The Protea Boys (7 page)

Georgie had the distinct impression she was losing control, and she hadn’t got a snowball’s chance in hell of staying on top of the situation if her body kept betraying her. What on earth was the matter with her? She never behaved like this around men. She’d spent most of her adult life working with men, and she’d never once paid more than passing attention to their bodies—she had, in fact, prided herself on the fact she was more interested in someone’s character than his looks, and this morning she had behaved like a fan club groupie.

Ignoring the dirt sticking to the bottom of her boots, she stamped up the steps into the house and punched the numbers into the phone so hard the ends of her fingers practically became square. It rang and rang until it rang out while she devised several seriously painful ways to kill Hillary. She slammed the phone down as she remembered Hillary was more than likely still stretching and bending to soothing relaxation music.

Half her luck. Not for much longer.

Georgie leaned on the kitchen bench, rocking backward and forward, cradling her head in her hands and massaging her skull with her fingertips. All she wanted to do was to release some of the pounding tension threatening to crack her head open like a macadamia in a press. It would take more than relaxation music to settle her right now. A loud thump sounded from the shed, and she raised her head, squinting through the dirty window.

Like a bunch of overactive school kids, the boys were jostling each other as they climbed into the cab, obviously indulging in some strange male bonding rite. Tom and Matt ended up in the front, and Garth and Jim in the back. She could’ve put money on it. They had the windows rolled down, and when the truck drove past the house and headed for the driveway, their manly voices and a harsh bark of laughter sounded across the paddock.

Come on, Hillary. Come on.

Looking at her watch again, she drummed her fingers against the kitchen bench. It was nowhere near eight o’clock; Hillary wouldn’t be home yet. She punched Hillary’s mobile phone number in again. It rang out. Banging and crashing around the kitchen, she switched on the coffee machine, searching for some ritual to calm her.

Finally, with a large cappuccino in one hand, she perched on the stool and dialed again. It picked up after a couple of rings, and before Hillary had the opportunity to speak Georgie let fly.

“What ever made you employ him, and why didn’t you tell me?” she said, regretting her words the moment they left her lips.

“Good morning, Georgie. I won’t ask you how you are. You sound seriously venomous.”

An overwhelming desire to burst into tears washed over Georgie, and she took a deep breath before she continued. “Hillary, I’m sorry, but I have had
the most awful morning
...and it’s all your fault,” she finished with a lame sigh.

“What’s wrong? Did something go wrong with the truck? Didn’t they show up? What happened? I’m sorry. I knew I should have been there, but I thought you could handle it while I took the Pilates class.”

“You didn’t tell me. I wasn’t ready for him.” Overwhelmed, Georgie made no sense and now that the moment had passed there wasn’t very much wrong—except in her pathetic imagination.

“Didn’t tell you what?” She could almost hear Hillary frowning.

“You didn’t tell me Protea Boy number four was Tom.”

“Tom? No. Morgan. Didn’t he arrive? The rat. I knew he was too good to be true.”

“He did. That’s the point. Tom, Tom Morgan.” An almost audible clunk echoed as Hillary put two and two together.

“Ooh. You mean Morgan is really Tom. Tom of the we-rescued-the-wombat
,
Tom, the guy from the new restaurant, the one you don’t fancy.”

“Yes,” Georgie replied, hating the plaintive whine in her voice. “That Tom.”

“Well, it’s great. So you already know him, he was on time, everything is fine, and you’ll get to see him again and find out if you really do fancy him. If you don’t, let me know because I’ll be more than happy...”

“No, it’s not fine, and I don’t fancy him. You’re welcome to him. He’s an arrogant control freak, and he just swept in and took over.”

“That’s great, too, then. That’s exactly what we wanted to happen, isn’t it?”

Georgie puffed loudly down the receiver.

“Come on, Georgie, lighten up. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t fancy a guy. Dale’s long gone. Just accept that you need to meet some new people. You told me that yourself.”

“I’ve told you I don’t fancy him. He gets under my skin, tantalizes me, in fact. I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“It sounds pretty much like you fancy him to me. Personally, I prefer Matt. He’s the one I’ve been having night stallions about.”

“Night stallions? What are you talking about?”

“They certainly aren’t night
mares,
much too raunchy,” Hillary replied mischievously. “Come on, forget about him. He’s working for you. You haven’t committed yourself to him.”

Georgie gave up. Hillary was right. And after all, if she didn’t like the way he performed, then she’d sack him; she’d done that before.

“I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Yeah.” She groaned. “And thanks—and I’m sorry I shouted at you.”

“My pleasure. I’ve got broad shoulders—bit smaller than Matt’s though.”

Georgie drank her cold coffee, staring unseeing out of the window. Hillary was right. Forget about it. Simple. He was working for her, and she was a professional. Just because there were strange things going on in her head didn’t mean he had to know about them
.

A professional relationship
.

Then why did her stomach do somersaults at the word relationship?

Chapter Nine

Peering into the mirror, Georgie scrutinized her face for—she wasn’t exactly sure what for—and moaned loudly at her reflection, pulling the brush through her hair and dragging it back into her customary ponytail. Then she changed her mind and left the heavy mass of hair tumbling down her back. She ran a slick of lip gloss over her mouth, shaking her head at her own reflection. It had to be Hillary’s influence.

With a bang, she closed the bedroom door and peered into the full-length mirror. The truth screamed back at her. She was hiding. She had a wardrobe full of clothes, and she stuck to cargo pants and a black T-shirt every day, and barely took the time to brush her hair. She bumped her fingers along the row of hangers as she tried to remember the last time she had worn a dress.

Oh yes!

The ridiculous cocktail party when Dale had introduced his wife to the hosts and had totally ignored her. She pulled out the offending LBD and twisted it on the hanger, remembering how it had paled into insignificance against the silver backless fish scale number his wife had been wearing. She deposited it firmly in the very back of the wardrobe and began to rummage around, pulling out long-forgotten work blouses and pencil skirts, finally settling on a sleeveless white cotton blouse, capri pants, and ballet pumps.

The mirror confirmed her opinion—a definite improvement. Adjusting the collar on the blouse, she craned to see the view from the side. She couldn’t remember ever feeling beautiful, but Dale had always liked this blouse.

Shit.

She’d let her guard down; she’d banned those thoughts from sneaking up on her. This was meant to be a new beginning, and the sooner she put the past behind her, the better. Kicking off the ballet pumps, she wrenched the blouse over her head and then stripped off the capri pants and replaced them with the familiar security of a T-shirt and cargos.

The scrabbling of the tires on the driveway announced the return of the truck, and Georgie pulled a face in the mirror and left it to its own reflections and then with a determined stride, set off to the shed. By the time she arrived, the truck was parked and the tools all neatly stacked inside the shed.

“Afternoon, guys,” she called, aiming for a tone sitting somewhere between efficient and casual. “How did you go?”

Matt punched Jim on the shoulder before sauntering over to her.

“Great. No problems,” he said, wiping his forehead with a filthy hand. “Looking forward to a beer though. It’s been a hot day.”

Georgie smiled up at him. She could see the tatt on his shoulder; it disappeared under his blue singlet. She idly wondered how long it would take Hillary to find out what it was. His tall, dark looks might appeal to her friend, but he left her cold, despite his handsome face and an attitude oozing sex appeal sufficient to render a wall. “So the truck went okay? No problems with any of the gear?”

“Nope. It’s all fine, and we finished everything at Brown’s place. They seemed pretty pleased. Said they’d give you a ring in about a month to tee up another visit.”

“Excellent. And the other guys—they’re all okay?”

“Yep. Fine.” Matt kicked the dirt with his boots, keen to call it a day.

“See you tomorrow morning then.”

He nodded at her and walked over to the red Ute, jiggling his keys at Gap and Jim.

“See you tomorrow, Georgie.” Their chorus bounced off the corrugated shed wall.

“Next stop the Inn,” Matt yelled. “You coming, Tom?”

Tom’s tousled head appeared from the other side of the truck. “I’ll see you down there. Couple things I’ve got to sort out. I’ll catch you.”

Georgie stood very still, her gaze fixed on the receding Ute, but every bone in her body shrieked awareness. Tom locked the truck and faced her. She tried to call good-bye and walk back up to the house, but somehow her mouth and feet refused to obey her instructions.

“Georgina.”

She looked up. He walked toward her with his slow, easy stride.

Perfectly comfortable in his own skin.

The expression flitted through her mind while she studied his easy grace. The muscles on the tops of his arms were rounded and smooth, highlighted by his navy blue singlet, his skin still shiny with sweat. A streak of oil ran across one cheek, and his dark hair was separated as though he had run gel through it. The tang of hard work, oil, and mown grass filled the space between them.

“Hi.” She ran her tongue over her lips, searching for more words.

Tom reached out his hand. Dirt surrounded his fingernails; his skin was almost black and covered in tiny flecks of green grass. Slowly she lifted her hand to him. The tents from her dreams billowed in a moonlit, balmy breeze under the waving acacia trees.

A dry, scrunching sound made her jump, and a frown creased her forehead. She stared down at the piece of paper Tom held in front of her.

“This is a copy of the invoice for the Brown’s work,” he said, a lopsided smile twisting the corner of his mouth. He had another smear of oil just to the right of his lips.

It took all of her concentration and every bit of her energy to drag her gaze away from his mouth. And then the telltale blush swept across her cheeks.

Damn him.

Georgie swallowed, the sound reverberating in her eardrums, and snatched the piece of paper from his hand. She licked her lips again, then eased the words through her very dry mouth. “Thank you.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Seven thirty sharp. Have a good evening, Georgina.”

“Georgie,” she muttered.

“Georgie.” Tom threw her an audacious wink before turning on his heel and walking to his shiny black four-wheel drive parked in the shade of the shed.

For a moment or two, she stood rooted to the spot, her mouth slightly open, the afternoon air warm as she sucked it into her dehydrated lungs. Waiting until his vehicle skidded down the drive, she kicked the corner fence post, hard, very hard. The vibrations ran up her leg, making her gasp when a shaft of pain ricocheted up her calf muscle.

Goddamn the man.

Chapter Ten

Georgie tried to get to sleep early, but after an hour of tossing and turning, she threw back the twisted sheets and gave up. Her clammy skin and erratic heartbeat made it impossible. She wandered into the bathroom and pulled her hair back from her face, staring at her eyes, which glinted back with a feverish anxiety. Taking out a small brown glass bottle from the cabinet, she rotated it in her hands, reading the prescription label. After a moment’s hesitation, she pushed it back on the shelf and closed the door with a determined shove, wishing she could shut the door on her memories as easily.

She was such a fool. A naïve, stupid fool about to make the same mistakes again. Something somewhere had to be programmed incorrectly in her brain.

Dale had been preying on her mind all day, and now she was fixated on Tom Morgan. Just because she was starting a new business didn’t mean that it would go the same way as the last one. She had to look at the whole episode more objectively. Perhaps that was the key to it all. She cradled her head in her hands, massaging her skull. There wasn’t any doubt she’d been a fool before, but this time she would play it differently. She would keep control, and she wouldn’t be swayed by any man. Not like she had been with Dale. He had an agenda, and she should have seen the writing on the wall long before she did. This time she would be prepared. She shook her hair back. It wouldn’t happen again.

She had a new life now and a new business, and they didn’t include pills, just hard work, determination, and no romantic fantasies. She dragged her laptop into bed with her, planning to spend the next few hours reprogramming her life.

***

By the time the morning light crossed the ridge, it became obvious to her: no matter how many times she looked at the numbers, they simply didn’t add up, and the minus sign loomed across the screen. The crystal Tiffany star her father had given her, engraved with the words
We create our own future,
stared down at her.

I’m trying
.

She would have to try a little bit harder, but she was determined to make the farm pay its own way. There was no way she was going to hit the money from the sale of her PR business. Pushing her disheveled hair from her face, she sat up straight, pulled her shoulders back, and studied the spreadsheet again. Her choices were obvious. Either she sold or she expanded. Since selling wasn’t an option she wanted to contemplate, it would have to be expansion. The perils of primary production. Her lips twisted in a wry smile. What had Hillary said?
Primary production sucks
. It sure did, but she valued her privacy too much to contemplate a B&B, and the property had to make money if she intended to live there. She had no idea how her parents had expected to make it work, their halcyon dream, and they hadn’t even lived long enough to fulfill their retirement plans.