Fixed Up (3 page)

The door that led to Mr King and her hopes for the future.

She blew out a couple of quick breaths. Someone would be here soon, surely? To distract herself she pulled a large folder from her bag and flicked through, stroking her hands across the glossy printed sheets. Looking at her new brochures, business cards and marketing materials helped restore her confidence. DIY Divas was a great business. She knew what she was doing and why she was doing it. Mr King would see this and he would jump at the chance to have her teach her women-only DIY classes in store.

And the classes would lead to her business expanding; more clients, better premises and a means to repay her business start-up loan.

Hell, she could probably take over the world—if the friggin' receptionist ever came back.

It was getting ridiculous. Harper stood up and stalked over to the glass door. She glared at it and then pushed through into the inner sanctum of the Castle. Okay, so maybe inner sanctum wasn't quite the right description for the rather ordinary-looking office beyond the fancy reception, but at least there were people present.

‘Excuse me,' she said to the person in the closest workstation. An older woman looked up from her keyboard and smiled.

‘I have an appointment with Mr King. There isn't anyone in reception,' said Harper. ‘Would you please let him know I'm here?'

‘Oh.' The woman looked confused. ‘I can't do that. Mr King isn't in.'

‘He must be. I have an appointment.' Harper could feel the sweat breaking out under her arms. She ordered herself to hold it together. ‘There must be a mistake. I definitely had a meeting scheduled with Mr King, only it was meant to be ten minutes ago.' Her words came out a bit gurgly, like too much saliva filled her mouth. She swallowed hard. How could this be happening? She'd scheduled this meeting two weeks ago. She'd done nothing but plan for it since.

To say all her eggs teetered in one basket was an absolute understatement.

She had to see Cliff King. Everything depended on it.

But the woman stood up and led Harper back to the smoked-glass door. ‘I'm so sorry, dear, you'll have to reschedule. Mr King left the office already; he's down at the polo club. There's an international match on and then a polo club dinner. He won't be back today.'

‘You're kidding me.' Harper stood stock still. ‘He's at a polo match?'

‘Yes, lucky man. He's in a private marquee swilling champagne. Something we'd all rather be doing, I'm sure. Call back tomorrow and reschedule.'

And with a firm but polite smile, she nudged Harper through the door and back out to the empty reception area.

***

Luke grabbed some tie-downs from the cab of his ute and fiddled with the ratchets. The box containing his new outdoor grill had been loaded onto the back of his truck and as soon as he had his new baby safely fixed to the vehicle he planned to drive to the butcher and purchase the biggest, juiciest steaks he could get.

He tested the hooks were fastened properly and ratcheted the ties another couple of cranks tighter. Satisfied the box wouldn't budge, he was about to pull out of his parking spot when he saw Her. Again. Stomping out of King of the Castle.

His heart beat a little faster. He hadn't met a woman who piqued his interest for a long time and this one had him firing on all cylinders.

But he'd wasted enough precious time already and his construction company didn't run itself. He should be back at work, not chasing pretty girls around a car park. Only—the way she moved, the set of her shoulders, gave the impression something was wrong.
He'd saved her life and now he was responsible for her
.

With a hefty sigh he told himself
that
was complete nonsense. He should drive away. Fast.

Instead, summoning his nerves of steel, he switched the engine off. Intent only on assuring himself she was okay, he stepped out of the truck, slammed the door and strode across the car park towards her.

She stopped next to a rumpty-looking station wagon and fossicked in her large bag. Luke knew his instincts were good; something was up, but she seemed more pissed off now. She swore as she dumped her bag on the ground to free up both hands to search its contents, a low husky profanity that made his mouth dry and his hands sweat.

This was it. Do, but most probably die.

‘Hi,' he said to the back of her head. ‘Finished your shopping now?'

Slowly she straightened. She turned, skewering him with a look that said she'd happily put him on a spit and roast him.

Luke blundered on. ‘Look, I know you don't know me from Adam, but I saw you leaving the store and I thought you looked upset. I wanted to check you were okay, that the spawn of Satan hadn't struck again.'

She gazed at him with a heavy sigh. ‘Are you for real?'

‘Huh?'

‘I mean, do you always feel the need to interfere in the business of total strangers?'

Luke could feel his chance of success sliding from a hopeful twenty per cent to a negligible two per cent. ‘Not all strangers, just the ones who risk death on a daily basis. And you looked upset. I have sisters—I'd be pretty pissed off if something upset them and nobody stopped to help.' He took a deep breath, mentally crossing his fingers behind his back. ‘If we introduce ourselves we won't be strangers.' He took a long stride in her direction and stuck out his hand, hoping like hell for a dry palm. ‘I'm Luke Colton.' She didn't respond. After an awkward moment he dropped his hand, determined not to be put off. But she did look less like she wanted to roast him.

For about two seconds.

She spoke, an edge of bitterness to her throaty purr. ‘I don't need rescuing again, thank you. I'm angry, not upset, and unless you can lure Cliff King back from his poncy polo match, you can't do anything to help.'

Luke wondered what her relationship with Cliff King was. ‘I would've thought Cliff was a little old for you,' he said, trying to act nonchalant.

‘What?—Ooh, yuck.' She pulled a face. ‘Just when I thought this day couldn't get any creepier.' Her husky voice dropped a tone, seducing his senses with a burning hold.

For a moment he watched as she resumed searching her bag. Her head bent low and tendrils of warm, brown hair brushed her soft cheek like the touch of a hand.

He thrust his own hands in his pockets, his fingers curled into fists. Another moment passed. He loitered longer than his comfort zone allowed and then, with a harsh breath, he took a step back. Time to let her go. ‘Okay then, I'm glad you're—okay,' he said in parting.

She glanced up, tucking her hair back. Serious-looking brown eyes gave him a once-over so intense it could've been a physical touch. His hopes flared again and he searched eagerly for a sign she was as interested in him as he was in her.

And maybe it was there.
Right there
, in the quizzical angle of her head, in that tempting nibble of her plump lower lip.

But her words contradicted the nibble, the effect like a bucket of icy water down the back of his overheated neck.

‘Thanks, but I just want to forget this day ever happened,' she said. She opened the car door and leapt into the driver's seat. In the confusion of juggling her keys and her bag, Luke saw a large folder hit the ground, spilling a few coloured papers.

‘Hey,' he called, but she backed at speed out of the car park.

Luke stood there, watching her beat-up station wagon vanish out of sight. He squatted down, picked up the folder and flicked through it.

He crinkled his eyes, deep in thought. His heart, doused in cold water only minutes earlier, started beating a little warmer. In his hand he held marketing brochures for a company called DIY Divas. He turned one over to examine a studio portrait of an attractive woman with soft-looking brown hair and a small, upturned nose. She sported a killer smile he'd never seen before, but the gleam in her eyes was unmistakeable.

He wanted to make her smile. He wanted to know if her laugh sounded as sexy as her voice. She fascinated him. Even her picture had the power to seduce him—or reduce him to a dribbling idiot. He needed to see her again.

His eyes perused the page, speed-reading for details.

Phone, web, email, Facebook, Twitter. The ways to get hold of the owner and director of DIY Divas were numerous.

Luke smiled.
Gotcha, Harper Cassidy
.

Luke Colton. Even his name intoxicated her. Harper drove like the clappers, determined to put a great distance between herself and the sexiest man she'd ever met. She couldn't allow herself any distractions; in particular big friendly distractions wearing faded jeans and work boots. The fact that he was trying to chat her up in a home depot store screamed unsuitability.

It might have been the way some women operated—her mother, for one—but Harper was cut from less tacky cloth. At least she tried to be. She'd been abandoned too much as a child to put up with it as an adult, too.

She made the short drive home without really noticing her surroundings. On auto-pilot she parked in her usual spot beneath the half-dead eucalyptus tree in her driveway, reminding herself again she needed to cut it down, then ran up the porch steps.

She raced inside the house. It wasn't much, but it was all hers. Every last borer-choked plank of it. Her very own DIY adventure.

Closing the door on the outside world, Harper allowed herself a mini-tantrum. First one stiletto shoe, then another, flew down the hallway. They smacked into the wall and fell uselessly to the ground. Not nearly satisfying enough to make up for Cliff King's rude and arrogant behaviour.

How could he think her so unimportant, so
irrelevant
, that he didn't even bother to cancel their appointment?

Her stomach clenched. All that time and effort she'd wasted planning for the meeting. Money wasted on business cards, brochures, new make-up. She'd have been better off using that money to pay the hire fee for the room at the community centre where she hosted her classes. She'd been thinking about new signage. She could've ordered that instead.

But she'd known getting her business started wouldn't be easy. If running your own business was a piece of cake, then surely everyone would do it. The Cliff King fiasco represented a mere stumbling block. She'd reschedule with his secretary later. And in the meantime she had a class of six lovely women to teach tonight. Women who needed her to remain positive and enthusiastic. Women who needed her to stay on track.

A memory of stormy blue eyes flittered through her mind. It would be all too easy to get distracted, lose momentum and end up back at square one. And what message would that send to Annie?

She dialled her sister's cell phone.

‘Hi Annie,' she said.

Annie's voice squealed down the phone at her. ‘How'd it go? Did you cane it? Did my shoes look good with your dress?'

Oops.
Harper picked up the shoes and dusted them off. ‘We've had to reschedule. But don't worry, I'll cane it next time.'

‘Bummer. At least you've got your night ladies. That'll keep you busy,' said Annie.

‘I need more than two night classes a week. Did you finish delivering my flyers to the mailboxes?'

The resounding silence said it all. Then: ‘Oops. Sorry. I'll do it tomorrow if the weather's fine.'

Harper bristled. ‘We talked about this, Annie. You promised you'd take your responsibilities more seriously.' Organising Annie resembled dealing with a ten-year-old, not a young woman of twenty-three. Harper pinched her lips together, holding back angry words that would be lost on Annie. Her sister, six years her junior, didn't really get it. Sweet, ditzy and thoroughly unreliable, she drove Harper mad with her inability to do anything properly—and worse still, her inability to give a crap about anything other than her social life.

‘Please make sure you deliver them to the areas on the map I gave you. I need more clients or DIY Divas will be over before it begins.' Harper tried to keep the desperation out of her voice. ‘You know I can't afford advertising. Posters, mailbox drops and word-of-mouth are all I've got. And so far the mailbox drops haven't been that successful.' She imagined most of her expensive flyers had found their way into recycling bins all over Auckland city.

The ones that weren't still in the back seat of Annie's decrepit VW Beetle.

Harper rang off. She drummed her fingers on the bench top as she gazed around her kitchen, a work in progress that wasn't progressing as fast as she'd like. Today hadn't gone to plan, but it gave her extra time to sand her kitchen floor. Her bare feet navigated rough boards as she made her way to her bedroom. Carefully hanging up her dress, she changed into work clothes of old jeans, a timeworn T-shirt and sturdy boots.

She loved working on her house. She loved the whole DIY thing, had always loved having a project on the go. And she knew other women did too. They just didn't always have the skills to get the job done safely or up to standard. Which was where Divas came in. She wanted to teach skills and watch women gain enough confidence to enjoy the same sense of pride she felt renovating her own home. And she knew there were women out there who wanted to learn. She just had to find them and lure them to her classes.

The sound of her phone ringing pulled her back through the house. She picked it up, plonking onto an old armchair in the sitting room. The seat was warm beneath her from the afternoon sunlight that poured through the windows and she put her feet up on a low coffee table and closed her eyes, basking in the heat. ‘Hello, DIY Divas, Harper speaking.'

‘This is Judy Champion, I'm really sorry but my daughter and I have to pull out of your class.' Harper's eyes opened and she bolted upright as the voice of one of her older students trumpeted down the line.

‘Sorry to hear that, but you can do a make-up class another night. It's a fun group on Thursday too.'