All They Need (11 page)

They looked into each other's eyes for a long beat.

“Okay,” he said. Then he smiled, a sweet, small, very sincere smile. “Thanks, Mel.”

The urge to touch him in some way—even just his hand—was so strong that she took a step backward.

“Go make another million. Quickly. The world's bankers need you.”

She was very aware that she was using humor to diffuse the sudden tension between them and she suspected he was, too.

“If you insist.”

He started down the stairs. Mel shut the door so she wouldn't stand there like an idiot watching him walk away. Then she went to the kitchen to make herself peanut butter toast. The way she would if this was a normal day and she'd had a normal conversation with any old person.

“Fake it till you make it” had always been one of her favorite sayings.

 

F
LYNN THOUGHT ABOUT
his conversation with Mel as he drove into Mount Eliza village to locate her father. She was smart and she was funny and she always surprised him. He liked that about her.

He also liked how she looked in silk.

Fine, sleek silk in variegated shades of blue that clung to every line of her body. He'd taken one glance
at her and known she didn't have a stitch on underneath. The realization had played havoc with his self-control the whole time he'd been talking to her.

He went over the reasons why it would be bad to start anything with her as he pulled into a parking spot at Village Motors, but the old arguments felt as though they were wearing a little thin now. What he felt for her was far more than simple sexual curiosity or interest. He was drawn to her on every level. Which meant that whatever happened between them wouldn't be a repeat of Hayley.

And it might be the best thing that had ever happened to him. Granted, the argument that the timing was bad still held a lot of water, but like Summerlea, Mel was unique. A one-off, never to be repeated. And he'd already decided that even if the timing couldn't be worse, he wasn't walking away from Summerlea.

He was starting to feel the same way about Mel. He glanced up at the building and pushed thoughts of Mel to the back of his mind as he got out of his car. Perhaps he was getting conservative in his old age, but he didn't think it was appropriate to be thinking about ways to get Mel into his arms, his bed and his life while he was introducing himself to her father.

Village Motors occupied a double block, with a wide roller door leading into a workshop occupying the left side of the property and a small office area filling the right. A plastic sign above a glass-fronted door identified it as Reception. He entered and breathed in the smell of engine grease and metal. A counter bisected the room. On this side were a couple of beaten-up chairs and a table with some much-thumbed car magazines, while the other side boasted a desk with a young girl tapping at a computer.

“Hi. Can I help you?” she asked as he approached the counter.

“I hope so. I need someone to take a look at my car. It'll probably need to be towed over, but it's local. Mel Porter is a friend and she recommended you guys.”

“Oh, Mel. Cool,” the girl said. “I'll get Mike so you can tell him what the problem is.” She stood and disappeared through the door to the workshop. She was back in thirty seconds with a tall, muscular, dark-haired man hard on her heels.

Flynn would have recognized Mike Porter as Mel's father in a crowd of thousands. Clear gray eyes sitting above a nose similar to Mel's regarded him neutrally. The shape of his face, the way he held himself—the family resemblance was startling, despite the thick horseshoe mustache that bracketed his mouth.

“Mike Porter. How can I help you?” He offered Flynn his hand.

“Flynn Randall. I'm having some trouble with my '65 Aston Martin. Your daughter, Mel, said you might be able to help me out.”

Mike frowned slightly. “Randall. You're not the bloke who bought Summerlea, are you?”

“That's right.”

“Mel mentioned you the other day. So, what's going on with your Aston?”

Mel had been talking about him, had she?

Interesting.

“I think it's probably the brushes in the starter motor. I've had trouble with them before. The engine is turning over but not starting.”

“Starter motor trouble for sure,” Mike confirmed. “Where is it? Stacy mentioned something about you needing a tow?”

“It's over at Summerlea. Is there a local tow-truck service I can use?”

Mike made a dismissive gesture. “Since it's local and it's only the starter motor, there's no need to tow. Leave the keys with me and I'll swing by and take a look at it this afternoon. If it's the starter motor, I can unbolt it and bring it here to work on it. If it isn't… Well, we'll cross that bridge.”

“Great.” Flynn slid the key to the Aston free from the ring and handed it over.

“Mel said you've got a bit of a green thumb.”

“That's right.”

Mike shook his head. “Gotta say, I don't get it. If I had my way the whole yard at home would be concrete. No mowing, no weeds.”

“I suppose you'd paint that concrete green, too, huh?” Flynn asked.

Mike's mouth twitched at the corners. “I hadn't given it that much thought, but I probably would.”

“You know there's that artificial grass you can get now, right? Stays green all year round. It's a whole level up from green concrete.”

“I'll bear it in mind.” Mike glanced over his shoulder toward the workshop. “Leave your details with Stacy, I'll be in touch.”

“Just so you know, I may not be able to pick the car up again this week. So if it does need a tow in, you might be stuck with it over the weekend.”

“We can deliver the car to you in Melbourne if you like. We do that for a few of our customers.”

“Yeah? That would be a load off, I don't mind admitting.”

“Consider it done. Thanks for the business, Flynn.”
Mike gave him a nod before heading back into the workshop.

Flynn passed his business card to Stacy, grabbed a Village Motors card from the stack on the counter and exited to the street.

At least he knew where Mel had gotten her dry sense of humor. He crossed the pavement to his father's car, thinking about the fact that Mel had mentioned him to her family. It was deeply pathetic, but he wished he could have asked what else Mel had said about him, apart from the fact that he'd bought Summerlea and was into gardening.

How old are you exactly?

It was a good question. The thing was, Mel made him feel young and stupid again.

He was still trying to work out whether this was a good thing or not when his phone rang, sucking him into yet another work issue, and, as usual, everything else in his life got pushed into the background.

F
LYNN WAS SNOWED UNDER
for the next few days, working to beat the deadline for a tender on a government housing project. He was still shoveling his way through his in-tray on Wednesday when his assistant stuck her head in the door.

“Flynn. I've got Mel Porter on the phone. She's delivering your car and wondered where you'd like it parked. Shall I direct her to your spot or tell her to leave it in guest parking?”

He'd been hunched over his desk going over a specification chart but he straightened immediately. “Mel?” he repeated stupidly.

“That's what she said.”

He was unprepared for the flood of pleasure and anticipation he felt at the thought of seeing her again. “Put her through.”

She returned to her desk and a few seconds later his phone rang.

“Mel.”

“Hi. Sorry to disturb you. I only wanted to know where you would like the car parked but your secretary insisted on putting me through to you.”

“Why are you delivering my car? I thought some guy named Jimmy was going to do it?” He'd spoken to Mike the previous afternoon to make the arrangements.

“Jimmy has the flu and Dad didn't want to hand your $300,000 car over to a pimply-faced eighteen-year-old who's seen
Ferris Bueller's Day Off
one too many times.”

He grinned and sat back in his chair. “I can only applaud your father's excellent judgment. How far away are you?”

“About ten minutes. Your secretary mentioned something about guest parking.”

“Turn into the entrance to the underground garage. The guest parking is immediately on your right. Reception's on the ground floor. Let them know when you arrive and I'll come down.”

“You don't need to do that,” she said hastily. “You're busy. I can drop the keys at Reception and leave you to it.”

“Or you could have lunch with me.”

“You don't need to buy me lunch.”

“I want to.”

She was silent for a long moment. Probably trying to come up with an excuse.

“You must be busy,” she said lamely. “I don't want to mess up your day.”

“I'll see you in ten minutes, Mel.”

He thought for a minute after he'd hung up, then buzzed his secretary. “Mary, what's the name of that new Spanish place everyone's talking about in St. Kilda?”

“The Lexington Hotel?”

“That's the one. Can you get me a table for two for twenty minutes from now?”

“What about your one o'clock?”

“I'll move it.”

He sent an email to reschedule his one o'clock, then grabbed his jacket and wallet and headed for the door.

“I'll see you later, Mary,” he said as he breezed past her desk.

She looked astonished. Probably because he almost never had lunch, unless it was a business meeting. He took the lift to the underground garage and walked up the ramp to where the guest parking was located. He'd been waiting barely a minute when Mel pulled in. She saw him and gave him a confused little wave before driving into a parking spot and turning off the engine.

“What are you doing down here?” she asked as she unfolded her tall body from the car. She was wearing dark jeans and a black turtleneck beneath a short red woolen coat, her hair loose over her shoulders.

She looked great.

“Waiting for you in case you tried to bail on my lunch offer.”

She frowned and he pointed a finger at her.

“Tell me it didn't cross your mind.”

Her expression became a little sheepish.

“Busted,” he said.

“You don't have to take me out to lunch just because I'm dropping off your car.”

“I know I don't. Come on, we're having Spanish in St. Kilda.”

He plucked the keys from her hand. She hesitated a moment before circling the car to the passenger door.

“Nothing fancy,” she said. “I'm not dressed for fancy.”

“It's lunch and it's Spanish. Jeans are fine.”

She slid into the car and reached for her seat belt.

“How did Gertie behave?” he asked as he reversed out of the parking spot.

“Like a dream. It's a beautiful car. Some people might say too beautiful to have such an ugly nickname.”

“She's earned that nickname, don't you worry,” he said as they shot up the ramp and out into the street. “The number of times she's broken down on me…”

She gave him a curious look. “Maybe you should get something more reliable then.”

“I couldn't do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because that would mean admitting defeat. Besides, we all have our flaws, right?”

He could feel her watching him and he took his eyes off the road to glance at her. “What?”

“Nothing.” She shifted her gaze to the front.

“I hope you're hungry,” he said. “This place is supposed to be good.”

“I could eat.”

They talked about her garden for the remainder of the short drive. Flynn found a parking spot close to their destination and ushered Mel into what looked like an old-school pub. Inside, however, the building had been gutted. The traditional wood bar and sticky carpet had been ripped out and replaced with concrete everything. The floor was polished concrete, while huge feature concrete arches marched down one side of the room, and on the other side a vast concrete bar dominated the space. The seating was equally modern—white Saarinen tulip chairs with alternating acid-yellow and hot-pink cushions—and the art on the walls was edgy and abstract, with big slashes of black with dripping red and more acid-yellow.

It was incredibly noisy and filled with a laughing, well-dressed crowd—trust-fund kids who didn't have to work, minor celebrities and businesspeople who still
had time for long lunches. Not exactly the venue he would have chosen for what he hoped would be an intimate lunch with Mel.

A thin, austere-looking woman approached, arching an eyebrow. “Can I help you?” she asked, her tone implying she would prefer to do anything but.

Flynn had been eating in places like this since he was in short pants and he ignored her attitude. “Table for two. Under the name of Randall.”

She perked up predictably at the mention of the
R
word and they were soon being whisked to a small side table. It was only when he was seated opposite her that he saw how tense Mel was. Her gaze bounced around the room uneasily, and when the waitress returned with their menus she ducked her head and murmured her thanks.

He frowned, watching her rather than the waitress as the other woman launched into a lengthy rundown of the day's specials and the wine list. Mel made a show of listening, but he could tell she'd tuned out.

“Thank God,” he said the moment the waitress left. “That was like listening to the
begat
part of the Bible. Corn-fed spatchcock begat braised witloof begat roasted baby beets begat brandied goat's cheese—”

She choked on the mouthful of water she was swallowing.

“Are you all right? Should I come around and Heimlich you?” he offered.

“I don't think you can Heimlich for fluids.” She coughed.

“Good point.” He watched sympathetically as she finally got a grip.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

Her daze darted around the restaurant again, almost as though she was checking to see if anyone was watching. Her fingers pleated the edge of her linen napkin, folding it back and forth, back and forth.

“Do you have any idea what you'd like?” he asked.

“I'm not sure…?.”

He asked if she wanted wine but it was very loud thanks to all the concrete and she had to ask him to repeat himself twice. Over at the bar, a woman laughed, the sound not unlike an excited hyena.

He looked at Mel. She had her best game face on, but his gut told him she was deeply uncomfortable. Hell,
he
was uncomfortable. He'd wanted to treat her, to give her a nice experience and, yes, to show off a little. Instead, he'd landed them in the middle of the sort of trendy, pretentious eatery he usually avoided like the plague.

He made eye contact with her across the table and decided to take a gamble.

“Okay, I'm just going to put it out there,” he said, leaning forward so he could be heard over the din. “There's this really great burger joint around the corner from the office. They make their own relish and instead of buns they use—”

“Let's go,” Mel said, already reaching for her coat.

He laughed. “That bad, huh?”

“I really like burgers.”

She was being diplomatic, he knew. They stood and he helped her into her jacket. The waitress approached and he told her that they'd changed their minds. His hand on the small of Mel's back, he guided her toward the door.

They were almost home free when he felt her muscles tense beneath his hand. He glanced at her face
and saw that her eyes had gone blank. For a moment he didn't understand. Then he felt someone staring at him and glanced toward the bar.

Owen Hunter stood amongst a group of suits, a glass of wine in hand, his gaze pinned to them. He looked shocked. And, unless Flynn was wildly mistaken, angry.

Mel lengthened her stride, reaching the door and exiting into the cool winter air ahead of him. He gave her a moment to compose herself before touching her arm.

“You okay?”

“Yes. Of course,” she said, but her voice sounded hoarse, strained.

Flynn's hand found the small of her back again and he guided her toward the car. He waited until she was busy fastening her seat belt before he spoke again.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“More than a year ago. We pretty much did everything through the lawyers.”

There was a question in his mind, one that had been bugging him for a long time. He hesitated to ask it. Then he shrugged. If this attraction between him and Mel was going to go anywhere, there needed to be a certain level of honesty and understanding between them.

“Feel free to tell me to mind my own business, but how did you guys ever get together? I keep trying to picture him not being a complete ass-hat and failing miserably.”

Her lips bent into a parody of a smile. “We were both backpacking through Europe. I went for a year when I was twenty-one and stayed for four I loved it so much. I met Owen at the beginning of my last year at a bar
in Portugal. I beat him in the limbo competition, and that was pretty much it.”

“Again, I can't picture Hunter backpacking, either.”

The other man always seemed so aware of his own status, his own importance. Backpacking seemed to be the very antithesis of everything that Hunter appeared to crave and value.

“He loved it. I think he saw it as a challenge. He could make a euro go further than anyone I've ever traveled with.” She gave a sharp little laugh.

“What?” he asked.

“I was just remembering how shocked I was when I learned he had money. We got married a week before we were due home, on the beach in Thailand, and he told me that night about his parents and their money and his trust fund. He said he hadn't wanted to tell me before because he wanted to make sure I was marrying him because I loved him and not because of what he could do for me.”

Flynn tried to think of something to say that didn't have the word
ass-hat
in it again.

“Must have been a bit of a shock,” he finally said.

Another grim smile from her. “I thought I was in my own version of
Pretty Woman.
I mean, it doesn't get much better, right? Working-class girl goes overseas, meets incredible guy, falls in love, and it turns out he's rich as well. Cinderella, eat your heart out.”

He started the car and pulled out into traffic.

“The bit they don't tell you in the fairy tale is all the stuff that happens after the happily ever after,” Mel continued after a short silence. “Like when Richard Gere's friends won't accept Julia Roberts because she doesn't know all the rules, and how Cinderella wasn't
the type of girl King and Queen Charming wanted their son to marry.”

He flicked a look at her. She was gazing out the window, an infinitely sad expression on her face. “I'm sorry.”

She glanced at him, surprised. “For what?”

“For asking the question.”

She shrugged. “It's not your fault that the answer is so sucky.”

They were both silent for the remainder of the drive to the burger place. He turned to face her once he'd pulled into a parking spot.

“Just so you know, this place has no ambience, unless you count graffiti gouged into the tabletops and a few old Coke posters. On the plus side, there's no concrete and not a single waiter with an attitude. Plus the burgers are awe-inspiring. I recommend the burger with the works, but I'm a pig like that.”

Mel smiled faintly. “Are we talking egg and beet-root?”

“And pickles, and caramelized onions.”

“I'm in.”

He ordered while she slid into a booth toward the rear of the restaurant. He slid in opposite her and they immediately bumped knees. She shuffled along the seat and he did the same, and still they bumped knees.

“Okay, these booths were clearly made for midgets. I think we need some strategy here,” he suggested. “Staggered knees. It's the only way this is going to work.”

“Staggered knees?”

He reached under the table and found her knee. He guided her left knee to the right of his, then did the
same with her right knee so that they were effectively interwoven.

“Oh, staggered knees. Why didn't you say so?” she said. Then she started laughing.

He watched her, a smile playing about his mouth, aware that she needed the tension release.

“Sorry. That just tickled my funny bone.”

“You have a great laugh,” he said.

Her gaze slid away from his and she reached for the straw dispenser. She pulled a straw free and fiddled with it, and he could almost see her casting about, looking for a safe topic of conversation.