LITMIR.BIZ

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away from a scumbag. Now she’d hit her landlord.

      Men! Where was a nice convent when a girl needed one? A cloistered convent where no man set foot. Ever.

      There seemed to be a dearth of convents on her way back to the house.

      Steak.

      She reached the house, and headed through the porch they shared, where two opposite doors delineated His and Hers.

      She’d never been in His. She opened his door cautiously as if there might be a Hound or two in there as well.

      No Hounds. The sitting room looked old and faded and comfy, warmed by a gorgeous open fire. There was one big armchair by the fire. A half-empty beer glass. Books scattered—lots of books. Masculine, unfussed, messy.

      All this she saw at a glance as she headed towards the kitchen, but strangely … here was the hormone thing again. She was distracted by the sheer masculinity of the place.

      As she was … distracted … by the sheer masculinity of her landlord.

      Stupid. Get on with it, she told herself crossly, and she did.

      His fridge held more than hers. Meat, vegetables, fruit, sauces—interesting stuff that said when he was at home he cooked.

      She needed to learn, she thought suddenly, as she caught the whiff of meals past and glanced at the big old firestove that was the centrepiece of the kitchen. Enough with ‘Waistline Cuisine’.

      It was hardly the time to be thinking cooking classes now, though. Or hormones.

      Steak.

      She had it. A solid lump, enough for a team of Hounds. She sliced it into chunks in seconds, then opened the freezer and grabbed a packet of frozen peas as well.

      First aid and Hound meat, coming up.

      Men and dogs. She could cope.

      She had no choice. Convents had to wait.

      What did you do with hormones in convents?

      He’d terrified her.

      Gabe lay back and looked at the sky and let his head clear. She’d packed a huge punch, but any anger he felt had been wiped by the look on her face. She’d looked sicker than he felt.

      What was he about, letting the place to a needy city woman?

      It was the second time he’d let it. The first time he’d rented it to Mavis, a spinster with two dogs. The moment she’d moved in she decided he needed mothering. Finally, after six months of tuna bakes, her mother had ‘a turn’ and Mavis headed back to Sydney to take care of her. Gabe had been so relieved he’d waived the last month’s rent.

      And now this.

      Dorothy in the letting agency had made this woman sound businesslike and sensible. Very different to Mavis.

      ‘Nikkita Morrissy. Thirty years old. She designs air conditioning systems for big industrial projects. Her usual schedule is three weeks home, one week on site, often overseas. She’s looking for a quiet place with a view, lots of natural light and nothing to disturb her.’

      A woman who worked in industrial engineering. She sounded clever, efficient and non-needy.

      His house was huge. He should move into town but he’d lived in this place all his life. His mother was here.

      He’d lost his mother when he was eight years old, and this was all that was left. The garden she’d loved. The fence she’d almost finished. He walked outside sometimes and he could swear he saw her.

       ‘I’ll never leave you …’

      People lied. He’d learned that early. Depend on no one. But here … in his mother’s garden, looking out over the bay she’d loved, this was all that was left of a promise he’d desperately wanted to believe in.

      Emotional nonsense? Of course it was, he knew it, but his childhood house was a good place to crash when he wasn’t at sea. He had the money to keep it. If he could get a reasonable tenant for the apartment, then there’d be someone keeping the rooms warm, used.

      Go ahead, he’d told Dorothy.

      And then he’d met Nikkita. Briefly, the day she’d moved in.

      She didn’t look like an industrial engineer. She looked like someone in one of those glossy magazines Hattie kept leaving on the boat. She was tall, five nine or so, slim and pale-skinned, with huge eyes and professionally applied make-up—yes, he was a bachelor but that didn’t mean he couldn’t pick decent cosmetics a mile off. Her glossy black hair was cut into some sort of sculpted bob, dead straight, all fringe and sharp edges.

      And her clothes … The day she’d arrived she’d been wearing a black tunic with a diagonal slash of crimson across the hips. She’d added loopy silver earrings, red tights and glossy black boots that were practically thigh high. Low heels though. It was her moving day. She’d obviously thought low heels were workmanlike.

      Tonight she’d been wearing jeans. Skin-tight jeans and a soft pink sweater. She must be roughing it, he thought, and his thoughts were bitter.

      His head was thumping. He was trying hard not to think critical thoughts about ditzy air conditioning engineers who bush-bashed through the night with pokers.

      And suddenly she was back again—practically running, though if she’d tried to run in those shoes she would have run right out of them. She was panting. Her eyes were still huge and the sculpted hair was … well, a lot less sculpted. She had a twig stuck behind one ear. A big twig.

      ‘Are you okay?’ she demanded, breathless, as if she’d expected to find him dead.

      ‘I’m fine,’ he growled and struggled to stand. Enough of lying round feeling sorry for himself. He shook away the hand she proffered, pushed himself to his feet—and the world swayed. Not much, but enough for him to grab her hand to steady himself.

      She was stronger than he thought. She grabbed his other hand and held, hard, waiting for him to steady.

      ‘S … sorry.’ For a moment he thought he might throw up. He concentrated for a bit and decided no, he might keep his dignity.

      ‘Let me help you to the house.’

      ‘Dog first,’ he said.

      ‘You first.’

      ‘The dog’s standing up to his hocks in the water, howling. I’m not even whinging. I’m prioritizing.’ He made to haul his hands away but she still held.

      He stopped pulling and let her hold.

      Two reasons. One, he was still unsteady.

      Two, it felt … not bad at all.

      He worked with women. A good proportion of his fishing crews were female. They mostly smelled of, yeah, well, of fish. After a while, no matter how much washing, you didn’t get the smell out.

      Nikkita smelled of something citrussy and tangy and outright heady. It didn’t make the dizziness worse, though. In truth it helped. He stood still, breathing in the scent of her, while the night settled around him.

      She didn’t speak. She simply held.

      Two minutes. Three. She wasn’t a talker, then. She’d figured he needed time to make the ground solid and she was giving it to him. It was the first decent thing he’d seen of her.

      Maybe there were more decent things.

      Her hands felt good. They were small hands for a tall woman. Soft …

      Yeah, well, of course they’d be soft. For the last ten years any woman he’d ever gone out with was a local, one of the fishing crews, women who worked hard for a living. The only woman he’d ever gone out with who had soft hands …

      Yeah. Lisbette. He’d married her.

      So much for soft

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