Out of Bounds (14 page)

She padded out to the laundry, searching for
anything more suitable to wear, and found a pair of jeans, and
shorts and panties, and several clean T-shirts, too. She chose the
darkest.

But it was nice wearing his robe. She drifted
around the bedroom, thinking of the way he’d kissed her. Or rather,
the way he’d not been able to resist kissing her. Yes, it had been
frightening pinned under his long heavy body, but she’d felt so
desperately wound up that making the first move—reaching across the
bed and touching him—had been out of her conscious control. She’d
confessed her inhibitions, let him know she trusted him, and hoped
he would be her teacher.

Poor guy—what a responsibility I’ve thrown at
him!

She pulled the front of his robe up to her
nose and sniffed once more before regretfully untying it and
sliding it off, imagining his fingers stroking and feathering over
her. But it would be quite another thing to have it happen for
real.

Once she was dressed in shorts and T-shirt,
she pulled back the duvet, stripped the bed, and took the sheets to
the laundry. She squeezed stain remover over the smears of blood
and ash and set them to soak before searching for fresh ones.

She remade the bed, taking special care,
smoothing the fresh sheets out, folding one over the top edge of
the duvet with precision. She changed the pillowcases for a crisp
new pair, setting the pillows exactly level, and imagining her body
entwined with Anton’s. How badly had he hurt his shoulder breaking
down her door?

Then the shock hit her. She could have been
dead. Should have been dead. If it hadn’t been for him, she would
have been.

Delayed reaction,
she thought,
shivering, and dropping onto the bed when her knees really didn’t
want to hold her up any longer. It had been the same after her
parents’ road smash. She’d been gently told about it, and seen the
hideous wreckage on the TV news that night (much to Gran and
Grandpa’s ire) but it wasn’t until the next morning the truth had
sunk in.

Thank you, thank you, thank you
, she
murmured, rocking backward and forward with distress, crushing the
beautifully made bed.

If only there wasn’t so much mystery hanging
between her and Anton. Gran’s house already bore the scars of their
battle—the demolished fence, the burned out room, the roughly
installed extra door.

And there was still the question of his
parentage. No matter how hard Jetta combed through her memory, she
couldn’t recall anyone mentioning him or his mother. But if he
wasn’t related, why did he think owned half her house?

And if he
was
related—closely—that
wrecked her plans for any intimate games tonight.

She rose slowly to her feet, testing her balance
before stepping away from the bed. Grimacing at the creases, she
began to smooth the layers out again.

Anton flung the silver Porsche around the
streets with more recklessness than was probably wise. Jetta had
sneaked under his skin. Right into his head to mess with his brain.
She’d offered herself on a plate, for the most unlikely of reasons,
and he’d been far too tempted. For years, he’d avoided major
entanglements, driven by fierce ambition to overcome his less than
fortunate start in life. He had things to show the world, and being
tied down by a woman wasn’t part of the picture.

But from the moment he’d seen her dusty tear
streaked face under that terrible hat, he’d wanted to...protect
her? He thought about that as he screamed to a halt at a red light.
Such a compact ball of pride and anger and challenge. The challenge
was the part he enjoyed most. Claire might look like a catwalk
model but her personality was bland as blancmange.

Jetta spat sparks. Interesting sparks. She
had a sharp brain, plenty of ambition, and a feisty personality
that annoyed the hell out of him.

But—territorial and tetchy as she was—there
was vulnerability there too. Now he knew why, and it ripped him
apart.

She’d been nine.
Nine
. A little doll,
he’d bet. All big eyes and dark hair and mischief.

He’d wager the uncle hadn’t gone to Canada.
It would have been straight to jail. But okay, her family had done
a good job convincing her he was well out of the way, and plainly
she hadn’t wanted to question it.

Canada it would stay.

A few minutes later, he angled in to his car
park. He’d arrived early for his interested apartment buyer but
there was something he wanted to do, well away from Jetta’s sharp
eyes.

He unlocked the office, set his laptop down,
and opened it. Googled ‘Incest in New Zealand’, and found himself
on the Interpol site.

Illegal between parent and child. Illegal
between brother and sister, whether of the whole blood or the half
blood.

He raised his eyebrows at the old-fashioned
phrasing.

Illegal between grandparent and
grandchild.

Well, the first and last were off the menu.
Was there any possibility he could be Jetta’s half-brother? He
didn’t see how. Jetta was younger by six years, and he’d have
noticed if his mother had suddenly sprung a baby sister on him.

Which left his unknown father.

Surely not Jetta’s father?
The thought
flashed into his brain like white lightning.

Bile rushed up in his throat—hot and acid and
disgusting. He clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the nausea.
Sat there with his eyes screwed shut until he could consider the
possibility with a calmer mind. He simply couldn’t be her
brother...

Jetta’s Dad could have fathered a son years
before he married her mother.

He mulled over that nasty possibility for a
while longer.

But that would make me Anton Rivers and not
Anton Haviland.

Relief washed over him in huge swamping
waves.

No—somewhere there’d once been a man named
Arthur John Haviland who’d left Isobel alone and pregnant, and
there was no chance he’d fathered Jetta as well. He began to feel
better.

Good old Wikipedia had the extra information
he needed.

Not banned between cousins.

He and Jetta were in the clear—legally at
least.

“Do you want a coffee before you start?” she
asked, embarrassed by her unlovely, soot streaked appearance.

“Had one with my clients, thanks. Your mood
boards got plenty of attention.”

“And I bet it’s the ‘naturals’ scheme the
wife liked,” she said. “Was there a wife?”

“Yup—well preserved, and with a heap of
jewelry.”

“A good prospect then?”

Why did it even matter to her? As soon as she
could, she’d be off to New York, leaving him to his wheeling and
dealing. By the time she returned, her house would be dust, unless
she heard good news from the lawyer on Monday.

Anton shot her an amused glance. “Nothing’s
certain until the ink’s dry and the deposit’s safely in the
bank.”

“Have you had to borrow to fund the project?
Do you mind me asking?”

“We’re talking millions here, babes. I don’t
have enough millions yet. I’m so far in debt I’m in danger.” He
made a sudden throat slitting motion with his hand. “I need to get
a couple more apartments sold and then I can start breathing
easier.”

She gazed at him as he lounged against the
kitchen doorframe. Tall, dark and relaxed. No real sign of the
worry that had to be eating at him. Even the throat slitting
gesture had been accompanied by a raised eyebrow and a dazzling
smile. “Go and get changed,” she said. “It’s terrible in there. I’m
throwing stuff out the window hole.”

He was back in a couple of minutes, mostly
naked. The ache started low in her belly again... the deep, hot,
intense female awareness that appeared out of nowhere when he was
too close, or too nice to her, or had too much skin on display.

Faded shorts hung across his hipbones,
looking as though a tug would easily dislodge them. She was almost
willing to tug. But there was plenty else of him to admire
first.

“Can I just look at you for a moment?” she
stammered. “To get used to you? Before we...?” She broke off in
embarrassment.

“Before we get filthy together?”

Yes please
, her newly awakening body
agreed.

She caught the teasing twinkle in his
eyes.

“Uh, no, but you’ll end up as messy as me,
and this seems a good time to start getting used to you.”

“Broad daylight? No bed?”

The ache deepened.

“Something like that. Please?”

He shrugged, apparently granting permission,
and stood waiting for her inspection.

She took a final gulp of her coffee, put the
mug down, and walked across to where he stood.

She laid one hand on his chest, and his
muscles tensed with surprise.

“I didn’t say you could touch.”

“I didn’t say you could touch last night,
either, but you did.”

“Here?” he asked, cupping his hand to the
shape of her breast but not quite making contact.

She nodded, remembering how he’d held her in
the dark. Did he plan to do it again? No, she found to her
disappointment, because he dropped his hand to his side, although
there did seem to be a faint smile playing about his lips.

She stroked his chest...ran a finger across
his nipple...then down over his abs. They tightened at her touch.
She made a small fist and pushed. His flesh barely gave way.

“Hmph!” she said, impressed.

When she glanced up to gauge his reaction,
he’d closed his eyes. She wanted to shut her own—to cancel her
sight so her senses of touch and taste and smell could have full
rein. She moved closer while he couldn’t see her. Laid her face
against his chest. He jumped.

She breathed him in. He smelled even better
than he had when she’d found him asleep in the front bedroom. Soap
and cologne, yes—but over them she could detect crisp cotton shirt,
warm skin, man.

She licked. He gave a small grunt of
surprise.

He tasted salty.

She stepped back and looked her fill. Over a
lean golden torso to his strong chest and shoulders... higher to
his long, lively face and those brilliant eyes, now watching her
from under dark brows.

“You really did hurt yourself rescuing me,”
she said, touching the dressing on his shoulder. A spectacular
bruise shadowed out around it. She trailed her fingers downward and
compared the smooth strength of his biceps with his sinewy
forearm.

The low ache in her belly intensified. She
wanted those long arms wrapped around her again, holding her tight.
Not now, but soon. In the dark.

She released his hand, flicked her eyes up to
his face again, and made a ‘turn around’ gesture.

Anton smiled and obeyed.

Jetta drew a deep, deep breath. What was it
about him that made her willing to trust him? Even though he’d
flipped her life on its head and dynamited her plans, it had been
Anton who she’d finally confessed her fears and inadequacies to...
Anton who had somehow broken through the hard shell she’d built
around herself for more than half her lifetime.

“You’re scary,” she murmured, reaching up to
his neck and smoothing her hand all the way down the groove of his
spine until she hit the band of his shorts. “You’re beautiful, but
you’re so much bigger than me. So much stronger. I’m not quite as
frightened of you as I was, but you could really hurt me.”

“I promise not to hurt,” he said, turning
back to her with a concerned expression.

Jetta relaxed a fraction at his
reassurance.

Then he reached out with both big hands and tilted
her face up to his. “There’ll be nothing but pleasure,” he
whispered. His lips brushed over hers. Any hint of relaxation
fled.

Anton heaved a sigh of relief. They were
done. Jetta’s room had now been stripped of everything burned,
melted or singed. They were both black with soot, and slick with
sweat.

“Call it quits now, and I’ll get one of the
men to cover the window over,” he suggested, planting a big hand on
the back of her neck and ruffling her damp hair.

He’d been touching her whenever he could—a
stroke, a kiss if he found a piece of clean flesh, a pat on her
peachy butt, a brief hug. Getting her used to him. It was the
strangest seduction he’d ever attempted—she so scared but nervously
eager, he still doubtful he was the answer she required, and
determined to make it a one-time-only thing.

She turned and inspected the room, face
smudged and smeared with cinders.

“All my memories, gone in minutes,” she said,
sorrow making her pretty mouth droop.

“You’ll make new ones. Starting with
tonight.”

Her lips parted in what he hoped was
anticipation.

“Losing so many photos is the worst.”

“Have a search through the stuff I stowed out
in the garage. There might be some of your grandmother’s old albums
there.”

She brightened at that. Her dark eyes flashed
in his direction, and pleasure at her reaction raced through him.
Sometimes it took so little to make her smile. And sometimes, he
reminded himself grimly, it took quite a lot.

“I planned to have a big clothes cleanout
when I moved into the main bedroom,” she said, peering into what
remained in the wardrobe. “Before I went to New York. This was kind
of more than I intended getting rid of though.”

He moved across to the doorway and asked,
“How much do you think you can save? If you sort them out, I’ll
drive you to a drycleaner. Maybe you’ll need to buy a few things to
tide you over the next day or two? And something for tonight of
course.”

“Tonight?”

He enjoyed her startled expression. “Nice
dinner in a café by the harbor. Watch the lights and the water.
Watch each other?”

“But I thought...”

“Yes, I know you did. We’ll get around to
that.”