Bargain in Bronze

So he sat like he had the other nights and got on with his work. To his immense satisfaction every time he glanced up he caught her looking at him. So he stood and got himself some water from the fridge. Turning back he nabbed her snatching a look at his butt. Yeah, he had a number of nail marks proving how much she liked that part of him. He stood socially unacceptably near to her at the counter—watching her work. He’d see how long she could hold out for.

“Where’s your younger sister?” She asked eventually, her voice a little shrill. Her cheeks were getting redder by the minute.

“At university, thank goodness.” He didn’t step away, not when he saw the way she couldn’t help the downward flicker of her gaze over his body. He liked being this close—near enough to touch in a heartbeat.

“Is she into rowing too?”

“She wasn’t, for a long time. But now she’s a cox,” He wickedly emphasized the word, knowing from the quick touch of her tongue to her lips what she was thinking of. “It seems to be in the blood.”

“It must have been hard for you.” She sent him another quick glance from beneath her cautious lashes.

He bit the inside of his lip. People were curious—of course they were. Mostly he brushed it off, but with Libby he had an urge to be honest. “It wasn’t as hard as many other people have it. I was able to generate cash to get the business underway. And they were good kids. Well, as good as could be expected.” He frowned.

Libby raised her brows. “Did they give you a hard time?”

“Being the stand-in parent means you get the brunt of rebellion and resentment.”

“You should’ve been out sowing your wild oats.” She sent him a look from under her lashes. “You still should be.”

Jack tensed. Tom had said that recently, Anne too in her own way. But he’d figured that had been because the two of them wanted him off their backs. Now he wondered if they were right. He’d gotten in the habit of bearing responsibility and working so hard to make sure they had all they needed and to build the business. But stupidly, hearing it from Libby flicked his pride—his past hadn’t been completely boring.

“I did okay,” he said. “It wasn’t all a desert in that time.”

But none of those random hook-ups had given him the kind of experience he’d had with Libby last night.

“No girlfriend could put up with the sullen teen sister or my work hours.” He couldn’t help explaining. He hadn’t had time to manage a relationship. Then he’d gotten used to the hours. Once his business interests took off, they increased more. He still didn’t have the time for anything serious. Fortunately Libby didn’t want anything long-term. They could enjoy this moment by moment—have a few laughs together over an oat-strewn counter.

“I don’t believe you,” Libby said, measuring almonds. “There would have been girls lining up round the block to give you the kind of support you needed.”

He laughed. “That’s a sweet thing to say but it’s not true.”

“It’s true.”

She was wrong. “I spent most of my time with building contractors, engineers and inspectors. It’s a reality that most of those people are not female. It comes down to sheer opportunity.”

“Is that what I was last night?” Her eyes glinted. “Sheer opportunity?”

It only took a moment to get his hands around her waist. He lifted her up onto the countertop. “What you are,” he said roughly, pushing her knees apart so he could press close and kiss her everywhere. “Is temptation.”

She shook her head, taking his hand and bringing it to her breast, sighing in surrender when he tightened his fingers around the taut nipple. “That’s what you are.”

He kissed her, boldly invading her mouth the second their lips connected. She opened instantly—her low moan making him even harder. None of the passion had been assuaged last night. In fact it was worse, knowing how hot it would be. Damn. He lifted her off the bench and into his arms. “My place.”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing?” He asked the next night. Bags of ingredients spilled all over the counter in a mess. Where was her usual “everything just so” approach?

“Grainstorming.”

“What?”

She chuckled. “I’m trying to come up with new combination ideas.”

He looked at the counter now straining under the weight of some of the oddest looking fruit he’d seen. “There are combinations and there’s just plain weird. That’s in the weird category.” He pointed to a yellow spike-covered fruit.

“You’re afraid to try something new?” She shook her head. “So conservative, Jack.”

“I can try new,” he countered wickedly. “I can be very inventive.”

She used her wooden spoon to fend him off. “You’re not distracting me. I do need to grainstorm.”

“It might help with your creativity,” he reasoned idly. “Plus, it will help you work up an appetite for your tasting sessions.”

“Later.” She fluttered her fingers round the handle of the wooden spoon—a thoughtful look in her eye. “This is just, you know…”

“A fling.” He nodded. “Of course.”

Because neither of them had the time nor need for anything more.

He sat on a stool and watched her play with the weird ingredients. She asked him about his day and he found himself talking through the plans for his newest property. Somehow that led him to talk to her about the troubles Tom had those few years ago when he fell in love and was crushed enough over the breakup to fall into a party crowd and almost lose his place on his rowing squad. And she listened and smiled and didn’t offer any platitudes, which he was grateful for.

“What about muesli bars?” he asked, turning the conversation to her work—finding he was more and more interested in it. He was even thinking on it during the day, turning over ideas and ways in which he might be able to help.

“Full of sugar and fat.”

“The health thing is that important to you?” he asked. “It’s not that you’re on a food trend or wanting to cater to such an exclusive corner of the market?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I wish it wasn’t exclusive. I wish there was a way to make it cheaper so more people could benefit from a healthier breakfast, not some sugar and salt laden cereal.”

“You really want to make a difference?”

“Of course,” she looked up from her contemplation of the assorted ingredients. “Don’t you? Heart health matters.”

“Why does it matter so much to you?” It wasn’t personal, right? She didn’t have any scars—he knew because he’d licked every inch of her body. But there must be a scar somewhere, because he saw her face fall.

For a long moment he didn’t think she’d say anything, but then with a soft sigh and a very small voice, she told him.

“My mother died of a heart condition when she was thirty-five.”

His blood froze. “Oh Libby, I’m sorry.”

“It gets worse,” she added, suddenly more spirited and even faking a smile. “My father died of a heart attack less than two months later.”

She might have been trying to lightly joke it off, but failed miserably. He put his arms around her, ignoring the bowl she held. She leant forward and rested her forehead on his chest for a moment. He liked it.

“I think it was a broken heart in some ways.” She was back to the whisper. “But in others it was simply poor health. I didn’t know at the time but his blood pressure was bad, his cholesterol, his stress…” she trailed off. “It was one of those ones you read about in the paper. Reasonably fit guy in his early forties goes for a run and doesn’t come back.”

“Where were you?”

“With him.”

He swore beneath his breath.

“I’d encouraged him,” she said. “He’d withdrawn so much after Mum died. I thought some fresh air would be good. That it would be good for him to get a little fitter.” She stopped talking.

Horror rendered him speechless—

the poor girl had to carry that with her? His heart tore.

Even though she remained standing in his arms he could feel her withdrawing—as if she regretted what she’d told him, as if she didn’t want to delve any deeper into wounds that had left far more than skin-puckering scars.

“Were you angry with him for leaving you?” he asked quietly.

She was still for a long moment. And then nodded, a sharp jerk of her head. “With both of them.”

“I was angry with my mother,” he said painfully. Usually he resisted thinking about that time in his life, and almost never talked about it. But he wanted to reach Libby now—to let her know he almost understood. “Like she could help getting cancer?” He half-mocked his own devastation. “But I was so angry.”

“And then your father remarried.”

“Yeah, but that wasn’t a betrayal,” he said, reassuring. “She was lovely. She was great to me. There was no wicked stepmother nightmare. She and Dad were happy and it was good to see that when he’d been so sad. But then Tom got sick.” And that had been a whole other nightmare. He breathed in, aiming to lighten the pressure in his chest. “You don’t have brothers or sisters?”