“And when you’re not on your own?”
Not so relaxed then...
“Not your business,” she said as coolly as she could.
“Keeping a woman safe is always a man’s business.”
There was a small thrumming silence while she considered that. Did he mean any woman or her in particular?
“I’m perfectly safe. You don’t have to worry.”
Then she took a deep deliberate breath and changed the subject. “Yes, the flowers arrived. Thank you so much. It was very extravagant of you and not at all necessary.”
“White lilies? I asked them to send white.”
“Yes, white lilies. Far too many of them. Their scent is amazing. I had to put them in the floor-cleaning bucket for a while until I worked out what to do with them.”
“Red plastic is the new décor trend, then?”
She could hear his smile, and picture one black eyebrow quirked in enquiry.
“Purple plastic. Even worse. But they’re very classy now. I rescued half a dozen of the empty champagne bottles, grouped them together, and shared the stems around. They look worth millions.”
“Nothing but the best for my new decorator.”
She relaxed at that. Fran’s earlier query about it being ‘definitely on’ had eaten at her confidence a little. “So what time is it in San Diego?”
“Somewhere around two. Haven’t got my watch on. I’m fresh out of the shower.”
And just like that her nipples contracted into pebble-hard peaks and pressed against the lace of her bra as though his fingertips had reached out and touched her.
Vivid pictures of him flared in her brain; a predator at ease in his patch of jungle, but ready to leap from the dappled shadows at a second’s notice.
Was he lying on his belly, strong and tanned and spangled with water? Maybe his chin rested on one fist and his other hand held the phone pressed against his ear, very like she’d inadvertently drawn him before breakfast.
Or was he leaning back on a pile of pillows, long legs crossed at the ankle, deep chest rising and falling with each slow breath?
Of course with a white hotel towel wrapped low on his narrow hips.
Yeah, right.
“What are you doing still awake this late?” she stammered, trying not to embroider the second image of him too extravagantly. She knew he was potently endowed from yesterday’s embrace, but still...
“Can’t sleep. Jetlag. Work to do.”
“You probably should have been working in Wellington all Monday,” she apologized, “Instead of messing around with me.”
“Sophie...” he murmured, slow and low and so husky that desire drifted over her like a tropical breeze. Warm, insistent, overwhelming. “I very much enjoyed ‘messing around’ with you on Monday. As well as last night.” He let the suggestion hang in the air while she fought to re-wrap her mental bath towel around him.
She cleared her throat. And heard his laugh from right across the vast Pacific Ocean.
Damn—he knows the effect he has on me.
“I went back to your house today and took photos,” she said, trying desperately for a businesslike tone. “I’ve imported shots of all the rooms, so I have instant on-screen references. And I’ve architectural software that lets me overlay my suggestions for colors and so on for you. I can give you a virtual tour from my desk.”
“I’d rather you walked me through the house again. You know I’d enjoy your personal service...”
Oh didn’t she just!
“Some things we can do long distance,” she insisted, trying to stay focused. “I can email you ideas, and maybe I can make progress before you come back. I’ve had some luck with a very good painter, for instance. I was sounding him out for early next year, and found his current contract’s just gone belly-up.”
“I don’t want someone off the scrapheap.”
“No, listen. Roy’s excellent, but the builders have had a major disaster because of a plumbing flood. They need to re-line a lot of that house, and then re-plaster. He has various smaller jobs to choose from, but he’d rather have one big one like we all would. I’ll put some pressure on him if you’d trust me?”
“Well, the walls and ceilings are all stopped and sanded...”
“So we could get quite a lot of it out of the way. The children’s bedrooms, the halls, stairs, utility rooms? We’ll leave the major rooms until you’re back here, for sure.”
“Get him to do the media room while he’s at it,” Rafe said. “It’ll always be half dark in there. Go for it, Sophie. Something neutral. I can get it painted over again later.”
She bristled at that. “I’d rather get it right first time, thanks! I’ll send you some color references—okay?”
So that was Wednesday.
*
Thursday she did the hardest day’s work of her life, cross matching samples of paint, tile, carpet, and fabric. Re-evaluating, discarding, re-combining, overlaying final choices on her photos, letting the phone take messages while she concentrated.
She called Chris to establish how the cleanup was progressing, and mentioned her contact with Roy the painter. Finally she emailed some of her schemes to Rafe, grabbed a chicken and avocado sub for dinner, and called Camille.
And that was Thursday.
*
On Friday she awoke on tenterhooks, wondering how long it would take him to respond.
She’d arranged an early site meeting with the painter so he could see the scope of the job and order the sealer and undercoat he’d need. Then she zoomed back into the city.
As she unlocked the studio the phone rang. She wrestled her crash helmet off and shook her hair free, every bone in her body knowing it was going to be him.
“Subtle Interior Design Studio; Sophie Calhoun,” she said in her crispest voice.
“Rafe Severino.”
The two words were softly spoken yet they were enough to send a tidal wave of pleasure washing over her. “What time is it there?”
He gave an exultant laugh. “I bet myself ten bucks you’d ask. It’s after lunch, and it’s yesterday as far as you’re concerned.”
“So?” she faltered. “What do you think?”
“That I might bring back a piece of local artwork for one of my smart new rooms.”
Her brain buzzed at the compliment. “You like some of my ideas, then?”
“Almost all of them. I’d need to see samples of the bedroom carpets before I decide...”
“I could courier them to you, if you don’t mind paying for fast service?”
“...because I want to know you’ve chosen something soft and thick enough for the ravishing I mentioned.”
Sophie hitched a breath in very fast, and tried to hide her reaction by reciting slowly as though she was taking notes, “Carpet... needs... to be suitable... for debauchery.”
God, the man had just made her damp and twitchy from halfway round the world!
A little later the orchids arrived. A bouquet of exquisite pure white moth orchids, nodding gently on long stems. With them came a tall plain crystal vase in a gold box. The card said ‘Plastic bucket replacement. Rafe.’
Sophie shook her head in disbelief. His beautiful lilies were now on the wane, but she’d recently cut the faded ones from the stems and regrouped the best of them. She was so used to making do and stretching her money and possessions to go further, that such things had become automatic. Extravagance had never been part of her life.
*
On Sunday she rose early, showered, and pulled on her black jeans and a white T-shirt. She checked she had the silver sequined Barbie dress, her studio photos, and a library book in her bag. Then, yet again, she caught the Inter-islander ferry across Cook Strait to go and see her tiny daughter.
The routine was second nature by now. Sneak the scooter into a narrow wedge of the parking lot and check in by seven-forty for the eight-twenty-five departure. Buy a coffee and eat a health bar
for breakfast in the hubbub of the terminal. Be among the first to board, and grab a corner seat so she could read in peace for the three hour crossing.
Today was different though. Today she wanted to be as close as possible to Rafe’s harborside home.
Once they were under way she gave her full attention to the view she’d long ago stopped noticing. The steep green hills of Wellington basked under a perfect blue sky. Sunlight twinkled off the windows of timber houses making use of every high vantage point. No wonder Rafe had needed to create his own building site.
And finally she saw the house—gliding by too fast now the ferry was up to speed. The pared down cliff was still an ochre colored gouge. She could just discern the cable-car rail beside it. The three levels of floor to ceiling glass caught the sun and flashed her a greeting. The wide timber decks overhung the restless water, defying gravity. It was magnificent, and all hers to make her reputation with.
She raised her camera and focused in close before taking several shots. Only after rounding the harbor heads to the open sea did she sit again and open her novel.
The ferry started to buck as it hit open water but she was used to the steady roll of the Cook Strait waves beneath her. Much later, having been engrossed in the book, she noticed the open ocean had given way to the dark green forested hills of Queen Charlotte Sound.
The little white ship ploughed on down the long sheltered passage to Picton. Sophie heard two teenagers trying to sound cool as they spotted a pod of dolphins cutting through the sunlit water not far distant. Once younger children joined in, shrill excitement took over.
The ferry slid into Picton on time, and she disembarked quickly and walked the few blocks to her mother’s house.
Cammie waited for her, perched behind the gate, toes wedged into the gaps between the timbers. It was the game they always played. Sophie bent to kiss her daughter and then swung the gate gently open.
“I’m flying, Mommy.”
“Right into Nanna’s pretty garden, if I let go of you. How are you, darling? Going to show me your elephant painting?” She held the gate steady while Cammie climbed down. Hand in hand they walked to the open front door of the modest timber house. Nancy Calhoun bustled toward them, having no doubt heard the snap of the gate latch.
“My daughter the businesswoman,” she said, pride showing in her wide smile and soft blue eyes. She led them through to her kitchen. The electric kettle clicked off as they entered. She poured the boiling water into waiting mugs, and Sophie automatically took the milk from the fridge for her mother’s tea before they sat down at the table.
“Tell me everything,” Nancy insisted.
“Well, I took some photos of the house from the ferry, so maybe you’d like to see those to start with?”
“Me see, Mommy.”
Sophie held the phone so Camille could view the screen first. Satisfied she was missing nothing, the little girl returned to dressing Barbie in her new silver gown.
“It’s quite something,” Nancy Calhoun agreed, giving the house a lot more attention than her grand-daughter had. “I’m so glad for you, darling—it’s about time.” She clicked through the other shots and drew a swift surprised breath. “Wherever did you get the glorious phalaenopsis?”
“Mmmm?” Sophie enquired, coming to lean over her mother’s shoulder. “Oh, the orchids? They’re quite something, aren’t they?”
“We sell those plants for around forty dollars each at the garden centre and they mostly have only one flower stem apiece. That’s a very expensive bouquet.”
“It was a good luck present from a client,” Sophie said, secretly horrified when she multiplied the forty dollars by a dozen stems and added the florist’s fee, and delivery, and the beautiful crystal vase as well. Even if she called each stem only half that it still meant Rafe had spent hundreds more dollars on her.
“And speaking of the garden centre, I’d better bustle to get there on time,” Nancy added with a sigh. “There’s a picnic lunch in the fridge for my girls. I thought you might like to take it to the park seeing it’s so warm today.”
She cast around for her bag and gave them both a kiss on the cheek. “See you at the ferry terminal just after five.”
*
Later that day the three of them sat sipping fruit juice while excited passengers milled around them.
“Busy afternoon at work?” Sophie asked.
“It’s always good on a fine Sunday. I think they’re pleased enough to have me for the extra time, and it’s another few hours’ pay.”
Sophie bowed her head. She knew her mother sacrificed a lot to care for Camille.
“I don’t know how many bedding begonias went out the door today. Dozens and dozens, and a lot of new buxus, too. Those little box hedges are so popular now.”
“Buxus, buxus, buxus,” Camille’s treble voice chanted, pleased with the new word she’d learned.
“But it means I don’t get to see so much of you any more, Mom.”
“You come to see your daughter, not to see me.”
“Both of you!”
“Ah well. Maybe not for much longer if your business goes as well as you hope.”
Sophie raised her glass or orange in a mock toast. “And then you can come and see us instead. Why not come over anyway? Check out the actual studio—the photos don’t show everything. See a bit more of Wellington and enjoy the shops now they’re filling up with Christmas goodies.”
Nancy nodded agreement. “Perhaps over and back one Thursday/Friday if I can get a couple of mornings off? Not for a week or two because Maureen’s had that wrist operation I told you about.”
“Fine,” Sophie said, just as the announcement boomed out to inform passengers booked on the five past six sailing to Wellington they could now embark.
Three more hours of sitting down. She hoped her book would last that long. Hoped the sea would be calm. Hoped most of all the weekly time consuming ferry crossings would soon be at an end.
“See you next Sunday, gorgeous girl.” She stroked Camille’s long blonde hair until the last possible moment, and then rose to leave. There were kisses all round and tears in both women’s eyes as Sophie grabbed her bag and crash helmet and walked away fast.
Chapter 13 — Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire
She’d expected another phone call so she could thank Rafe personally for the orchids, but there were only several short and businesslike emails.
That was it? She was just the designer?
Probably she hadn’t seemed interested enough; well, she only had herself to blame. And really it was best this way. If she’d fallen for him and they’d had an affair she’d be hurting bigtime now.
Instead of only medium-big.
But their passionate embrace at the foot of the stairs had burned itself into her brain. And memories of his possessive and protective behavior when he’d walked her to her door had thrilled her again and again.
His emails seemed cold by comparison so she was unprepared for his sudden appearance in the studio, mid afternoon Wednesday, duty-free bag dangling from a long tanned finger.
“Rafe!” she squeaked, rearing up in her chair and clicking the mouse when she hadn’t intended to. The ivory bedroom curtains on the screen turned bright orange.
“Sophie.”
His warm voice wrapped around her in a drugging mist.
So she wasn’t quite off the menu? Should she be pleased or annoyed?
He lowered the shiny bag onto the desk beside her and bent to brush a swift kiss over her astonished and trembling lips. “I bought you perfume.” Then he turned away and dropped onto the sofa, apparently exhausted.
She grimaced at the alarming orange curtains and rolled her chair back from the desk. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that to get a good job out of me, you know.”
Rafe seemed too tired to react. He simply said, “That was one pig of a trip. Thank God it’s over.”
She rose, took half a dozen shaky steps across
to him, and peered down. The laugh lines around his normally joyful dark eyes looked more like worry lines today. The devil-may-care tycoon was human after all. “What was so bad?”
And why did I throw him such an ungrateful comment about the perfume?
He blew out a frustrated breath. “One accountant trying to fiddle the books, as I suspected. Nasty scenes. Sad when you trust someone. One inept salesman who nearly wrecked a huge deal. I pulled that back, by a miracle.” He reached out for her hand and grasped it. “One jumped-up Gelcoat rep who needed shooting. One cute little designer who wasn’t there.”
He gave a swift tug and Sophie overbalanced onto his lap.
“Better,” he said, sliding his arms around her to confine her. He kissed her again—with much greater thoroughness this time, and in full view of anyone who wished to look through the studio windows. Somehow she didn’t have the strength to fight him off. She wondered if she was even trying.
No, not trying at all. Fingers running through his inky hair now. Tongue sliding into his hot sweet-tasting mouth. Heart beating like a bongo drum. Thighs losing all muscle tone. Damn...
“Stop it Rafe,” she finally managed, making a half hearted effort to struggle free. Her white linen skirt had rucked up to indecent heights, one shoe had fallen with a thud onto the oiled floorboards, and at least half her hair had escaped from its feathery top-knot.
“Don’t want to stop it.” He assumed a petulant little-boy expression which teased a reluctant grin from her. “How’s business?” he asked in another lightning fast change of topic.
“Let me up and I’ll tell you.”
“Kiss me again and I might.”
“Promises, promises.” She leaned close enough to nibble his bottom lip and then wriggled away to pull her skirt down into place. How could he apparently switch off like that? Her hands wanted to rip his shirt apart so she could bury her nose against him, and smell and taste all that golden skin. She itched to peel him out of his conservative business clothes and help him raise a sweat—right there in front of arriving customers, if need be.
She shook her head in an effort to clear it of such incendiary thoughts.
Resist him, resist him. Don’t risk messing up the house deal whatever you do.
She breathed out quietly, hoping for calm. “The business is slow but steady. Better than I was expecting. Every day someone new wanders in or phones up and makes enquiries.”