Baiting the Boss (3 page)

Her eyes flashed and her body vibrated with the force of her feelings. And even though part of him was riled by her outburst, another part couldn’t help appreciating her sudden spark. Her silky-brown hair crackled, her skin flushed, and her breath hissed from between full lips. Shoot, when Grace Owens let herself go, she was surprisingly hot. But no matter how appealing she looked, he wasn’t going to take any crap from her.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he drawled, “but I don’t fall for guilt trips, so you can throttle back on the angry juice.”

She huffed out a breath. “Can’t you at least take a few days to consider it?”

Jack snorted. “And have you pestering me all that time? No thanks. I’m staying here, and you’re going back with Wally tomorrow. Nothing personal, but I don’t want you hanging around as a constant bad reminder.”

“What if I—” She let out a sudden shriek and launched herself at him, feet pedaling madly. “What was that? Something ran right over my foot! Is it—is it a rat?”

When she’d leaped at him, he’d instinctively opened his arms to catch her. Now, as she hung onto his shoulders, he became sharply aware of her warm, soft body clutched up against him. The sensation was far more seductive than it should have been.

He smothered a laugh. “Maybe. We get a few around.” As her fingers tightened on his shoulders, he relented. “Actually, it’s probably just a gecko. Every bungalow has dozens of them. Keep the insects down.”

“You sure it’s not a rat?”

For a moment he considered lying to her just so she’d remain in his arms. The way her breasts were pressed against his chest was beginning to make his blood thud. Hmm, maybe lying wasn’t such a good idea. “I’m sure.”

Shuddering, she disentangled herself from him and hugged her arms across her chest, darting sideways glances at the dense undergrowth flourishing around them. “Okay. Fine. I don’t mind geckos.”

Obviously she wasn’t aware of the downsides of house geckos—cannibalism, droppings, and noisy spats during the night—but she’d either find out tonight or not at all.

“Wally is leaving early tomorrow morning,” he pressed on. “I’ve told Tupua to wake you at six so you won’t miss him. You’ll be able to catch the flight to Kiribati the following day, and you’ll be back in Sydney before the weekend.” He paused as she slapped at a mosquito honing in on her exposed neck. “Wouldn’t you rather be in your city clothes sitting behind your desk in a nice, air-conditioned office? Doesn’t that sound so much better than pestering me?”

She shuffled her feet as something rustled in a nearby bush. “I admit I’m not cut out for intrepid adventures, but you’re forgetting I was given a specific assignment. I don’t give up so easily.”

Tenacity. That’s what he remembered from her few months working for him. Once he’d given her a task, she had doggedly completed it. She wasn’t a quitter, but neither was he. He took a sealed envelope from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “Here’s a letter for Lachlan.” He’d written it back at his bungalow while they’d waited for the rain to stop. “I’ve explained that you’re not to blame for my nonappearance. He’ll bellow a bit, but in the end he’ll understand. He knows how pigheaded I can be.”

She gazed at him a while, and when she finally blew out a sigh, he knew he’d won the battle. Her voice was resigned as she asked, “Are you never coming back to Sydney?”

He drew in a breath and looked at the night sky. The rain clouds had cleared, and the sky was awash with stars more brilliant than could ever be seen from a city. Close by, a solitary frog croaked, calling out for a mate, while from the bungalow came the sound of Mary singing a lullaby to her babies.

“I don’t have any plans, no.”

She shook her head. “You’re right. You are pigheaded.”

“I’m glad we finally agree on something.” He cocked his head toward the bungalow. “You’d better get inside before the mosquitoes devour you whole.”

“Will I see you tomorrow before I leave?”

“No. I hate public farewells. I’ll say good-bye to you now.”

Her brown eyes widened. “Oh. Okay. Well then, good-bye, Jack. Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”

“Maybe.” They exchanged a handshake. For a moment the brief contact with her small, warm hand made him pause. When would he see Grace again? If circumstances were different… Damn, why had she dropped in like this? She had no right to stir the sediment of his memories. He turned to go.

“Jack?”

He pivoted back. “Yeah?”

“What would you have done if your grandfather had turned up today instead of me?”

The glow from the bungalow lights silhouetted her figure, picking out coppery highlights in her hair and the gentle curve of her hips.

His lips quirked. “I wouldn’t have been half as nice.”

“Nice?”
she squeaked.

“Yeah, nice. Why do you think he sent you in the first place?”

Not waiting for a reply, he raised his hand in salute and continued on his way. As the night swallowed him up, something deep inside his chest eased and uncoiled.

It felt almost like relief, but not quite.

…

Grace hunkered down on the front deck, folded her arms on top of her suitcase, and rested her chin on her forearms. Even at six in the morning, bright sunlight poured through the trees and slipped in through her drooping eyelids. Smothering a yawn, she scratched a mosquito bite on the side of her neck. Since she’d left Sydney, she’d endured several restless nights, and last night had been the worst. Not because of her hosts. Tupua and Mary couldn’t have been kinder, but she’d never spent the night in a room with practically no outside walls except for a few jute screens. She guessed it was practical here in the tropics, but it left her feeling incredibly exposed. Especially to the sounds of the jungle so close to the bungalow. And the sounds inside the bungalow.

She had spent the night huddled under the sheets with the mosquito nets shrouded around her, starting awake at every rustle or creak. All night long, the geckos had scampered across the walls and ceiling. They’d skittered about her room without a trace of fear, and a squirming pair had even landed on the foot of her bed. She’d drawn back in horror, not knowing if they were fighting or mating.

Rubbing her gritty eyelids, she yawned again. Oh Lord, as soon as she returned to Sydney, she would crawl into bed and sleep for twelve hours. Her small city apartment, which she shared with her best friend, beckoned her—brick walls, glass windows, soft carpets, feather pillows, goose-down quilts, and the comforting hum of city traffic. How enticing it was.

“Here you go.” Tupua’s sibilant voice interrupted her daydream. She peeled open her eyes to see him holding a small brown bottle toward her. “Tea tree oil for your mosquito bites.”

“Thanks,” she said, taking the bottle in surprise. “And thanks for putting me up last night.”

“No problem. Any friend of Jack’s is welcome to stay anytime.”

Grace doubted if she could be classified as a friend of Jack’s anymore. She dabbed some of the oil on her bites. “So you and Jack are good friends, then?”

“Yes, I appreciate everything he does around here.”

Her fingers stilled on her neck. “Um, what exactly is that?”

“He didn’t tell you?” Tupua blinked at her. “Well, for a start he rebuilt that cottage he lives in from scratch. It was damaged in a cyclone a year back, and I never had time to fix it. When Jack came along, he asked if he could stay there in exchange for repairing it. I jumped at the chance, because the place was a complete wreck. He paid for the materials, did all the work himself, right through the wet season. Heh-heh, poor sucker.”

Grace stared at Tupua’s benevolent grin. “How long did it take him?”

“Months,” Tupua chortled. “It’s hard work in this climate, but he didn’t seem to learn his lesson. Soon as the hut was finished, he started work on the hall.”

“What hall?”

“Our village hall. We use it for church services and parties and just hanging out. It also got wrecked in the cyclone. We had been fixing it, but between farming and fishing, we never had enough time. So Jack decided he’d do it for us.”

“He’s been hard at work then?”

“Every day, for months and months. I tell you, that man doesn’t know how to relax.”

Grace’s stomach felt hollow. She’d called Jack spoiled and selfish. She’d accused him of loafing around and doing nothing. “I didn’t know”—she gulped—“about the hut and the hall. I thought he was just, you know, taking it easy.”

Tupua shrugged one massive shoulder. “Taking it easy? That doesn’t sound like Jack Macintyre. But you ought to know Jack. You know he’s not the type to bum around.”

She squirmed about on the deck. “You’re making me feel terrible now. That’s exactly what I accused Jack of.”

“And that’s why you’re leaving so soon? Because he’s not worth the trouble?”

She wrinkled her brow at the kind, patient man standing in front of her. “Are you saying I shouldn’t give up on Jack?”

“Heh-heh.” His body quivered with amusement. “That’s for you to decide.” When she didn’t reply, he stooped and plucked up her suitcase as if it were a feather duster. “We better get going if you want to catch Wally’s boat.”

He ushered her down the road toward the wharf. Yesterday’s rain had saturated the ground, and in the early morning sun a rich, earthy smell rose from the dirt.

Tupua continued, “In any case, it’s good to know Jack has people looking out for him. That man doesn’t talk much about his family.”

The trouble with Jack was he didn’t fully appreciate his family, Grace thought. Jack had enjoyed privilege and stability growing up, while she’d been dragged by her vagabond mother from one depressing house to another on a restless spiral to nowhere. Easy for Jack to throw away his position when he knew he could return to it whenever he wanted. Far harder to carve out your own niche in the world from scratch and hold onto it.

True, she’d been wrong in assuming Jack was merely lazing about. He was an active, giving member of the island community, but despite that she had a clear mission to accomplish, and she wouldn’t be doing her job if she allowed him to fob her off. Besides, there was her transfer to a better position to consider as well. She couldn’t give that up without a struggle, especially after the way Jack had disparaged her career choices. She owed it to herself to take him back to Sydney and in the process prove him wrong. As for the tingling buzz he triggered in her every time she saw him, well, that was just like the mosquitoes—she’d ignore it until she got used to it.

…

Jack stood on his deck sipping his morning coffee as he watched Wally’s boat chug out of the harbor. Today the ocean was a millpond, the barometer was climbing, and the crossing wouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. From this distance he couldn’t see anyone on the boat, so he assumed Grace was sitting inside the cabin. Poor thing. He didn’t envy her having to spend all that time cooped up with Wally. Not to mention fronting up to his grandfather empty-handed.

His chest twinged. Disconcerted, he massaged the spasm in his sternum. Damn. Was he feeling bad about dismissing Grace so unequivocally? Maybe she’d be blamed for not persuading him back to Sydney. He knew firsthand what a curmudgeonly slave driver Lachlan was, how he tended to lash out at those around him when his wishes were frustrated.

He drained his coffee mug, trying to push away his growing misgivings. Why the hell had Lachlan sent Grace here anyway? Didn’t he know she wasn’t exactly an intrepid traveler, that she’d be out of her depth in a foreign country? Or was he testing her in some way, just like he used to test Jack?

“Hel-lo?” A familiar voice floated out from the garden below.

He froze as Grace strolled down the path, fresh and jaunty in white shorts and a blue T-shirt with a navy baseball cap on her head. Her hair was tied back and threaded through the hole at the rear of the cap, and her face was scrubbed clean and shiny. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the deck and looked at him, her toffee-brown eyes wide and bright.

All his anxieties about her blew away like chaff in the gale of his fury. He glared down at her.

“You’re supposed to be there.” He jabbed his forefinger toward the boat rapidly dwindling on the horizon. “I’m going to call Wally on the radio.”

“That won’t be necessary.” She placed a foot on the first step.

“The hell it isn’t.” He tromped down the stairs and grabbed her by the elbow. “It’s completely necessary.” Necessary to get her off the island and out of his thoughts. Necessary as his early morning coffee to set his day right. “The radio’s down at the harbor. If we hurry, we won’t have to wait too long for Wally to turn back.”

In one neat movement she sidestepped out of his grip. “Nobody’s turning back. I’m staying here a few more days.”

No, you bloody well are not
. He felt the steam building up at the back of his head as he took in the tenacious set of her lips. Christ. A minute ago he’d been feeling sorry for her, and now she was standing here defying him, looking stubborn and bold.

“You’re going back to Sydney,” he barked.

“Yes, but in a week or so.”

“I’m not having you nag me all day.”

“Who said anything about nagging? I just want a bit of a break.”

“You don’t like it here. No shops. No restaurants. Tons of mosquitoes and geckos and rats.”

Her mouth turned even more mulish. “You can’t order me off the island.”

Moisture beaded on the back of his neck. He rolled his eyes. “What the hell did I do to deserve this?”

She stepped back, some of her bravado crumbling, before steeliness filtered back. “You know,” she said through clenched teeth, “I’m asking myself that very question right now.”

“You don’t have to wonder. Just get your arse on Wally’s boat.”

The cusps of her cheeks turned pink. “I’ll get my arse on Wally’s boat when I’m good and ready and not a moment before.”

His gaze flicked over her hips and legs, his thoughts traitorously diverted by the idea of her arse, before he shook his head. “Afraid your career will dive-bomb if you don’t bring me back to Sydney?”

“No!” Exasperation furrowed her brow. “There’s more at stake here, don’t you realize?”