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  The toast popped up and he threw the hot slice beside the bacon, slid the eggs on top, and took the plate outside to the sunny courtyard.

  His mother had always cooked bacon and eggs for Sunday breakfast, even when her money must have been terribly tight.

  With the wisdom of hindsight, he saw it might have been an attempt to stop his Saturday night dates lasting through into snoozy Sunday mornings in girlfriends’ beds.

  Clever woman, Isobel Scott. Not that he hadn’t spent plenty of snoozy mornings…

  He grinned to himself, and then wondered how she and her sister were getting on. Would they soon be eating bacon and eggs on their holiday island off the Australian coast? No, much more likely they’d be on some sort of sisterly diet thing and getting into guilt-free bowls of mango and pawpaw and melon.

  He finished breakfast and leaned back against the trellis for a few minutes, savoring the sun on his skin, knowing he’d have to start the wall painting again soon.

  Jetta was up. Water was running at number fifteen and he presumed she was showering. Not hard to imagine her wet, slippery and covered in soapsuds, so he did that for a few pleasurable minutes. When the sound ebbed away, he pushed his knife and fork aside with a clatter, picked up the crust of his toast, and wiped it around the plate to gather up the last smears of egg yolk. It was time to see if his efforts with the cupboard doors had made any difference to her prickly temper.

  Jetta paused, spoon halfway to her mouth, when Anton knocked on the door. How would she ever be able to look him in the eye after what she’d done—what she’d seen!—the previous night?

  Had he known it was her doing the looking and touching?

  Resigned to getting it over with, she padded barefoot along the hallway and pulled the door open, inspecting her jeans and feet with great interest as he walked in. She dared not glance directly at him in case she saw condemnation in his vivid blue eyes.

  “Great morning,” he said, as if nothing had happened.

  “Lovely,” she agreed as he walked past. As fast as that the trembles hit her again.

  He wore the same old khaki shorts and sneakers she’d found him in the night before, but the morning sun showed her more than the moonlight ever had. He was utterly frighteningly male.

  Even though a dark T-shirt covered his upper body, just seeing his muscular legs striding along set all her nerves on edge. He was so much bigger and more powerful than her. How could she possibly risk living in the same house with him?

  The self-defense course that Dr Julia Menzies had insisted she took seemed like a joke. The fancy throws and tricks she’d been taught counted for nothing. Anton would overpower her in seconds.

  She tried to appear cool and calm, but behind that façade she burned with tension and terror.

  He sent her an enquiring grin as he crossed to the corner where he’d left his toolbox.

  “You’re very quiet,” he said. “Did I get the color somewhere near right?” He nodded toward the cupboards.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, shaken out of her silence. “I should have said thank you the instant I saw you. The change is amazing.”

  “Just a temporary job, but it’s a definite improvement on the pink.”

  She nodded, recalling the slice of cake as well. She should thank him for that, too, but she didn’t want him thinking a few favors would change the situation between them. Mercifully, he started to speak again before she did.

  “When you’ve finished that,” he said, indicating her bowl of rapidly sogging muesli, “I’ve got an ideal job for you. Unless you’d rather tape some edges?”

  “So what’s the alternative?”

  “Screw all those knobs and handles back on. You can get in some practice for that lock you were brandishing around yesterday.”

  The warmth of a blush traveled up her neck. The lock—how embarrassing to need it. She could never go mixed flatting. Bren had done that years ago, and only moved out on the boys and in with her and Hallie because of the endless sci-fi movies and noisy sports programs on TV. But then again, Bren was Bren—sharp-tongued and confident. Jetta couldn’t imagine herself in the same situation.

  “I’m happy doing handles,” she said, ignoring his comment about the lock, and spooning up more muesli so she didn’t have to talk.

  “I’ll get onto the sitting room, then.”

  He walked across and slid the glass doors open, looking perfectly at home. How much did he know about the house? Had he explored last night when she’d been out?

  Of course he had, she thought with resentment. After all, she’d found him in the front bedroom.

  She stood leaning against the doorframe, chewing for longer than she needed to while he hauled the heavy sofa and armchairs away from the walls. The crocheted multi-colored medallion rugs and the faded olive green velvet showed evidence of being very well clawed by old Pusscat, and very well sat on by Gran and Grandpa over many years.

  Jetta swallowed her mouthful at last, and waved a spoon at the furniture. “They’re so awful they’re not even worth giving away.”

  Anton’s mouth quirked at that. “Glad you don’t want to keep them,” he agreed.

  “Do you want me to give you a hand to lift the chairs out?” she asked. “Or Nick could help when he brings the van. They can sit around the side of the house until the big bin arrives.”

  “Or on the front lawn in case someone takes a fancy to them.”

  “Don’t be so offensive,” she snapped. “You’re making fun of my Gran and Grandpa’s possessions.”

  Anton raised one hand in a gesture that she took meant ‘sorry’, then lifted one of the overstuffed armchairs and started to carry it in her direction.

  “You can’t do that,” she objected. “It’s far too heavy.”

  “Make sure there’s nothing in my way, can you?” He ignored her and advanced around the dining table.

  Jetta cast a panicked glance down the hallway and shot ahead to grab a vase of ‘sorry to hear about your Gran’ lilies off a narrow oak table. She backed into the front bedroom, keeping them safe until he was past.

  “Door?” he suggested.

  She dumped the lilies on the table again and pulled it open for him. His arms were taut and corded, but that was the only sign of effort.

  The panic waves cranked up again and she closed her eyes. That chair weighs more than me. I wouldn’t stand a chance if he pulled an Uncle Graham stunt.

  Anton returned a few seconds later and carried the second chair out. Again, she snatched the lilies from danger, this time with trembling hands.

  “You needn’t think I’m helping with the sofa,” she objected, setting the vase back into place as he returned.

  “Yes, that’s a job for the boyfriend.”

  “Nick. He’s a courier.”

  “Which explains why he’ll have an empty van on a Sunday. I’ve been picturing an angry plumber or electrician having to take all his gear out so he could fit that hideous suite in.”

  “He’d do it for Bren.”

  “Lucky Bren. True devotion, eh? I’ve never seen a tradesman’s van on a building site that wouldn’t take hours to unpack.”

  Before they had time to return to the kitchen, a double toot sounded. A sign-written van braked to a halt beside the curb, and Bren and Hallie spilled out from the front seat, balancing takeaway coffees.

  “Och—will you look at those!” Bren exclaimed, examining the old velvet chairs with their fraying and colorful rugs. “I can’t imagine how you got to be a decorator growing up around furniture like that.”

  “A deep desire to provide the world with something better?” Hallie suggested.

  “There’s a humungous sofa to match,” Jetta said with an embarrassed shrug. “We were wondering if Nick would help us carry it out.” Yet again, she grabbed the lilies before they tumbled.

  The bedroom suite took a little persuading into the van, but all the pieces were finally stowed.

  “Are you taking the bed as well?”
Anton asked. “It’s very comfortable—I slept on it last night.”

  Bren’s eyes swiveled to Jetta’s.

  “Jetta Rivers—you total trollop!” she exclaimed. “You said you were going to keep your hands off him.”

  “I did,” Jetta protested, knowing that she hadn’t.

  “That’s not what Anton’s saying, is it?”

  “He’s...that’s not...I didn’t,” Jetta mumbled, turning bright red. “Sleep with him, that is,” she added, wanting to make her position quite clear.

  “Not much sleeping done at all,” Anton said, faking a huge overdone yawn.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Why did you say that to them?” she demanded once Hallie, Bren and Nick had roared off. “You know what they’ll all be thinking now.”

  “Only telling the truth,” Anton said, enjoying her reaction. She’d thrust her hands into her dark hair so it stood up like a stormy sea. Her big eyes flashed daggers at him. And the delicate pink flush on her cheeks made her look like a flustered doll. “I hardly slept last night—I seemed to be dreaming non-stop. Must have been the paint fumes.”

  “Yeah, right,” she muttered. “That wall paint hardly smells at all.”

  She turned away and started scrabbling around in the heap of knobs and handles.

  Anton grinned to himself. Things were going better today. She really couldn’t grouch at him too much after his effort with the cupboard doors.

  And the cake—has she mentioned the cake?

  “Did you enjoy the cake?”

  “What cake?” she demanded. But he saw from her annoyed expression that she had. Then her face softened. “Not enough candles.”

  “All I could find in the cupboard.”

  By the end of the afternoon, the sitting room walls were freshly painted. And the long hallway. And Anton’s bedroom-to-be. His shirt had been off for hours, and Jetta’s eyes had roved over him far too often for her peace of mind. He’d worked the long roller up and down the walls with a fluid rhythm that gave her plenty to appreciate. Her body sighed with pleasure.

  Now they stood looking at the collection of trash in the third bedroom and said in unison “tomorrow.”

  He slipped an arm around her waist, pulled her close, and dropped a kiss onto her brow. “Good work, Ms Rivers,” he said—and released her.

  It was the purely friendly gesture of two people working in co-operation. She stood there astounded.

  “What do you want to do with that bed next door?” he asked, apparently noticing nothing. “It’s far too good to throw out. Almost too good to give away.”

  “Uh...I could...uh...maybe have it in my room,” she stammered. “It’s quite a new one really.”

  He grabbed me and kissed me. Only a little peck, but it really was a kiss. And I survived here on my own without acting like a total screaming fool.

  “Okay—let’s swap it over for you.”

  Jetta pressed her hands together, half dazed and drifty, forbidding the wretched trembles to take her over. His kiss had been such a small thing, yet to her it had been momentous.

  God, I hope I didn’t give myself away. But how can I let a man into my bedroom—especially this man—when I’ve seen him ‘like that’?

  Again she remembered the distended ridge she’d seen in Anton’s shorts the previous night. The image had bothered her all day—scaring her silly, yet making her body turn moistly female and voluptuous.

  Not waiting for permission, Anton pushed the door to her bedroom open and walked in.

  “Sorry if it’s messy,” she said, still panicked and hovering well back. With a deep breath, she lunged toward the bed, bundled up the sheets, pillow and duvet, and stood aside clutching them like a barrier.

  Anton let out a bellow of laughter. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “Sexy little Jetta in a single bed. At your age? No wonder you told Bren and Hallie about mine.”

  “Stop it!” she snapped. “It’s the bed Grandpa bought me when Mom and Dad died and I came to live here.”

  How can he laugh at something that’s both embarrassing and so personal? And did he say I was sexy?

  “You could have moved into the big one as soon as your Gran went into care,” he said, hauling the single mattress aside and hefting it out into the hallway, biceps tautly impressive. “So this girlie fantasy comes apart somehow, does it?”

  Jetta was still torn between his ‘sexy’ comment and her embarrassment at being found in possession of a white painted four poster canopy-topped single bed with fairy dolls swinging from the posts. She’d simply never got around to untying them.

  “At the corners, I think,” she muttered.

  “I’ll get the tool kit.” And he strode off, leaving her to recover.

  She heaved her armful of bedclothes into the corner, dragged her bedroom stool across the room, and stood on it to unhook the frilly pieces of canopy and the pink ribbons suspending the dolls. Annoyance at his laughter almost took precedence over her fear of having him in her room. And that ‘sexy little Jetta’ still tumbled about in her brain in the most disconcerting way.

  A few minutes later, he’d unscrewed the posts and carried them and the base out of the room.

  “Have you found any keys while you’ve been pulling stuff out to paint behind?” she asked as Gran’s forgotten suitcase came into view. “Or could you break those locks open?”

  Anton inspected the old leather case with its brass corners and gave the locks a quick jiggle. “Shame to wreck it; it might fetch a bit on the internet. It looks almost military. Your bed-frame’s worth selling, too. Some little girl would love that. We should have photographed it before we took it apart.”

  The ‘some little girl’ rankled, but Jetta had to admit any money towards her New York trip would be welcome. She was surprised Anton had suggested it though. With such a big apartment scheme under way, surely bothering to sell a bed and a suitcase was a waste of his time.

  “We could set it up again in the front room for a photo,” she said. Selling her old bed came a long way behind getting through Gran’s funeral and coping with Anton’s possible presence in her house. Getting him out of her bedroom immediately had top priority.

  “Why don’t we do that next and get it over with?” he suggested. “I was thinking I might shift some of my things in tonight.”

  Jetta’s heart thudded at the very thought of it. He couldn’t. Not possibly. No way...

  “No—I’m not ready yet! I—um—want proof from that lawyer first. You promised.”

  “Okay, okay, calm down. But you can’t imagine I’d put in a hard day’s work like this if I didn’t know exactly what the legal situation was?”

  “Maybe,” she muttered, eyes downcast. “Maybe not.”

  He heaved a noisy sigh. She could imagine the sulky expression on his gorgeous face without looking up. His eyebrows would be down, his blue eyes cold, his beautiful lips compressed.

  “I’ll move in tomorrow as planned then,” he said. “What are we doing for dinner?”

  “We are doing nothing. I want some time alone please. I want to pick flowers for Gran, and I need to think about what I’m going to say to people at the funeral tomorrow.”

  “And that’s at ten?”

  Jetta nodded.

  “So come over at nine and we’ll call in to Winters and Waterson first and clean this mess up. I’ll go home and finish packing now. Believe me—this is going to happen.”

  He swung around and stalked off.

  Jetta stood there, relieved he’d gone, and furious with his arrogant assumption she’d fall in with his plans. That hadn’t been an invitation—it was a demand.

  Five minutes later, she carried a bucket half full of cold water out into the garden and began to cut flowers. Long stems of lavender. Roses just unfurling. Spicy carnations, blue hydrangeas and sprays of astilbe. Old-fashioned flowers, just like Gran. She set them to drink as she cut them, murmuring to the old lady as though she was there beside her.

  “Who
is he, Gran? Does he really own half my house? He’s much too old to be Uncle Graham’s son, and I’m sure you and Grandpa would have known all about that situation anyway...”

  She reached up to pick pink sweet peas from the trellis beside the garage.

  “I’ve never heard of his mother—this Isobel Scott. I don’t remember hearing the least mention of any cousin called Anton from Mom or Dad. I would have recalled that, surely? I was fifteen when they had the accident.”

  Next morning she put the finishing touches to her makeup, and stepped back to check the longer view of herself in the mirror. High black patent shoes, smoky pantyhose, her straight burgundy skirt, black silk camisole, and the dark charcoal Jenny Turner linen jacket she’d splurged on just before Christmas. Her ‘important clients’ jacket. Well, Gran was more important than any client.

  She grabbed her black patent clutch and headed for the kitchen, lifted the dripping flowers out of the bucket, and set them on an old towel to drain. Then she got busy with the ribbon and cellophane she’d bought on Friday. At nine, she was waiting by Anton’s car, complete with fragrant bouquet.

  His front door opened, and she turned. The half naked, paint-spattered, shorts clad man she’d almost become used to had disappeared. In his place stood a corporate raider, an investment banker, the CEO of some multinational company…

  The black suit had to be Italian. If Anton hadn’t been to Italy for a personal fitting, his tailor had done a superb job of producing trousers that hugged his lean hips and long, long legs... a jacket that highlighted his strong chest and shoulders and then curved in to showcase his narrow waist.

  Jetta’s lips parted in an unplanned gasp. Her eyes roved over the snowy cotton shirt, the polished shoes, then all the way back up to his blue silk tie and matching eyes.

  He looked fearsomely tall and utterly in charge. Lean, mean, and full of authority.

  He inclined his head in her direction before turning to pull the door closed.

  “Morning.”

  “Morning,” she echoed—in a voice less confident than she’d hoped for.