The Protea Boys (3 page)

The familiar drawl doused her, and she clenched her fists against the towel, resisting the urge to land a hefty kick on the man’s shins. A wave of heat rocked her, and her heartbeat stuttered as she clutched the pitiful bundle and shuddered uncontrollably. Georgie groped for words, but instead to her horror, she burst into loud sobs.

Waving her free hand pathetically in the direction of the front of her car, she stammered, “I’ve killed the mother, and it’s there on the road.” A deep, wrenching howl escaped her lips. “The baby was in the pouch, but it is so tiny, and it’s in shock.” Another gulping sob escaped. “I have to get it to the vet.”

The man moved closer, and Georgie took several cautious steps back. He stopped in his tracks and stretched out his arms, palms down, fingers splayed, as if he were trying to calm a frightened animal, and then he reached out one strong, suntanned hand toward her.

The unexpected gesture soothed her, and she sighed, allowing him to take two more measured steps closer. Then he bent his head and moved the crumpled towel aside. The tanned skin at the back of his neck looked weathered, and his black hair finished in a neat, geometric line. Her tummy flipped, and a shiver traced her spine. Holding the wombat away from her body, Georgie offered it to him. The towel fell back to reveal the trembling bundle.

“Here, give it to me.” The deep timbre of his voice calmed Georgie, and she handed over the tiny form. His large hands gently cradled the creature, making a different kind of shudder trace her spine as she imagined herself cradled against his chest. She trampled the thought down.

“It’s about six months old.” He moved the towel aside with such care. “I think it will survive. Nothing seems broken. The mothers’ pouches do such an amazing job of protecting their babies. Its eyes are open, and its fur is forming. I’ll call the wildlife rescue to organize someone to look after it. It’ll survive as long as we keep it warm and quiet. You did the right thing wrapping it up so quickly.”

An unexpected flush of pleasure coursed through her at his praise, but she couldn’t respond. Georgie stood rooted to the spot, mesmerized and unable to pry her eyes away from his fingers tenderly massaging the tiny wombat through the towel.

“The drought is causing all sorts of problems for these critters. The drier it gets, the scarcer food becomes, and they’re drawn closer and closer to civilization. See the fresh shoots on the other side of the road? That’s what attracted Mum.”

Georgie murmured in agreement, but all she could focus on were his large, tanned hands rhythmically massaging the tiny bundle.

“Didn’t do yourself any harm, did you?” His abrupt question jolted her.

“No.” She shook her head, raking her hair away from her face with her fingers. “I’m fine, thank you. I wonder what we should do about the mother. My mobile phone doesn’t work on this stretch of road and I...”

“Leave it to me. I’ll sort it out. You go and get yourself a cup of tea. I’ll call in and see the vet and get it all fixed up. I’ve got it under control.” He stepped even closer to Georgie, and with his free hand, pushed the last strands of hair from her face. Mesmerized, she froze as he leaned slowly forward until his leopard eyes locked with hers, and every bone in her body screamed at his proximity. One tanned finger reached up and gently traced the outline of her lips, and her mouth parted. He leaned closer. The scent of soap on his skin and the patterned flecks in his eyes engulfed her. His lips brushed hers and then he pulled back. A shiver of disappointment trickled through her.

“Don’t worry, the wombat will be fine.”

His words caressed her as gently as the hands cradling the baby wombat, and then he flashed a smile and winked at her.

Walking back to her car, Georgie touched her fingers to her pulsing lips, bemused by her acquiescence. She almost regretted leaving but was also relieved she could hand over responsibility for her carelessness. As she reached the car, she paused. She wanted to deny the kiss that had only lasted a second; perhaps it hadn’t even been a kiss, just a mere brush of lips against lips. Touching her fingers to her mouth again, she checked, searching for a lasting residue. Nothing. Just a curling deep inside her. She turned back to face him.

“I don’t know your name—”

“Tom,” he said. “Drive carefully, Georgina.”

Chapter Four

Drive carefully, Georgina.

The words bounced around in her head and kept time with the jolts on the rutted road as she yanked the steering wheel over another pothole.

Never mind drive carefully—how about behave carefully
?

She’d run over a poor, defenseless animal,
and
she’d let some man she didn’t even know kiss her, all before seven o’clock in the morning. Shouldn’t she be upset, outraged, infuriated? Instead her insides were all soft and furry like the wombat he had cradled in his large hands.

And what’s with the Georgina bit
?

How did he know her name? It made her think of her mother and being in serious trouble, but then again, perhaps she was.

By the time Georgie pulled up at the village hall for the Pilates lesson, the morning mist had cleared. Warm-up music wafted out of the windows, and she grabbed her yoga mat, fumbled with the car lock, and then walked in through the old doors. She intended to sneak unseen into the back row but luck was not on her side.

“Morning, Georgie. Sleep well?” Hillary’s voice boomed out over the music, and every head moved in her direction. “We’ve just started.”

Dropping her yoga mat to the floor, she stood at the back of the room, unable to decide whether she should stay or give up and search out the cup of tea Tom had recommended.

“We’ll be taking things fairly easy today after the Christmas break, ladies, so don’t worry if you haven’t had any exercise for a while.”

Surrendering to Hillary’s ministrations and the music, Georgie stretched up. The muscles in her spine elongated as she bent toward her toes. If she closed her eyes, followed the instructions, and concentrated on breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth, she discovered she could ignore the flashbacks to the roadside, and by the time the hour was over, all the tension had drained away from her. She shook her arms and legs, feeling loose limbed and relaxed, and made a pact—she would try her very hardest to make the classes a habit.

The group of women collected their towels and their mats, then made their farewells, but the prospect of driving back down the road didn’t hold much appeal to Georgie. She rolled up her mat and stood aimlessly in the center of the old hall.

“Hey. Are you okay?” Hillary’s gaze bored into her. “Your eyes are red. You look as though you’ve been crying.”

Terrific, just what she needed.

Georgie shook her head. “I’m fine. I’m a bit spaced out. I hit a wombat on the way here.”

“Oh. You poor thing. You didn’t hurt yourself, did you? Why didn’t you tell me when you got here?”

“I’m all right. The wombat’s not, but someone stopped and gave me a hand. We found a baby in her pouch. He’s taken it to the vet.” She stared over her shoulder, convinced her voice was coming from somewhere else, as though it didn’t belong to her.

“Come back to my place and have a cup of coffee? It’ll do you good. It’s still early. I’d love to show you the new accommodation. I’m really pleased with it. You can give me some horticultural advice.”

“Anything but proteas are fine, and the coffee sounds fantastic.”

***

Tom slid back in behind the steering wheel of his car and jammed the key into the ignition, satisfied the wombat was now in good hands, but slightly irritated by the morning’s delay. He pulled out onto the road and headed back down the winding road to his brother’s restaurant in the village.

Miss Georgina Martin appeared to be a little accident-prone. He looked back into the rearview mirror and shook his head as he passed the bend where he’d found her this morning. His brother would give him heaps about it when he told him. The mere fact that he’d asked who she was had been enough to start tongues wagging, and then Nick had a go at him about women falling at his feet and accused him of becoming the local Lothario. Now he’d have to tell him he’d galloped to Georgina’s rescue, and Lancelot would be added to his list. He shrugged. The news would be all over the village in five minutes flat anyway.

Tom scanned the road edges as he drove. No matter how prepared, or how careful, it was a horrible shock to run an animal over. At least she’d had the presence of mind to check the pouch and keep the critter warm. The memory of Georgina backing up, ready to fend him off, made him smile. Serious lioness syndrome—protecting her young. And she looked pretty good in those tight black exercise pants and the little crop top, too, way better than the bloody awful cargo pants and boots she’d been sporting the day she came into the restaurant. Tom shifted around in the driving seat as unexpected warmth surged in his groin. First thing he’d do when he got back was get out of the damn moleskins; they were far too uncomfortable.

The good news was the vet had sorted out the wombat and seemed to think it would survive if she could find a carer. At least one thing had worked out.

His attempt last night to visit his parents in Sydney hadn’t. It had been a raging disaster, his mother cold and unresponsive and his father abrupt and overpolite. It was as though he was a stranger. But then he didn’t deserve much better after what he’d put them through. He could hardly stand the sight of himself, so why would they want to look at him? Just a constant reminder of what they had lost and how he couldn’t be trusted.

The last three months of renovations had been a bit more successful. Another few days of painting and the restaurant would be ready to open, and then he could chase up a real job and hit the road again. Western Australia was the go. With the mining boom, he’d easily pick something up. Not too many people, just wide-open spaces and machinery. He was way better sticking to machinery than people. All care and no responsibility was the way it was going to be from here on in.

***

The steep track wound up the hill and then veered into a dirt driveway where Hillary’s pristine white house twinkled in the early morning sunshine. With the view across the tops of the eucalyptus trees above the valley, it was like being in an eagle’s nest.

Georgie and Hillary left the cars and picked their way carefully over the piles of mulch and sandstone surrounding the house.

“The house faces due north,” said Hillary. “So it will be cool in the afternoons, and the decks will get the morning sun.” She tipped her head toward the stocky workman resting on a shovel. He winked at them both and resumed his digging. Hillary’s eyes sparkled. “Hi, Carl. How’s it going?”

“Not bad, not bad, but we’ve only got time to work until lunch today, and maybe we can come back in a week or two but...”

“But what?” The dramatic roll of Hillary’s eyes made Georgie smile for the first time that morning.

“But we’ll see,” he said, making a big deal of wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

Hillary linked arms with Georgie. “Carl has a heart of gold, but really he is getting a bit long in the tooth, especially after his heart attack, and I’m certain I can get better value for my hard-earned dollar elsewhere.” She nodded her head emphatically and heaved a sigh. “The Protea Boys to the rescue. I really hope we can pull this off.”

Georgie glanced around with interest. She could easily guess the amount of work already put into the place.

“There’s where I want the vegetable garden built.” Hillary sketched an arc with her arm toward the back of the house. “I can hardly advertise homegrown, organic vegetables for the table if I haven’t got a vegetable garden. Come to think of it, I haven’t got a table yet either.” She giggled at her own joke. “Come on, enough of my problems. Let’s find a cup of coffee, and you can tell me how things are going with you and your proteas.”

***

“So all in all,” finished Georgie before taking a final sip of her coffee, “the last couple of days have been a bit of a mixture, some ups and some downs. I know there’s a market for these flowers. Mum and Dad made a good living out of them. I just wish I hadn’t let the farm go to wrack and ruin while I was in Sydney.” She rocked back on the chair and sighed. “Everyone just falls in love with the proteas as soon as they see them. The guesthouse was wonderful, and the other two B&Bs said they’d give it a go. Except for the restaurant. That’s just another story altogether—bloody man. Do you know what he said? He said he thought roses were more my style—pftt. I blushed and stammered like some idiotic schoolgirl.”

“So he was attractive, was he?” Hillary’s words cut like a knife straight to the point.

Georgie tried to cover the reddening of her face by looking out over the half-built garden. She wanted to tramp on her wayward thoughts and push the memory of his predatory green eyes aside. “No. He was not.” The pause lengthened, and she fanned her face. The coffee had made her so hot. “Well, yes... I suppose so...a little bit, but absolutely not what I need right now. Far too arrogant.”

If Hillary would just stop looking at her so intently, she’d be able to get rid of the heat making her cheeks so red. “What I need right now—and for that matter, so do you—is a handyman, someone who can do all those things around the place I just haven’t got time for. Take out the dead bushes, do the pruning, clean up between the rows of flowers.” She finished, pleased with the determined note in her voice.

“And move my mulch and my sandstone blocks,” said Hillary, “and build my vegetable garden. Told you. We need the Protea Boys.”

Chapter Five

The never-ending list of jobs just grew and grew, and Georgie doubted she’d ever get on top of it. A haze of proteas, spreadsheets, and ridiculous fantasies filled her week. She fell into bed every night exhausted, her heavy sleep plagued by dreams of canvas tents spread under a canopy of acacia trees, moonlit dinners reverberating to the night sounds of the bush, and always the presence of a man whose tawny green eyes were the only feature she could drag into focus. Strangely, she woke refreshed and relished the hard physical work outside. She received phone calls from the growers’ markets, and she delivered bucketloads of proteas to the distributor. Much to her delight, she also received a hefty transfer into her bank account. There were four answers to the advertisement, and then Hillary called to say she had scheduled all the interviews for Saturday morning.