Aussie Rules (7 page)

Not this, she couldn't. “Danny. Don't you ever get tired of feeling sorry for me?”

“I don't feel sorry for you. You're too ornery to feel sorry for.”

“Good.” She went to the line, gripping her darts with new determination. “Prepare to lose.” Backing up the words, she threw.

Double twenty.

Her game was back.

Or so he let her think for a few minutes, before he proceeded to kick it into gear and beat her by three points.

“I could use breakfast now,” he said, putting the darts away.

“It's dinnertime.”

“So?”

She just rolled her eyes and headed to the door before he could say anything else, before he could see her tension had really only mounted…

It was her own fault. She'd gotten complacent. She'd fallen into a false sense of security, and she'd forgotten the pretense. She was good at forgetting. She'd spent most of her childhood forgetting about her father's wandering ways, her mother's drugs…

What if it all fell apart again, her entire world? If she lost this job, what would happen to her? She had no talent for anything other than sleeping with men, and even there she hadn't been all that successful or she'd have a diamond ring and a minivan by now.

Nibbling on a nail, she made her way through Sunshine Café, which was still suitably filled. A handful of women sat at one table. They'd flown in on a private jet owned by the husband of one of the women. Dressed in designer gear, they looked like a million bucks, all with expensive bags at their feet, most likely filled with the afternoon's shopping spoils. They probably had perfect lives, beautiful homes, complete with minivans.

At another table sat a couple. The man was in his sixties and now retired, but he had been a Hollywood movie star for years, and had developed an expensive plane habit that North Beach was all too happy to satisfy. The woman dripped bling.

It was the third table to catch her interest: five men, ranging from twentysomething into their forties, rowdy and noisy, all toasting themselves over one deal or another.

Maybe they'd gone to the track and had won big. Maybe they were in town for a convention. Dimi didn't know, but all that really mattered was that they stopped talking as she walked past them and up to Char's counter.

She could almost hear the collective male sigh and smiled inwardly as she waved at Al. “A beer,” she said, needing a drink bad and wishing they had the hard stuff. “Make it two,” she decided.

“Hey, Sexy. Is this seat taken?”

Dimi looked up into a tall, dark, and gorgeous stranger's face—one of the rowdy men behind her—and because he was the youngest and the best looking, she smiled. “Only by you,” she purred, thinking
there,
she'd just found herself exactly what she needed: her mindless oblivion.

T
hat night Mel tried to call Dimi, but couldn't reach her. Sitting in her small beach bungalow, Mel hung up the phone and stared out at the churning ocean, hating that she knew Dimi was out somewhere, trying to lose herself.

Finally she turned to her laptop and checked her e-mail, gingerly, braced for another message from LeaveItAlone, but nothing.

She didn't know what she'd expected, but answers would have been nice. Was it Sally, asking her to leave it alone?

And if that was true, why hadn't Sally just come out and asked Mel herself? Surely she knew Mel would have done anything for her, if asked.

Unable to think anymore, she climbed into bed and slept surprisingly hard, dreaming even harder. Again a pair of green eyes followed her into dreamland, laughing sea green eyes in a strong, tanned face, with an Aussie voice and a smile that could melt a woman's panties right off at fifty paces.

She woke up to the sun stabbing her in the face and decided she hated green eyes and sexy smiles, no matter who they belonged to. Still in bed, her gaze locked on the picture on her dresser: Sally in the cockpit of the Hawker, her head tossed back in laughter, as it so often had been.

God, Mel missed her.
Still
.

There was also a pic of Mel and Dimi at age sixteen, the day Mel had gotten her pilot's license. They were high-fiving each other, with Mel proudly displaying the license in her free hand.

The best day of her life because of Sally.

Climbing out of bed, Mel moved to her bedroom window, devoid of window coverings because she loved the unencumbered view of the craggy sandstone outcroppings of the Santa Ynez Mountains rising so close to the water. The terrain was rugged. Lots of mornings she got up before dawn to climb. It was great exercise and she loved the dramatic view from the top of the sheer rock faces and massive boulders and overhangs.

But this morning she just let herself stand there watching the day, soothed by the sounds of the sea before she hit the shower and drove into work.

North Beach Airport's day typically began at six
A.M
. The linemen came in, Char opened the café, the doors on the outside hangars rose, all in preparation for the morning flights. They usually had three to five planes come in to fuel up before nine o'clock. Some of those remained on the tarmac while their rich patrons went into Santa Barbara for their business. Some were towed into the maintenance hangar for work needed, and others simply used the airport as a fuel stop and moved on.

But as they typically did every morning before their day began, the staff and crew gathered at the counter of the Sunshine Café, mooching coffee from Charlene, standing around for the early-morning gossip session.

Mel, who was usually first into the airport, stood in the middle of it now, sucking down caffeine, humming an old Ratt song, which was coming from the ever-faithful boom box. Dimi was nowhere in sight, as usual. The woman was going to be late to her own funeral.

Ritchie was the front lineman today, and Kellan the rear, both inhaling donuts along with Danny and Ernest. Ritchie was talking, using his hands, his big gestures matching the grin on his face. “…And then I said, if you won't dress like a Victoria's Secret model, then don't expect me to act like a soap opera guy—”

Kellan laughed. “Oh, yeah, I bet that got you laid.”

“Hey, I was just being honest.” Ritchie looked at the others. “It's best to be honest. Right?”

The ones with a penis vehemently shook their heads.

Mel sighed. “More donuts,” she said to Char. “We need more donuts.”

“Got 'em.” Charlene came forward to plop down a tray, and it was like feeding piranhas, hands moved that fast. Mel managed to fight her way in and get a cinnamon twist, and had just taken a heavenly bite when Al nudged her. “So what's up with that Bo guy?”

Mel choked on a bite. “Um…What do you mean?”

“Just wondering why he's hanging around.”

Everyone looked at her, interested. Of course they were, it was
her
own business, which made it front-page news.

Where the hell was Dimi? Mel thought frantically. Dimi would lick the sugar off her fingers or something and suitably distract attention away from this issue. Mel glanced at Ernest, the only person here who'd been around when Eddie and Bo had shown up the first time all those years ago, but he was looking right back at her, no expression.

Was it possible Ernest didn't remember Bo? “Bo's an old acquaintance,” she finally said, hoping they'd all leave it at that. “And I'm letting him use some office space.”

“What's the story with you two?” Danny asked, perceptive as always.

“No story,” she said. “There's no story.”

The entire staff shot her a collective gaze that told her she'd have to do better. But until she heard back about the deed—and how it was falsified—she wasn't saying a word.

“Is this guy hassling you or something?” This from Kellan, with all the toughness his twenty-one years afforded him. He set down his donut and puffed up a bit. “Cuz I can talk to him for ya.”

“Me, too,” Ritchie said, now also resembling a puffer fish.

Silly. Stupidly male.

But they meant it. Everyone else nodded, too, and Mel's throat went tight. These guys, her friends, her
family,
would do anything for her. Anything except the one thing she needed: turn back time. “No one's hassling me,” she said. “He's just…visiting.” She tried to smile reassuringly but suddenly the whole thing felt like a big, fat elephant sitting on her shoulder.

“You sure?” Danny asked her quietly, watching her with those steady eyes. “Because I have a weird feeling you're not telling us everything.”

If he only knew…But they weren't going to let it go. Of course they weren't going to let it go, that would have been easy. So what could she say?
Look guys, he's saying Sally screwed us years ago and I never knew it. He's holding the deed and none of us are safe
. She couldn't say those things, not until she knew for sure. Should she say that he was a friend? Or how about an ex? “He's an ex,” she tried.

“Of Dimi's?” Char asked in surprise, because of course Mel wouldn't have an ex.

Yeah, they'd buy Bo being Dimi's ex, since Dimi had dated just about every single guy in California. And also in Nevada. And Arizona. Why not Australia, too?

Beside her, Danny went utterly, unhappily still. And damn it, she just couldn't do it.

“Actually, he's
my
ex,” she said on a pained sigh.

Charlene's jaw dropped. “Yours? But…”

“But you never even date,” Al finished for his wife.

“Hey, I do so, just…just not very often.”

“So what happened?” Char asked. “Because damn, girl, he's
hot
.” She caught Al's long look. “Well, he is.”

“We didn't work out, that's all. He…” Mel wracked her brain for a plausible reason to have dumped Bo, and caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Her heart kicked hard.

Bo himself.

Was he also enjoying her discomfort? Oh, yeah, no doubt. “He, uh, had this habit.”

“Drugs?” Charlene whispered, horrified.

Mel couldn't see Bo's face, but felt the heat of his silent challenge. She squirmed but reminded herself that really, this was all his fault. “He hummed during sex.”

Silence.

“I could have lived with that,” Charlene finally said.

“Yeah, Mel, that's not nearly a good enough reason to dump a guy,” Ritchie told her.

Bo came to a stop right behind Mel, and everyone's eyes widened. Cornered, she pretended not to see him, and did as she always did with her back to the wall—came out swinging. “He also had a teeny, tiny—”

Bo cleared his throat. She knew he'd leaned in close because she could smell him, some complicated mix of soap and man, and then he said silkily in her ear, “You want to start telling secrets now? Really?”

No. No, she didn't. Unable to pretend any longer, she turned. Damn it, Char was right. He was hot. Very hot. He stood there wearing a pair of faded-to-perfection Levi's and a soft-looking chambray blue button-down, opened over a white tee. Same boots as yesterday. Her heart bumped involuntarily against her ribs, both irritating and a little embarrassing. He still hadn't shaved, which created the thought before she could stop it: what would that rough jaw feel like scraping over her skin?

She didn't care!
she reminded herself. He was the equivalent of the big bad wolf, here to blow down her house of straw. His hair, wavy to just past his collar, was doing its own thing today, which meant a long lock fell over his forehead. She supposed most would say the color of the strands was brown but there was blond and red in it, too. A lion's pelt. She figured Bo would enjoy that analogy. He certainly had the watchful ways for such a comparison, and a graceful, easy way of moving that utterly belied how in control he was at all times. His eyes, as they landed on hers, were clear and fathomless as the sea, giving nothing away, except maybe a tad bit of disbelief at her “teeny tiny” comment.

“There you are,” she said with a bright smile. “We were just, um, having a discussion.”

In fact, all gazes had swiveled to the “part” they'd been discussing—his crotch.

“G'day,” Bo said, keeping his gaze level on Mel. “I need to talk to you.”

“Yeah, uh, we're in the middle of a staff meeting. An important staff meeting.”

Rocking back on his heels, hands in his pockets, he shot her a smile that wasn't quite friendly. “And in these staff meetings you always discuss the size of your ex-boyfriends' d—”

“We were just warming up with some watercooler talk,” Mel said quickly. “Harmless tradition. Anyway, no one but staff allowed, so you should probably…” She waggled her fingers to suggest he scoot along. “You don't mind, do you?”

His eyes said that he did, very much, and in them was also a promised retribution, making her wonder at the stupidity of baiting him.

“How about this,” he said calmly. “You give me a minute of your time, or we talk in public, right here at your
staff
meeting.”

Damn it. He'd do it, too. “I suppose I can give you a minute.” She purposely looked at her watch, sighed, then headed through the lobby toward her office.

Bo followed, of course. She could feel his gaze watching her every move. It wasn't often that she thought about being feminine, and it sure as hell wasn't often she wondered if she passed muster, so the normally unconscious movement of walking across the room suddenly became awkward. She felt exceedingly aware that her hair was wild, that she'd thrown on coveralls with little to no concern that they made her look like a short box, that her radio and cell clanked together loudly…

Completely unaware of—or ignoring—her discomfort, Bo leaned in ahead of her and pushed open her office door.

The unexpected gesture of chivalry caught her by surprise, and she tripped over her own two feet as she looked up into his enigmatic gaze.

“In,” he said, lending his hands to the cause, pushing her into her office, not exactly gently, negating the chivalrous gesture he'd just made. He shut the door, then turned to face her as he rolled up his sleeves. “Now,” he said, and locked the door, the sound of it clicking into place, making her pulse skip.

“Uh, there's really no need to lock it,” she said.

“Right. So your band of merry men can barge in here to save you when you start screaming. No, thank you.”

She reached behind her to grip the desk as she leaned back in a false show of calm and relaxation. Her fingers touched her metal envelope opener and, in reflex, closed over it. “Why would I scream?”

“I don't know, why would you stand around the watercooler discussing the size of your ex's dick?”

“You're not my ex.”

“Ah, but you let them think I was. Which means they all think that we've had wild, screaming sex.”

“But we haven't.”

“No.” He smiled, and it wasn't a nice one. “But we're going to.”

Her knees wobbled, and it wasn't exactly in fear. In spite of herself, she craned her neck and eyed the neat desk behind her, picturing him shoving her phone and blotter to the floor, pushing her onto the flat surface, then stepping between her legs to take her fast and hard and well. She cleared her throat. “I am not having sex with you just to make my story of you being my ex real.”

“How about to prove I don't have a teeny, tiny—”

“Yeah, about that.” She grimaced. “I'm sorry, it just popped out of my mouth.”

“You're not sorry.”

“Okay, not so much, no.”