Page 31 of Sexy as Sin
“You’re a tough negotiator. I should hire you,” Brett said, when she’d helped him off with the clothes on his lower half andhadn’tpointed out that it would have been easier without the hospital gown, then started washing his feet as he tried without success not to feel helpless.
“Except that I live for my job.” Her hands were brisk, and, no, he clearly wasn’t a thrill. “And I like the Byron hinterland as it is, thank you very much.”
“You sound like somebody else I know,” he said. “We’re doing unobtrusive. We’re fitting into the landscape. It’s a thing. Why doesn’t anybody believe me? I’ll send you an invitation once we’ve done the condo build, and you can see for yourself. How’s that?”
She finished washing his good leg, stood up, tossed the used cloths into the laundry bin, and said, “I’ll look forward to it. If you remember, though, I’ll be impressed.”
“I’ll remember,” he said. “It’s my job.”
Standing up and washing himself, even with the help of the walker, wasn’t any kind of party. But sticking his head under the faucet and scrubbing at his hair with the shampoo Esther had left him felt very nearly orgasmic all the same, and once he’d dressed in his last clean set of Willow and Azra’s offerings, he actually didn’t repel himself. Hedid,however, collapse onto the bed again for another exciting bout of sweating and breathing too hard. And when, much later than he’d hoped, he handed the nursing staff the enormous arrangement of roses and the card he’d ordered, shook hands all around, climbed into the back seat of his SUV and stuck his leg out straight along the leather, then leaned against the door while his brand-new driver, a silent man named Dave, delivered him to his temporary housing...
Well, yeah. It felt like a marathon, only worse. One of those ones where the guy was bent double heaving into the bushes at the end, maybe. Or where he crawled across the finish line after collapsing, and it made the news.
Three shallow stairs up to the front door, and he made it while Dave hovered beside him and looked worried, like if Brett fell, it would be his job. Keys, then, and another thank-you-goodbye as Dave set the plastic bag of his belongings inside the front door and left.
After that, Brett found his bedroom, spared a moment to be grateful for the woman who’d moved his things over here from the stairs-intensive place he’d been before, pitched himself onto the king-sized bed, and everything went black.
The day had been hot, and Willow had spent nearly half of it outdoors, after catering a Cancer Council luncheon and swinging by Woolworth’s and the natural grocery for supplies. She’d had no choice, if she was going to show up at Brett’s place and do a job without embarrassing herself with too much awkward apology. She’d surfed herself into rubber-limbed, mind-numbed exhaustion, had taken a shower, and hadnotdressed up.
She wasn’t going to a party, she wasn’t going on a date, and she’d better remember it. She was going to work. Three weeks wasn’t “leaving tomorrow,” which she’d been expecting all along, but it wasn’t “moving van arrives tomorrow, after which I begin the search for my bride,” either. It was twenty-one days, and no matter what she’d told that nurse, she didn’t want to be Brett’s temporary entertainment during them. Despite what Gordy had said the other night, she’d encountered heaps of tourists looking for a good time on holiday in Byron, and none of them had mistaken her for a bloke. The scene with Gordy had been exactly two days ago, though, her heart felt as tender and battered right now as Brett’s leg, and she...
She liked him too much. Even if she’d wanted just-for-now, she didn’t want it with somebody with that much everything. Looks. Charm. Money. And most dangerous of all, a heart you could lose your own to.
No.
Shehaddone the sums on the meals, though. It came to nearly thirty-five hundred dollars. A bloody fortune, when you weren’t expecting it. She could put it away toward the dreaded day when Azra’s family lured her home, and get a place of her own if she wanted it.
Except that she didn’t want a place of her own. She wanted somebody to talk to. Somebody to eat dinner with. Somebody to draw her a bath when she came home too tired. She wanted... she wanted her parents’ life, where her mum had lain out on the veranda at night beside her dad and read him romantic poetry from the classical age, the fluid, sibilant Arabic syllables falling into the dark, while the warm breeze fluttered the edges of her satin dressing gown and the stars wheeled overhead in the warm, black North African night. Or even her aunt and uncle’s life, where somebody filled your car with petrol every time so you wouldn’t have to do it, because that was the dragon he could slay.
Scratch that. Hopelessly romantic. Not happening. Certainly not happening with somebody who had half of himself—the undamaged half—out of the country already. Somebody whowouldprobably listen to you reading aloud to him at night, and whowouldfill your petrol tank. Or somebody else’s petrol tank, because the man was goinghome.It was three weeks, and fairy tales were for little girls who danced in their parents’ living rooms in sparkly headbands.
Right. Here she was, earning money to add more cushion to her perfectly fine life. She had a surfboard, she had a bike, she had a business, and thanks to Azra, she even had clothes. She’d put the money toward... something. If the business had been all hers, she’d put it into a steam oven with a rotisserie attachment, but the businesswasn’tall hers, so never mind.
The GPS told her to turn right, so she did. Brett hadn’t got a place on the beach, the way any other disgustingly rich bloke would have done. Instead, the address was ten minutes and about fifty years away from town, in Skinner’s Shoot, off Banglow Road and up Yaegers Lane. An enormous banana tree stood at the entrance to a steep, winding drive that looked a kilometer long, next to another tree drooping with extravagant red flowers and heaps of green foliage that her aunt would have recognized, but Willow didn’t.
“Right,” she muttered to herself, hopping out of the car after grabbing a knife from her kit, kicking her way up the slope, and cutting down a cluster of green bananas for later. “He’s just a man, mate. Puts on his trousers one leg at a time. Especially now.”
Back in the car and up that drive. Around a curve, past a view of a pond that was nearly a lake, with a square swimming raft floating serenely in its center, offering an invitation on a sticky-hot day. To somebody other than Brett, that is. Two horses grazed beyond it, the emerald hills sloped down to the sea, and it all looked perfectly peaceful.
Another curve, and she brought the car to a stop. She didn’t even realize she’d done it until she had.
It was a Federation bungalow, that was all. White, low, and sprawling, topped with a friendly corrugated red tin roof and surrounded by gum trees that would help keep it shady and cool inside. It was situated bang at the top of the hill, catching the breezes, with a view of the hills and the sea far below. Deep verandas with railings made of the most delicate white iron filigree were furnished with basket chairs that invited you to sit, and two rattan lounges were arranged nearby, complete with cushions in bright colors and tropical patterns. The whole thing would have suited... her parents. Anybody. All right, her. A white fence surrounded a riot of flower gardens planted to look casual, and to either side, a two-car garage and what had to be a guest cottage were built of the same materials.
It wasn’t the cold, modern perfection she’d expected. It was a resting spot. An unwinding spot. She’d bet there was a pool behind the house as well, possibly on the downslope with a view of its own. And a spa tub, definitely. Brett couldn’t use one, and he wouldn’t use the other anyway. Pity, because she was fairly certain they’d be spectacular. Private. Peaceful. Serene. You wouldn’t even have to wear your costume. What would it feel like to swim with nothing on? She’d bet it’d be awesome. You’d feel like a mermaid.
“Right,” she muttered to herself again. “Not your life. Onward. Thirty-five hundred dollars.” She took out the first two of her many bags of supplies, headed up the three broad steps to the welcoming veranda, shifted the bags into one arm, and knocked at the door.
Nothing happened. No light inside, though it was still daylight. No black Batmobile in the drive, though it could be in the garage. Except that Brett couldn’t drive. Of course he couldn’t. He wouldn’t have his car.
She knocked again. Still nothing. She set the bags down, searched for her phone, and checked the text.13 Yaegers Lane.That was right.
Wait. He was on crutches. He was barelymobile.She tried the door, and the knob turned in her hand. She opened the door, took a step inside, and called, “Brett?”
No answer. She shut the door behind her and called again, “Brett? Are you here?”
The house was spacious, shadowy, and cool inside, the walls painted a calming dove white, the furnishings simple, comfortable, and elegant. Rattan-bladed ceiling fans turned in the enormous living room, the cozy dining area, and the perfectly outfitted kitchen beyond. Switched on because somebody had been expected, or because he’d arrived.
He couldn’t have gone anywhere, and the hospital had said he’d left at two. She’d checked. The address had to be right, too. Brett wouldn’t make a mistake like that, even on drugs. Not in his DNA. What if he’d fallen, trying to take a shower by himself? Trying to get dressed, because PJs felt unacceptable? Both things sounded exactly like him, and her head was starting to spin, her breath to come short.
