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‘But you know enough.’
‘Vanessa—’
As he stepped forward, she stepped back and held up a hand. ‘Please don’t be embarrassed. I’m a pragmatist, Mr Stuart. I know the way the world works.’ She reached around and took her torn card from the hallstand. ‘In case you’re tempted.’
With infuriating good grace, she shut the door behind her. It took all his willpower not to call out and drag her back against him where she seemed to belong. He had wanted to kiss her, hold her… Damn it, in that moment of insanity, he’d wanted to peel the clothes from her body and make love to her, thoroughly and all night long.
But, as he’d said, he barely knew this woman and his rescuing-damsels-in-distress plate was full. He shouldn’t get involved. In fact, he should thank his lucky stars it was over before it had begun.
He strode to the wet bar and poured himself a fresh Scotch. He swallowed a gulp, swallowed another. Frustration winning out, he smashed the glass down on the counter.
Like it or not, he was already involved. He wanted to see Vanessa Craig again. He wanted to listen to her stories. Taste her sweet lips. Damn it, he wanted to help.
The six million dollar question was…
CHAPTER TWO
H OW do I get myself out of this mess?
The following afternoon, Vanessa sat on the top tier of the Opera House steps. Squawking seagulls wheeled overhead while chattering tourists and other visitors swirled all around, many gazing up to marvel at the giant shells.
The construction of the Opera House had taken seventeen years to build. The end result was extraordinary in aesthetic, acoustic as well as patriotic terms. Whenever Vanessa needed to find strength and inspiration, she came here to appreciate what could be accomplished if one only tried.
Now she looked out over the water, busy with Sydney’s commuter ferries, past the bridge’s magnificent glinting steel arch and into the haze of her unknown future.
From the age of ten—the year she’d realised her parents really weren’t coming back to collect her from Aunt McKenzie’s—her heart had been set on finding homes for others. That was what made her happy. What kept her connected. Without her store—her purpose—she’d feel…
She gazed at the seagulls.
Adrift.
Her cellphone vibrated in her trouser suit pocket. The darkening line of the horizon smudged as she put the phone to her ear. ‘Great and Small. Vanessa speaking.’
‘Oh, I’m tho glad to have caught you.’
Vanessa flipped through her mental PDA. An elderly woman, enthusiastic, with a slight lisp didn’t ring a bell. Another creditor after a payment?
She suppressed a worn-down sigh. ‘Yes, this is she. How can I help?’
‘My son, Mitchell, gave me your number. He said you were the lady I needed to see.’ Her voice lowered. ‘He altho mentioned you do house calls.’
Vanessa straightened from her slouch. Mitchell Stuart, aka Mr Goldfish?
At one stage, when she and Mitch Stuart had spoken about sirens, she’d felt increasingly drawn to him. He’d looked at her with those startling blue eyes and her nerve-endings had reached out and tingled. Then his expression had dropped from simmering to a degree below tepid and she’d known why.
She’d shared personal information regarding her financial situation with a veritable stranger. She’d come across as needy…perhaps even soliciting. Her upbringing had been humble and she’d been raised to value tenacity and dignity; she should’ve known better.
God, she should never have returned to get the smaller tank. Worse, she shouldn’t have allowed him to kiss her as she’d never been kissed before. Though it was clear they’d both enjoyed the interaction, that wasn’t enough. She’d read him right when he’d first walked into her shop.
Water meets its own level. Guys like him—guys with money and family and the world at their feet—didn’t end up with girls like her. But she couldn’t very well hang up on his mother.
She quietly released that pent-up breath. ‘What can I do for you, Mrs Stuart?’
‘Cockapoos.’
‘Also known as spoodles,’ she confirmed. Cocker spaniels mixed with poodles.
‘In the past I’ve always purchased toy poodles.’
Vanessa remembered. The little yappy ones. Was Mrs Stuart in the market for a puppy? ‘I don’t have any cockapoos in store at the moment.’
‘My son regards your expertise highly. He said you’d be able to help. I’m after four as soon as possible. I’m willing to pay for the best.’
Vanessa’s toes curled as she squeezed the phone tight. The bank representative she’d spoken with late this afternoon had turned her application for a loan down flat. His exact words: it’s best to face reality, cut your losses and find a paying job. But pedigree cockapoos sold for a great deal. If she tracked down and sold four, the extra funds could keep the wolf from the door, perhaps long enough to find a way to keep Great and Small alive and in its current location.
If there was any way, she wanted to stay where she was. The shop was set up exactly how she’d always envisaged. It was far more than a business.
It was her home.
‘Miss Craig? Are you there?’
Vanessa pushed to her feet. ‘How soon do you want them?’
‘The sooner the better.’
She was already jogging down the steps, phone still pressed to her ear. ‘I’ll make some enquiries and call you back.’
‘I’d prefer if you’d drop by.’
To pass on a few details? She didn’t see the point. But Mrs Stuart did indeed sound pampered and Vanessa wasn’t in a position to argue.
The customer was always right, particularly one with a few thousand to spend. She should be grateful Mitch Stuart was man enough to let bygones be bygones. He’d forgiven—and most likely forgotten—their embarrassing moment and had put his mother’s needs before any hard feelings. She, in turn, would be professional and do her best to track down those dogs.
Thirty minutes and three phone calls later, Vanessa turned her Honda CRV into the address Mrs Stuart had provided. A mansion greeted her, its stately sandstone walls surrounded by immaculate mint-green lawns. A Union Jack and Southern Cross flag, perched atop a mast that touched the sky, flapped in the cool early evening breeze.
She’d thought Mitch’s stylish contemporary abode was something special, but this place might have belonged to royalty. She remembered her own single bedroom granny flat and mismatched furniture and sighed. His world and hers were not only miles apart—they were light years.
After parking on the paved circular drive, she swallowed her jangle of nerves, ascended the stone steps and rang the bell that droned a sombre tune behind the imposing ten-foot-high oak door. A uniformed maid, with a severe overbite that reminded Vanessa of Mr Cheese, answered the door. Before either of them could speak, Mrs Stuart scurried across the polished timber floor and into view.
‘Come in, come in.’ Mrs Stuart waved Vanessa in, then called over her butter-yellow blouse shoulder, ‘Cynthia! The dog lady’s here.’
Vanessa cringed. Had Mitch suggested she call her that?
Mrs Stuart addressed the maid. ‘Thank you, Wendle. I’ll take care of our guest.’
Wendle left them and Mrs Stuart linked her arm through Vanessa’s, guiding her down a wide hall trimmed in ornate