim shorts rode up higher so they uncovered even more of her smooth legs. Legs he could imagine wrapped around his waist, bare, warm and silky...

  You’re in trouble now, dude... You shouldn’t be having thoughts like this about her. You’ve got too much on your plate already.

  Jetta bit her bottom lip and tried to put some steel in her spine. She didn’t know which was worse —being expected to share her house, or learning who her next door neighbor really was. Or might be.

  He couldn’t possibly be related to Uncle Graham, could he? The waves of panic washed higher. Should she grab the spade again? Uncle Graham had also been tall and dark, although surely that meant nothing? Any man would have seemed tall when she was nine years old. Grandpa had been tall and dark too, until his hair turned silver. But there’d never been a whisper about Anton in the family, not that there was much family to do the whispering.

  “I won’t ever give you permission to demolish my house,” she insisted, annoyed to hear the quaver in her voice. “I’ve got it all planned. There are three bedrooms. I’m going to rent two of them to friends. Then I’m going to New York to study full time for a better design qualification. I’m a decorator.”

  “Are you now?” he rasped, abandoning his pacing for a moment and swinging around and sending her a ferocious glare.

  So he was agitated, too? Maybe he hadn’t expected her opposition? His super-cool facade had definitely splintered.

  “Do you want to hear my take on it?” he demanded. “We’re in this together, like it or not, and I’ve got a hell of a lot more to lose than you have.”

  She doubted that, big-time. “How? We each have half a house at stake as far as I can see. Except I thought I had a whole one,” she added in a mutinous mutter.

  Her unexpected visitor breathed out very fast and hard. Did his nostrils flare? She was almost sure they did.

  “I’ve bought number seventeen next door,” he continued with exaggerated calm. “I knew your old Gran was going downhill fast.”

  Jetta closed her eyes at that, but let him keep talking.

  “I’d been waiting to grab either seventeen or thirteen. It didn’t matter which, because I’ll be pulling it down. This is a good location—quiet, central, nice outlook over Ballentine Park.”

  “Which is why I want to live here.”

  He ignored her as though her opinion counted for nothing. “I put feelers out through the local realtors, and got the jump on seventeen,” he continued. “Moved in several months ago, with a couple of mates to help share expenses.”

  Yes, I’ve heard the music and seen the girls. Seen you lately, too—over the fence when I came to visit Gran.

  “I didn’t notice you,” she said, hoping to offend him. He was certainly noticeable, with his height, his sharply attractive features, and arrogant bearing. Up close, he was practically edible. She wanted to sniff him and nibble at him, lick him and see if he tasted as good as he looked. Even though he was a thieving jerk.

  “Australia,” he said, breaking into her fantasy. “Got seconded to the Sydney office just when things started to happen at this end. I came home a while before Christmas, which was helpful.”

  She shrugged, still trying to seem unimpressed. “What do you do?”

  “What would you expect? A man acquiring neglected houses in good locations? I’m an architect, soon to be property developer. Come and see something.”

  And before Jetta could gather her scattered wits, Mr Porsche—or Anton as she now knew him to be—grabbed her by the hand and hauled her up.

  “Let me go!” she demanded, heart hammering as her control slipped away.

  He simply grinned and towed her down the long hallway.

  “Stop it. I mean it.”

  Something in her panicked tone must have registered because he relaxed his grip and she yanked her hand out of his. He walked through the open front door and beckoned.

  Jetta stood staring at him, feeling a little better now he’d freed her. He turned and strode along the path.

  “Wait!” she protested, torn between panic and curiosity. “I need to lock up.”

  His gorgeous mouth quirked. “Who’d want to steal what’s in there?”

  “There’s my stuff,” she said, exasperated. “I moved back into my old bedroom when Gran went into care—to sort of guard the place, I suppose.”

  “A security guard?” he teased, brows raised and blue eyes even more vivid now he was out in the hard sunshine. “You’re a bit young to be here on your own.”

  Indignation had her blood boiling all over again, and it was her turn to huff air down her nose.

  “I don’t always look like this,” she retorted, turning back and grabbing her key-ring from behind the front door. “I’m plenty old enough to take care of myself.” She pushed the jingling keys into the pocket of her old shorts. He sent her such a skeptical look that she added, “Twenty-six—okay?”

  He raised a dark eyebrow at that and strode off. She almost had to run to keep up.

  “Stop rushing,” she gasped, but his long legs just kept up their forward momentum.

  He smiled down at her, very pleased about something. “I got the final consents late yesterday. You’ll be the first person to see all the plans signed off. Ben and Paul have already moved out, Mom’s away with her sister, and I’ve been itching to show someone.”

  “Consents for what?”

  “Ballentine Park Mews. One for you, one for me, and six to sell.”

  Jetta shook her head. “Six what to sell?”
>
  “Six apartments. Garage and ground floor study. First floor living. Top floor sleeping.”

  He swept her past his gleaming old Porsche and into the front entrance of number seventeen.

  Apartments? Here?

  Temporarily distracted, her decorator’s eyes flicked around. All the interior walls were painted white. The fitted carpets had been torn up, leaving the timber floors bare. A couple of spiky Yucca plants stood stiffly in shiny black ceramic pots. The place had a stark masculine air to it, unexpected in a 1920’s bungalow, but not unattractive. The living area boasted a huge TV and a tiny expensive stereo.

  A charcoal rug with absurd giant-size pile lay in the centre of the floor. Jetta tripped on the edge of it and Anton grabbed her arm before she fell. A waft of his lemony cologne drifted across. Overcome yet again by the hot breathless panic reaction she knew so well, she squeezed her eyes closed and tried to shake him off.

  It was years since Uncle Graham had crept into her shadowy bedroom, but sometimes it felt like yesterday. The terror his stealthy silhouette caused on ‘babysitting’ nights still visited her at unlikely and unwelcome moments.

  Relief washed over her when Anton relaxed his grip some.

  “My room,” he said, angling his determined chin in the right direction and leading the way.

  She hesitated at the doorway and peered inside. He finally let go of her arm, and the queasiness of being under his power abated a little. ‘His’ room proved to have the largest, lowest bed she’d ever seen, an enormous number of glossy magazines stacked in neat piles, a laptop on a shiny white desk, and a hulking great drawing board. He motioned her across to it.

  “See,” he said, flipping over a series of floor plans and illustrations. “Ballentine Park Mews. Bowl the two old houses, put up a decent sized block of purpose built dwellings, and make some money.”

  “It’s awful!” Jetta exclaimed, inspecting the long barricade of three storied apartments and picturing them plunked down in the quiet suburban street. “No lawns, no trees...?”

  “A couple of acres of greenery right across the road, and private courtyards at the rear,” Anton insisted. “It’s the way people want to live now—no big gardens to slave over, easy care exteriors, low maintenance materials. They’ll sell as fast as I can finish them.”