Red Dirt Duchess Page 4

  He tapped his fingers on the side of his glass. Unexpectedly, she was fun.

  She sat forward and lowered her voice. ‘Speaking of necks, I’d stay quite still if I was you.’

  He stiffened. ‘What?’

  ‘Spider,’ she said quietly, her voice laced with concern.

  ‘What? There’s a spider on my neck?’ His blood started pounding in his veins. He knew it. He was going to die out here from the bite of one of the gazillion poisonous spiders that infested this remote part of the world.

  ‘Technically it’s on your shoulder, but it’s heading towards your neck,’ she amended.

  ‘What sort of spider?’ He craned his neck to the side and swivelled his eyes down onto his shoulder until he felt like his eyeballs might pop. There was a dark shape there, that was for sure.

  She smiled smugly. ‘Australian.’

  ‘I’m not interested in its bloody nationality,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I’m interested in its potential to kill me.’

  ‘Oh, I doubt it will do that.’

  Doubt.

  ‘Just stay still and I’ll deal with it.’

  She stood and stepped towards him. Even in his heightened state of fear, so close to death, he couldn’t help his body’s reaction. Her waist was at kissing height, and if he leaned forward – if he didn’t have a spider on his shoulder, that is – he might place his lips on the sliver of skin exposed below her T-shirt. He closed his eyes, breathing in her simple fragrance.

  She leaned down to peer at the spider, and now it was her breasts that were within kissing distance. He closed his eyes and bit down hard on his lip.

  ‘Oh dear.’

  His eyes flew open. ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’ Her lips twitched.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He has a friend.’

  He closed his eyes again, willing himself out of Bindundilly and back in London, with Caro riding him hard in whatever way she chose. He’d even hand her the whip.

  ‘Stay steady,’ she warned, then lifted her hand and suddenly it moved like a flash, thwacking him soundly on the shoulder and hopefully sending the spiders, plural, spinning into oblivion.

  She dusted her hands together. ‘All done.’

  ‘Did you get both of them?’

  Now she did laugh. ‘I made the second one up. It was too tempting.’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘Very funny. But seriously, where is it?’

  ‘That I can’t tell you. It started running as soon as it hit the deck.’

  She still stood in front of him, almost wedged between his knees, and before he could think, he’d stood, and his hand brushed against her arm. She didn’t move away.

  He moved his hand up her arm and still she remained where she was, her blue eyes, luminous in the dark, gazing up at him, her lips slightly parted. He hesitated just a second, while all the craziness of the past year crashed through his mind like a supersonic film, and then he lowered his mouth to hers.

  How had this happened? One minute Charlie had been toying with him, playing on the predictable fears foreigners had, about Australia in general, and the outback in particular. It had been amusing and lighthearted. Fun.

  And it had given her an opportunity to get closer, to touch him. Something had changed in him since he’d seen the painting this afternoon. It was as though the defenses, that sophisticated ennui, had slipped and she was able to see the man underneath. That’s what she’d meant when she said he wasn’t who he seemed. But even that casual observation had made him uneasy.

  She relaxed into the embrace. His hands moved up to gently cup the sides of her face; he used them to direct the angle of the kiss, and she went willingly. He kissed with finesse and a well-controlled urgency that said, We have all night if you want. Heat simmered through her as her pulse kicked up in response.

  It would be so easy. A night with the nearest thing to George Clooney she was likely to meet, and no complications. He’d be gone tomorrow, back to his high-class jetset lifestyle. She reached up and ran her fingers through that hair, pulling him closer, their tongues tangling, searching.

  But what if it was wonderful? What if he was so amazing that she’d live the rest of her life re-enacting it in her mind over and over again? Then her heart plummeted. What if it was awful? What if he was all sizzle and no steak? George Clooney with a one-star rating? Was she prepared to take that risk?

  She ran her hands down the front of his shirt, across the hard pectorals. So tempting, but her mind was made up. She’d allow herself one more minute of bliss and then she’d stop.

  ‘The last man in pink to kiss me was wearing a Miss Piggy costume,’ she murmured against his lips.

  Jon liked that she wasn’t taking this seriously. It was a mild flirtation, something to pass the time. He lightly bit her lower lip, just to savour its plump softness. ‘Really? And what were you wearing?’

  ‘Not a lot. Just a tiny pair of panties and a lot of hippy beads.’

  Her breath was hot on his lips and he felt himself go hard. Mild flirtation be damned.

  ‘Go on,’ he prompted, then used his teeth to pull gently on her lip. ‘You have my full and —’ he allowed his tongue to probe at her mouth, ‘— complete attention.’

  ‘Well, I was only six. It was a costume party in the middle of a heatwave and Maddie couldn’t see the point of dressing kids up in hot costumes.’

  ‘Maddie?’

  ‘My mother.’

  ‘Of course.’ He could see that she’d had a fairly unconventional childhood. They could discuss that. Later.

  Charlie rubbed her cheek against his. He tried to ignore his body’s response to the soft texture, and the thought that every other millimetre of skin on her body probably felt like this. Or softer. If he wasn’t careful he’d be getting ahead of himself.

  Better to concentrate on something else. Something work-related. Like how her skin felt softer than a 1200-thread-count Porthault pillowcase in a six-star hotel. Heavenly.

  ‘He was a very bristly kisser.’

  He dragged his thoughts back. ‘Who?’

  ‘Miss Piggy,’ she said breathily.

  ‘Yes, well, pigs can be a bit like that.’ He nuzzled lower, into the soft skin beneath her jawline, and she gave a low, tremulous moan.

  This was perfect. An uncomplicated, one-night dalliance ten thousand miles from home. Call it an unexpected gift from the gods before he arrived back in the UK to face the duty that had been banging like a bitch on his door for the last twelve months. His lips moved lower, into the hollow of her neck. Her skin smelled breathtakingly sweet and he lingered a moment before heading back to her mouth, wanting to taste those plump pillows more fully.

  He wanted to linger over the kiss, draw her in more deeply and work out what about her intrigued him so much. She was honest and real, in a way he’d never experienced before. He wouldn’t be covered in a smear of lipstick at the end of the kiss and he was quite sure that, if things led to the desired conclusion, the name Spanky would never cross her lips.

  She shifted and sighed a little, a sure sign that things were on track. The kiss was a lingering question that hung in the air between them, and he could tell she was ready to go further. His hand shifted towards her breast.

  ‘It’s been nice,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Huh?’ His hand stilled as reality slammed into him. Been nice?

  She pulled away, wrapping the front of the shirt around her as though cold, her expression unreadable in the dark.

  ‘I need to go to bed. They’re long days out here and I’m a little tired. And we should get an early start in the morning.’

  I can do bed, he wanted to plead. That’s what they’re for. Sleeping. Afterwards. But then he noticed the pale shadows under her eyes and guilt surged through him. She really was tired. Maybe this was a late night for her. Maybe when no one was staying, she crept into bed early, just like Rhonda.

  That wasn’t right. It might h
ave been okay for Rhonda but not for a girl like Charlie. What kind of life was that?

  ‘Don’t worry, you don’t need to go in yet. It’s a lovely night. Just drop the latch on the door when you come through. Keep those murderers out.’

  With that, she gave a sheepish smile and was gone.

  He stayed on the verandah for another hour while he finished the bottle of wine, thinking about a girl with rumpled hair and laughing blue eyes and a very strange life. It was eerily quiet in this place, so far from anywhere, under a sky so vast it made him feel very small. He forgot about snakes and spiders and the unwelcoming inky darkness beyond the verandah. He allowed his mind to replay the kiss, to relive every minute since he’d walked into the bar almost twelve hours earlier.

  And finally, sometime around eleven, when he couldn’t bear the thoughts any longer, he kicked the wedge from under the door and let it close behind him, drawing the latch across.

  He awoke in the early hours, suddenly and alertly wide-eyed. He could blame jet lag, or having had one wine too many, if he liked. And the memory of that kiss was more than enough to make a man lie sleepless for hours. But it was the sleeplessness of what might have been, of opportunity lost.

  As he lay staring at the moon-washed ceiling, with the cool outback nighttime breeze blowing across him, he knew the real reason. He’d remembered, with startling and sickening clarity, just what that mural reminded him of.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Fronting up to a woman who’d pulled the pin before things could get off the ground was a new experience. Jon shoved his male pride aside and decided to pretend last night hadn’t happened. He ran his hands through his hair, bending down to peer in the small mirror tacked to the donga wall. He looked a little rough; which was not surprising given he still hadn’t shaved. He rubbed a hand across his jaw and made a face in the mirror. He’d be polite. He’d be cool. He’d try not to howl like a hungry dog. He’d be a total gentleman, a credit to his class.

  To that end, he needed tea and breakfast.

  In retrospect, Charlie had made the right decision for both of them last night, but it didn’t stop the surge of regret that washed over him when he entered the bar and caught sight of her wearing a pair of jeans that hugged that deliciously rounded bottom he’d never get to feel. She had her back to him, pushing tables into place, as she probably did every morning.

  Just as she would when he was gone. A strange, deepening sense of impending loss surprised him. Twelve hours ago he’d been counting the seconds before he could board that Cessna and get out of Bindundilly. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  The doors and windows were flung wide open, lending the bar an early-morning brightness that lifted his spirits. The scent of bacon frying and bread toasting made his nose twitch.

  He’d lain awake, tossing and turning since the early hours, his thoughts jumbled. They’d been about Charlie and Caro, snakes and spiders. But over the top of it all hung the image of a painting that reminded him of the most painful day of his life.

  Now, in the bright morning, he was having his doubts. He blew out a breath of pleasure, almost of relief, suddenly aware that this place had its own unique appeal.

  There was nothing sinister about the mural. Perhaps he’d just imagined what he’d seen yesterday. He’d had a long flight and quite a few beers. It had been dim inside the pub, with the doors closed against the heat. He’d been disoriented and feeling out of place, that was all.

  Charlie turned, and a small, secretive smile touched her lips. ‘Good morning.’

  He thrust his hands into his pockets and followed her to the other side of the bar. She started to drag a long table towards the centre of the room and he took the other end to help. She didn’t really need it, her cute biceps bulging a little as she took the weight at her end.

  ‘Good morning.’ He wished he could kiss her, a sweet welcome-to-the-day kiss. The sort of kiss a man would give his lover in the morning and that might lead to more of what had happened the night before.

  He dragged his eyes away from her lips, although he noticed she was looking at his.

  ‘About …’ He paused, cursing himself. He’d decided not to mention last night and here he was, ready to blurt it all out, just because of those alluring, plump lips.

  She looked up, a tantalising glance from beneath dark lashes. ‘Yes?’

  Caught in that blaze of blue, the words died in his throat. Her cheeks blushed prettily and there had been a breathy catch to her voice. She leaned a little towards him, her breasts pushed enticingly forward. Her eyelashes fluttered; Jon swallowed hard.

  What was the point in discussing it? They’d kissed. She’d said no. End of story. Hardly anything to make a fuss over. So why was his heart slamming against his ribs? Why had he almost instantly gone hard? He put down his end of the table with a thud. She wasn’t toying with him, was she?

  He waited a beat, trying to get her measure, willing his body to just get the hell back under control. Finally, he hooked a thumb over his shoulder towards the wall.

  ‘About your mural,’ he said. ‘I’ve worked out what it reminds me of.’

  So he was back to the mural again. Charlie didn’t know whether to be annoyed or relieved. For a moment she’d thought he was going to talk about last night. She shoved hard at the table with her hip until it banged up against the wall. She’d have a bruise tomorrow but she didn’t care.

  ‘Is that right?’

  She’d spent the night trying not to think of what might have happened. It had been her decision, after all. It was best, really it was. But it made things awkward, this thing hanging between them, untested and unfinished. And they still had several hours to spend alone together. He was too much of a gentleman to press her, she could tell that much, but what about her? Would her traitorous body override rational thought? She’d have to steel herself, forget that sizzling kiss and try not to look too deeply into those grey eyes. She walked behind the bar and grabbed a canister of cutlery, aware that he was waiting for her response. She’d be over him in a day or two. Maybe three. She’d forget that accent, those clear grey eyes. But she’d noticed that he still hadn’t shaved. That shadow on his jaw gave him a raffish, downright sexy look that made her tingle. She imagined how it might scrape against the softest parts of her, hitting all the fine nerve endings and making her shiver to her core. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. Better to play it how it had started. That way she could keep him at arm’s length.

  She walked back to the table and placed the cutlery to one side. ‘Since we need to make a start, I’ll get your breakfast organised now, then you can tell me. How about the Shearer’s Special?’

  He gave her a cool, considering look as he dragged out a chair. ‘Go on. I can hardly wait.’

  ‘Steak, liver, sausages, bacon,’ she ticked off her fingers. ‘Fried potatoes, baked beans, eggs and toast.’

  He blanched, just as she’d known he would. ‘Toast, and hold the deep-fried animal parts, thank you.’

  ‘Not much there to set you up for the day, but you’re the customer.’ She turned on her heel and headed for the kitchen, pushing through the swing door and fanning her cheeks. Rhonda turned and raised one eyebrow then slowly shook her head. Charlie gave her a don’t-you-dare look and set about making the toast.

  When she returned, Jon was sitting facing the mural, frowning slightly and seemingly lost in thought. She slid a tray onto his table and started to unload the contents – a plate piled with toast, a dish of butter and an assortment of spreads. He flicked a casual glance at her then returned to his perusal of the painting.

  Fine.

  Charlie placed a mug in front of him and picked up the teapot, pouring several gushing streams, each stronger than the last, into the mug. Then she deposited the pot on the table with a thud. ‘Milk, milord?’

  ‘Thank you, no. You may go.’

  His deadpan expression and dismissive tone floored her. But when his mouth stretched wide in an engaging grin and his ey
es crinkled at the corners, the flash of connection stunned her. There was no more doubt. Now she knew, with overwhelming certainty, how last night would have been, just what she had missed.

  So much for keeping some distance between them. Charlie abandoned her plan and dropped into the chair opposite him. ‘So, tell me about the mural.’

  Jon spread the toast with a thin smear of butter then took a mouthful of tea and winced.

  ‘It’s very similar to a painting at Har— home. No one knew what to do with it because it was so different to everything else in the house.’

  That was an understatement. Everything else in the house was framed in monstrous carved and gilded frames that caught the dust and were set against oak panelling or silk-lined walls. No, the painting he recalled had been a small, unframed stretched canvas. It had featured a wild assortment of multicoloured brushstrokes resembling, he used to think, a messy pile of pick-up-sticks. As a small boy he’d felt that if he could only reach high enough, he might be able to grasp them.

  Even now, the memory of how compelling that painting had been to a small child washed over him, together with a sickening dread.

  The painting had hung in his father’s study. Jon had always hated that room. And, until the early hours of this morning, he’d forgotten it was that painting that had led to overhearing the conversation that had changed his world.

  He stood and paced across to the mural again. He pushed a couple of the hats aside again. It was as though a wild man had attacked the wall, lashing it with paint in great vivid streaks. Frenzy was clear in the way the strokes were arranged, slashing downwards. This had been painted quickly and with huge passion. Here and there, a dribble of paint had bled unheeded but through it all, through the vast, abstract nature of it, the subject emerged. Not pick-up sticks but a bushfire, the flames leaping high. But something in the strokes, the haphazard linear arrangement of lines, reminded him of the painting in his father’s study.