Addicted to Nick (11 page)

Caught off guard by the impact of that look, she sank shakily onto a stool at the breakfast bar and buried her nose in her mug. Through lowered lashes she watched him come into the room with a wink at Jason, the smooth smile as he introduced himself to Cheryl. A casual arching of one brow as he came toward her, via the coffeepot.

Consummate Nick. Obviously she'd misconstrued that look, her vision skewed by tears and the high emotion of her reunion with Cheryl.

By keeping her mouth full, she avoided participating in the conversation that flowed from today's weather—gray and gloomy with the prospect of more rain—back to yesterday's storm and on to their firsthand experience of its perils. When Nick finished his telling of their hairy trip home, Jason said, “Guess I'd better get to work, then.”

T.C. started to rise, but a firm hand on her shoulder kept her in place. “No need for you to leave halfway into your breakfast. Jason can start without you.”

His steady gaze challenged her to disagree.

“Start with Gina and Pash,” she told Jason, although her eyes never left Nick's. “You know what to do.”

The warm, steady approval in his eyes made her feel as if she had passed some kind of test. She felt inordinately pleased. Then he moved smoothly on to Cheryl, praising her cooking with a broad, white smile.

Time for another reality check, she told herself. This is Nick in full charm mode. Do not forget it.

“You want a regular spot on the payroll?” he asked Cheryl.

“One day a week would be nice. That's what I used to do for Joe.”

“Done. Does your job description include shopping?”

“I noticed the cupboards were getting bare. I'll make a list.”

Nick asked Cheryl if it would be easier to start an account at the supermarket or to get her a credit card; Cheryl wondered if he needed her tax number; Nick said they should discuss pay. They moved off toward the office, leaving T.C. feeling excluded and miserable.

Still, she couldn't afford to sit around feeling sorry for herself. In Nick's own words, nothing had changed. Nothing on the outside. There were horses to be exercised, boxes to be cleaned, all the things that would matter long after Nick had left.

She poured the rest of her coffee down the sink and took her miserable mood down to the stables.

 

Twenty minutes ago she had noticed Jason wince when he stretched to reach a saddle. Still self-absorbed, she had thought nothing of it, but this time she was standing right beside him, and the grimace on his face, quickly disguised, was undoubtedly pain.

“You've hurt yourself.”

“It's nothing.”

“It's not nothing if it makes your face twist in pain.” He turned away, made himself busy, but she persisted, her voice full of stern authority. “Look at me, Jase.”

The kid turned, face slightly flushed, eyes not meeting hers. Chastened, or still embarrassed? Hard to tell. “You think we can establish a little eye contact here?” she asked.

The pink in his cheeks deepened. She guessed embarrassment.

“Hey, Jase,” she said softly. “If this is about this morning, then you've got to help me out. I'm the one caught out. I'm the one dying of embarrassment here.”

“It's just…I wasn't expecting…” His gaze shifted, met hers briefly. “You know…you and Nick.”

“Well, I wasn't expecting it, either.”

Her wry tone stopped his nervous shuffle, and finally he met her gaze. “Do you s'pose Nick might hang around now?”

There was a hopefulness in his voice that echoed deep inside T.C. Oh, Jase, she thought, we are a fine pair, building secret expectations on a one-night stand.

Something of her thoughts must have reflected in her eyes, because Jase looked away. “Sorry. I shouldn't have said nothing. It's just been good havin' him around.”

“Yes, it has. But his business is in New York. That's his life.” A life as far removed from their rustic idyll socially as it was geographically. They were just a pleasant interlude, a holiday of sorts.

In the awkward, nervous silence, Jase lifted a hand to rub at his chest, and she saw the graze on his hand, the swollen knuckles.

“Your hand.”

He pulled it out of sight.

“You've been fighting, haven't you?” The truth was in his eyes. “Oh, Jase. You know you can't afford to get into trouble again.”

“I'm not in any trouble.”

She recalled that night in the pub, Red Wilmot leaning against the jukebox and the bad feeling that had rattled through her bones. “It's Red, isn't it? Has he been giving you a hard time, because so help me if he has…”

“I can look after this myself.” His jaw set stubbornly. “Geez, T.C., I already copped enough grief from Mum.”

Yes, I bet you did.

She wondered if it was concern for her youngest child
that had jolted Cheryl out of her grief-imposed exile. If she was worried about Jason being led astray again by bad company. Red Wilmot was that and more. That same weird feeling gripped her again, as strong and as unfounded as her response to George yesterday, and she wondered when she had stopped thinking pragmatically and started listening to vibes.

About the same time Nick arrived to rock her rational world, she figured.

Like a thorn in her underblanket, her concerns kept nagging away long after she returned to work. The only thing that drove them completely from her mind was the sight of Nick walking toward her. At first she saw only his smile, warm enough to light both the gloomy interior of the stables and the deepest recesses of her heart.

Would she ever grow accustomed to seeing him, to the sudden breathlessness, the wild palpitations of her heart?

“Hey,” he said in greeting.

“Hey, yourself.”

Completely smitten, she smiled back at him. He lifted a hand, brushed something from her hair. “Straw in your hair.”

A loud snort brought his attention to Star, tethered beside her. Nick leaned closer, stroked a hand the length of her sleek black neck and murmured, “Hello to you, too, beautiful.”

Star flicked her ears benignly. No kicking, no head tossing, no teeth baring. Nick's brows shot up. “Would you look at that? Someone's had a change of heart.”

“Maybe she's getting used to having you around.”

“Is that so?” She felt his gaze resting on her face, felt her own extravagant response, and knew she would never get used to having him around.

Which was when she noticed his clothes. Crisp dark chinos, a soft fawn shirt, matching jacket. Town clothes. How could she have forgotten? One day very soon she
would see him all dressed up in his town clothes, with a suitcase in each hand.

“You don't look dressed for work.” She tried to smile, but it felt tight, forced.

“I'm going to Melbourne.”

Was it possible to speak, to breathe,
to live,
with your heart lodged in your throat?

“I'm going to see George.”

“Oh.” He wasn't leaving…yet. Her heart resumed normal operations. “Is this because of what I said?”

“That's one thing.” The hint of a frown touched his brow. “Yesterday I tried to talk to him, but now I realize I talked
at
him. He wasn't hearing me, and I have to make a better effort.”

“And if he doesn't want to hear you?”

“Then I might have to flatten his nose again.”

Aware of Jason hovering nearby, ears flapping, she shook her head. “Violence won't solve anything.”

One brow arched. “Yesterday you wanted to take after him with a pitchfork.”

“Not literally.” She paused before plunging on. “About what I said, about the phone calls… I feel really funny about that. There's no logic to what I was thinking. You should leave it be.”

With a gentle finger, he lifted her chin until she met his eyes. “I'll handle it. Trust me.”

She swallowed, nodded, didn't feel a whole lot better, and she wasn't sure it was only because of the George business. Doubt bunnies were digging a huge hole in her smittenness.

“Why don't you come with me? Afterward we could have dinner somewhere.”

“Like a date?”

“Yeah. Exactly like a date.”

The first thing that came to mind was how she didn't have anything halfway suitable to wear, but she rejected
that thought immediately. Worrying about clothes was so
not
like her. The next thing that came to mind was how the anxious churning in her gut felt as much like fear as doubt.

What on earth did she have to fear?

Not measuring up to the man at her side? Fear of falling in love with another of his many facets? Fear of facing George, knowing she had lived up to one of his snide insults? She
had
crawled into bed with her partner.

All of the above?

She shook her head, tried another of those tight, forced smiles. “It's probably a bad idea, the way George feels about me.”

“That's the point. It's time he met you, sat down and talked to you. We need to clear the air.”

“Can I take a rain check? I don't want to desert Cheryl on her first day back.”

His gaze narrowed until she could see the light of argument in his pinpoint focus. Her agitation intensified to near panic. She did not want to go to Melbourne with him. She did not want to explain why.

Distraction seemed like the only solution.

Stretching up on her toes, she wound her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. It started out cool, lips to lips with a good deal of suspicion in between, but then she slid her fingers into his hair and made a low throaty you-can-do-better noise, and its whole purpose changed like wildfire. His hand closed around her nape, warm fingers that knew the exact way to touch her, and his tongue flicked against her bottom lip. Hot desire shivered into her veins, igniting her nerve endings so her skin felt too tight, her clothes harsh against her skin.

He broke it off with a low laugh that sang through her blood and rested his forehead against hers. “I gather you don't want to discuss this.”

This time her smile felt natural.

“Last chance on the bike. I'm taking it back to Graeme.” His hand slid down her back, pressed her closer. “We could park.”

“On a bike?”

“It's a big seat. I'll manage.”

She didn't doubt it, but still she straightened, touched his jaw regretfully. And shook her head.

“Jase could manage, you know that. The responsibility will do him a world of good.”

“I know, but not today.”

His gaze narrowed again; a frown tightened his brows. Irritated with his persistence, and more irritated with her own doubts and fears, she pulled away from him.

He took the hint.

D
espite the distraction of talking to Cheryl and worrying about Jase, the day seemed to drag on interminably. She didn't bother pretending it was for any reason other than waiting for Nick's return. She didn't bother pretending it would be any easier when he left for good. She had known that before she let herself fall in love with him.

When she couldn't stand seeing Jason hide his pain any longer—ribs, she figured—she insisted Cheryl take him to see a doctor. With twice the workload, the rest of the afternoon might prove less wearing. The phone rang around four, startling her so much she dropped a can of hoof oil. As she watched the greasy stain spread across the concrete like some brown alien slime, she wondered how long it would take before that first ring of a phone didn't lift her off the ground.

It was Nick. “Everything all right?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” He laughed, the sound oddly deprecating for Nick. “Forget it. I had this…feeling.”

“Maybe it's catching,” she murmured.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.” She twirled the cord around her hand. “How did it go? With George.”

“Not so bad, considering. I don't think we'll ever be best buddies, but we made some headway.” He paused, and she could picture that slight frown narrowing his gaze. “He says he knows nothing about the phone calls, and you know, I believe him. I don't know why, because he has one helluva way of bending the truth. But I do believe him on this one.”

“You don't have to sound so apologetic. I told you it was only a feeling, and you've proven that they're not always reliable.” She let that thought set before continuing. “There's been nothing since you changed the number, so likely it was kids. Let's forget it.”

Forget it, but don't go, she willed. Stay and talk to me a while.

“You returned Graeme's bike?”

“Yeah, I'm back on four wheels.”

“Damn.”

“Exactly.” He laughed, and she closed her eyes. Let the slow sensuous sound seep right into her, filling all those empty places. “You know you spoiled it for me.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. My last ride on that beauty, and I didn't feel any of the usual. The whisper of freedom, of release. I didn't feel like I was going somewhere. I felt more like I was leaving something behind.” The pause seemed chock-full of meaning, of importance. T.C. was sure her heart had stopped altogether. “I wanted you with me today.”

“I know. I just… I'm sorry, Nick.” She took a deep breath, wound the phone cord tightly around her fingers. “I wanted to be with you.”

He swore softly, impatiently. “I'm about to leave, so I should be out there before six. You want to go somewhere for dinner?”

“We could stay in. Cheryl made something that smells like heaven.”

“I'll bring wine.”

“Hurry,” she breathed, but she wasn't sure if he was still there. The dial tone sounded in her ear.

She showered, blow-dried her hair, slathered herself in skin lotion, even played with some makeup, although she removed most of that. She found her one set of matching underwear and agonized over clothes, eventually settling on a slinky knit top and cargoes that rode low on her hips, because, well, they were easy to get off. As far as being a seductress, it was the best she could do.

After she had set the table, she wandered about the house in an excruciating state of anticipation. Half an hour to go, even if he had heard her last urgent plea to hurry. She couldn't sit down, she couldn't stand up, and her palms were starting to sweat. In the end she took herself off to the stables, the only place likely to calm her, and as she walked the well-known path she was surprised to see a flash of movement cross the window of the tack room.

Odd. Unless Jason had come back, determined to finish cleaning today's work harness, which was exactly the kind of stunt he would pull. Shaking her head with resignation, she walked along the breezeway, calling his name.

No answer.

An uncanny warning tiptoed up her spine, and she whipped her head around, caught a flash of red hair, a twisted sneer and a raised arm. Heard two crude words, and then her head exploded in blinding white pain.

 

Hurry,
she had breathed in that all-fire sexy voice. As if he had needed prompting. He checked his watch as the hired Land Rover bumped over the entrance grid. Grinned.
All-time new land record, Portsea to Riddells Crossing, despite stopping for wine. And flowers.

The wheels spun up gravel as he turned sharply into the yard, then lined up the garage entrance, braking sharply to park beside her Courier. He didn't know why he was in such a hellish rush. Once he was inside that door he intended to take it very slowly, and very slowly again. Maybe then they would open the wine and think about eating whatever Cheryl had cooked.

He forced himself to amble through the door. The kitchen light was on. The dining table set—with candles. “Nice touch,” he murmured. Anticipation hummed through his veins as he walked the hallway. The bathroom door lay open, revealing her work clothes scattered where she had discarded them. He inhaled the lingering scent of her shampoo, pictured her naked, skin gleaming as she stepped from the water. His whole body pulsed.

Maybe the first time wouldn't be so slow.

Before he placed a hand flat against her bedroom door and watched it swing noiselessly open, he knew it would be empty. The whole house felt empty. Hollow, he realized, without her presence. He took a minute to digest the strangeness of that thought, strange because all the way back from Melbourne he had been feeling a sense of coming home. Now he was here, standing in the heart of that home, and feeling nothing but emptiness.

The stables.

He was already striding out, shouldering through doorways, and when he hit the path and heard the distant sound of Ug's shrill yapping, the anticipation in his veins turned cold with dread. He broke into a run and didn't stop until he came into the breezeway and saw her sitting there, propped against the stable wall.

“What the hell…?”

She moved her lips in a weak semblance of a smile, and
then Nick was there, hunkering down, taking her head between hands that trembled.

“Are you all right, sweetheart?”

“My head…exploded,” she mouthed.

He looked into her glassy eyes, saw the flash of pain when his fingers tightened involuntary. Swore silently. “I'm sorry, baby.” He swung her into his arms, and her head lolled against his chest.

She murmured “Better,” and for a minute he couldn't move with the tremendous weight of relief.

She was all right. A concussion, he figured, but he was taking her straight to casualty to make sure.

Halfway to the hospital she turned toward him and said very lucidly, “I know who it was. I saw him.”

 

If people didn't stop treating her like an invalid, she would scream…well, maybe not scream, since her head was still inclined to ache, but she would definitely whisper in a loud, aggravated tone. When the hospital released her after overnight observation she had breathed one mighty sigh of relief, but now she'd been home two days and it was worse than ward four.

Tired of her own company and daytime television, she had ventured down to the stables. Nick had picked her up and carried her back here, muttering something about her not knowing how to stop working.

“I had a bump on the head. I'm over it.”

“Is it so hard to let someone look after you?”

He had been so angry that she'd let it be. Last night he'd insisted she sleep in her own bed, alone, which hadn't done anything for her head except make it spin with paranoia. Maybe that one night hadn't been as wondrous for him as for her. Maybe her encounter with the rough end of a shoeing rasp had provided Nick with the perfect out. Maybe one night was all she would have.

The notion had transfixed her with paralyzing force, so
when he'd come to say good-night, when he'd leaned down to kiss her lips with heartbreaking gentleness, when she'd longed to rope her arms around his neck and draw him down beside her, she had lain motionless and said nothing lest she blab about staying and loving her, not just for this night but forever.

When she woke, he had gone down to the stables, returning just before the police came to tidy up their investigation. They'd arrested Red the night he attacked her, and with several thousand dollars worth of Yarra Park harness in his trunk, he had little comeback. Drunk, belligerent and at odds with the world, he confessed to everything, including the phone calls.

That had started out as a drunken game aimed at unsettling the woman he blamed for turning Jason against him. The thought of robbery had just started to take shape when Nick answered the phone, putting him on the back foot. A woman on her own was the perfect prey for a coward like Red Wilmot.

After his fight with Jason, he had been seething with the need to retaliate, and he'd lucked out when he overheard Nick tell the service-station attendant he was heading into Melbourne for the day. He waited, watched and struck after T.C. went back to the house at the end of her day's work.

If she hadn't happened along when she did, he might just have taken what he came to get—anything portable and salable—or he might have had his fun trashing the place and turning the horses loose. He had done a little of that, she gathered, although both Nick and Jase shrugged it off as minor.

Don't you worry your poor aching little head about it,
was the tenor of their response to her questions.

Now the police were long gone, and she had woken from an afternoon nap to find Cheryl had also left. She was alone, bored and gnashing her teeth. Somewhere in
the distance thunder grumbled in sympathy, and she wandered onto the verandah to watch the approaching storm. A portentous bank of deep gray hung over the southern hills, split suddenly by a flash of lightning.

Had it been only three days since the last storm? It felt like so much longer.

The wild spirit of that day hovered around her, melding with her restless mood, until she grabbed her wind-cheater and took off at a brisk walk. This time she thought about her route, choosing a path that circled the property with an added loop along the river bank. At the farthest point the wind shifted without warning, blustering in from the south, and she knew she was about to get wet.

That didn't bother her. Instead she stopped to hold her arms wide and lift her face to the first heavy drops of moisture. With her eyes closed, the rain seemed to fall in slow motion. A plop on her forehead. A second striking the point of her chin and rolling down her throat. The next came in twin splashes on her cheeks, and then the heavens opened with a deafening roar.

A shout of laughter burst from her open mouth as she twirled in a wide circle and started to run. How long had it been since she had taken the time to run in the rain? Usually she was running
from
the rain, bustling to finish some chore or other, too busy to appreciate the freshness in the air, to breathe the rich scent of damp earth, or to jump the rivulets that trickled across the road. The other day she had wanted to outrace the storm; today she wanted to run with it.

By the time she collapsed on the edge of the verandah, she was panting hard from exertion. Behind her, the screen door opened, then clattered shut. She heard the firm tread of boots and smiled broadly as she straightened out of her restorative head-between-knees posture.

“Thank you,” she managed to breathe as she looked up
past the denim legs and chambray work shirt into his set expression.

“What the hell have you been doing?”

Her smile froze. “Taking a walk. I needed the air.”

“Couldn't you see it was going to storm?”

“It came in quicker than I thought.” She laughed a little, determined not to let his attitude faze her. “Isn't it glorious?”

“What it is, is dangerous. You better get inside and out of those wet things.”

“I am a bit soaked, aren't I?”

She felt the touch of his gaze as it flicked over her, but his mouth didn't lose its hard set. “If you hate being an invalid so much, you'd better get out of those clothes.”

“I'll drip water all through the house.”

“It'll survive.”

Now he was starting to steam her, standing there with that grim look on his face. What had happened to the old Nick? The one with the easy smile and laid-back attitude. Poetry in slow motion, she'd labeled him that first day. Now he reminded her more of a funeral dirge.

“Come on, Tamara. Quit mucking about and get out of those wet things.”

“Okay,” she said affably, and she started undoing buttons. Her jacket came first, peeled off and dropped to the ground in a sodden heap. Next she wrenched off her boots, her socks. She had managed the pull her shirt out of her jeans when strong hands lifted her, swung her up and around in the one economical motion.

Déjà vu.

Except this time she didn't stop herself from looping her arms around his neck and angling her body closer to his. He stopped in his tracks, and as quick as a clash of lightning across the storm-darkened sky, the mood changed. She felt it in his extreme stillness, broken only by the small movement in his throat as he swallowed.

“I'm still furious, you know.”

She smiled. “I know.”

Twisting a little, she tried to see his face, but it was impossible from this angle.

“It was getting late. I didn't know where you'd gone.” His arms tightened around her in strong contrast to the concern that softened his voice. Her heart bounded, lodged in her throat, and something hummed vaguely around the edges of her memory, something else he'd said that had caused the same leap of hope. Something about leaving her behind. She wished she could remember….

“What were you thanking me for?”

“Pardon?”