Nikki and the Lone Wolf (2 page)

And that howl was doing things to her insides. It sounded like she imagined the Hound of the Baskervilles would sound, howling ghostly anguish over the moors. Or over her beach.

The animal must be stuck in a trap or something.

If it was stuck, what could she do?

Go to the beach, figure what's wrong and then ring for help.

You can do this. You're a big girl. A country girl. Or not.

She wanted, suddenly and desperately, to be back home in Sydney. In her lovely life she'd walked away from.

Face that tomorrow, she told herself harshly. For tonight…go fix a howl.

 

He was striding up the track, moving swiftly. With a slab of meat in his hand he could approach the dog slowly, letting it smell the meat before it smelled him. He'd intended to have the
steak for breakfast—he needed a decent meal before heading to sea again—but he could cope with eggs.

Don't get sucked in.

‘I'm not getting sucked in,' he told himself. ‘I'm hauling the thing out of the water, feeding it and handing it over to Henrietta. End of story.'

 

It was dark.

The bush was really thick. Her torch wasn't strong enough.

She was out of her mind.

The howls stopped.

Why?

The silence made it worse. Where had the howls been coming from? Where were the howls now?

Anything could be in here. Bunyips. Neanderthals. The odd rapist.

She was losing her mind, and she was going home now! She turned, pushed forward, and a branch slapped her forehead with a swish of leaves. She almost screamed. She was absurdly pleased that she didn't.

But still no howl.

Where was it?

She was going back to the house. There was no way she was going one inch further.

Where was the thing behind the howl?

She shoved her way around the next bush, pushing herself against the thick foliage. Suddenly the foliage gave way and she almost tumbled out onto the track.

Hands grabbed her shoulders—and held.

She screamed and jerked back.

She raised her poker and she hit.

S
HE'D
killed him.

He went down like felled timber, crumpling from the knees, pitching sideways onto the leaf-littered track.

She had just enough courage not to run; to shine the torch at what she'd hit.

She'd hit someone—not something. She didn't believe in werewolves. Therefore…

Sanity returned with terrifying speed. She had it figured almost before she got the torchlight on his face, and what she saw confirmed it.

She whimpered. There seemed no other option.

This was ghastly on so many levels her head felt it might explode.

She'd knocked out her landlord.

The howling started up again just through the trees, and she jumped higher than the first time she'd heard it.

A lesser woman would run.

There wasn't room for her to be a lesser woman.

She knelt, shining the torchlight closer to see the damage.

Gabe's dark face was thick with stubble, harsh and angular. A thin trickle of blood was oozing down the side of his cheek. A bruise with a split at its centre was rising above his eye.

He seemed totally unconscious.

To say her heart sank was an understatement. Her heart was
below her ankles. It was threatening to abandon her body entirely.

But then… He stirred and groaned and his fingers moved towards his head.

Conscious. That had to be good.

What to do? Deep breath. This was no time for hysterics. He looked as if he was trying to focus.

She placed the poker behind her. Out of sight.

‘Are you… Are you okay?' she managed.

He groaned. He closed his eyes and appeared to think about it.

‘No,' he managed at last. ‘I'm not.'

‘I'll find a doctor.' Her voice wobbled to the point of ridiculous. ‘An ambulance.'

He opened his eyes again, touched his head, winced, closed his eyes again. ‘No.'

‘You need help.' She was gabbling. ‘Someone.' She went to touch his face and then thought better of it. She definitely needed help. Someone who knew what they were doing. She reached inside her jacket for her cellphone.

His eyes flew open, he grabbed her wrist and he held like a vice.

‘What did you hit me with?' His voice was a slurred growl.

‘A…a poker.' His voice was deep. In contrast, her voice was practically a squeak.

‘A poker,' he said, almost conversationally. ‘Of course. And now what?'

‘S…sorry?'

‘You have a gun in your jacket? Or is only your poker loaded?'

Her breath came out in a rush. If he was making stupid jokes, maybe she hadn't done deathly damage.

‘There's not…that's not funny,' she managed. ‘You scared the daylights out of me.'

‘You
hit
the daylights out of me.'

Reaction was making her shake. ‘You snuck up.' Her voice was getting higher. ‘You grabbed me.'

‘Snuck up…' He sounded flabbergasted. ‘I believe,' he said through gritted teeth, ‘that I was running up the track. On
my
land. Back to
my
house. And you burst out of the undergrowth. Bearing poker.'

He had a point, she conceded. She'd almost fallen as she lurched onto the cleared track. She might indeed have fallen into his path.

It might even have been reasonable for him to grab her to stop them both falling.

And he was her landlord.
Hitting someone was bad enough, but to hit Gabe…

It hadn't been easy to find decent rental accommodation in Banksia Bay and she'd been really lucky to find this apartment. Apart from howling dogs, it had everything she needed. ‘Just be nice to your landlord and respect his privacy,' the woman in the rental agency had advised. ‘He's a bit of a loner. You leave Gabe in peace and you'll get along fine.'

Leaving him in peace wouldn't include hitting him, she conceded. Mentally she was already packing.

‘I need steak,' he said across her thoughts.

She blinked. ‘Steak?' She groped for basic first aid; thought of something she'd once read. ‘To stop the swelling?' She tried to look wise. Tried to stop gibbering. ‘I don't… I don't have steak but I'll get ice.'

‘For the dog, dummy.' He'd raised his head but now he set it down again, staying flat on the leaf litter. Gingerly fingering the bruise. ‘The dog needs help. There's steak in my fridge. Fetch it.'

‘I can't…'

‘Just fetch it,' he snapped and closed his eyes. ‘If you run round in the middle of the night with pokers, you face the consequences. Get the steak.'

‘I can't leave you,' she said miserably, and he opened one eye and looked at her. Flinching.

‘Turn the torch around,' he said, and she realised that just possibly she was blinding him as well as hitting him.

‘Sorry.' She swivelled the light so it was shining harmlessly into the bush.

‘No, onto you.'

He reached out, grabbed the flashlight and turned it onto her face. Then he surveyed her while she thought ouch, having a flashlight in her eyes hurt.

‘There's no need to be scared,' he said.

‘I'm not scared.' But then the dog howled again and she jumped. Okay, maybe she was.

‘You can't afford to be,' he said, and she could tell by the strain in his voice that he was hurting. ‘Because the dog needs help. I don't know what's wrong with him. He's standing on the beach howling. You were heading down with a poker. I, on the other hand, intend to try steak. I believe my method is more humane. It might take me a few moments to stop seeing stars, however, so you fetch it.'

‘Are you really seeing stars?'

‘Yes.' Then he relented. ‘It's night. There are stars. Yes, I'm dizzy, but I'll get over it. I won't die while you're away, but I do need a minute to stop things spinning. My door's open. Kitchen's at the back. Steak's in the paper parcel in the fridge. Chop it into bite sized pieces. I'll lie here and count stars till you come back. Real ones.'

‘I can't leave you. I need to call for help.'

‘I'm fine,' he said with exaggerated patience. ‘I've had worse bumps than this and lived. Just do what I ask like a good girl and give me space to recover.'

‘You lost consciousness. I can't…'

‘If I did it was momentary and I don't need anyone to hold my hand,' he snapped. ‘Neither do you. You're wasting time, woman. Go.'

 

She went. Feeling dreadful.

She tracked the path with her torch, trying to run. She couldn't. The path was a mass of tree roots. If Gabe had been running he must know the path by heart.

She didn't have the right shoes for running either.

She didn't have the right shoes at all, she thought. She was wearing Gucci loafers. They worked beautifully for wandering the Botanic Gardens in Sydney after a Sunday morning latte. They didn't work so well here.

She wanted so much to be back in her lovely apartment overlooking Sydney Harbour. Back in her beautifully contained life, her wonderful job, her friends, the lovely parties, the coffee haunts, control.

Jon's fabulous apartment. A job in a lovely office right next to Jon's. A career that paid…extraordinarily. A career with Jon. Friends she shared with Jon. Coffee haunts where people greeted Jon before they greeted her.

Jon's life. Or half of Jon's life. She'd thought she had the perfect life and it had been based on a lie.

What to do when your world crumbled?

Run. She'd run to here.

‘Don't think about it.' She said it to herself as a mantra, over and over, as she headed up the track as fast as she could in her stupid shoes. There'd been enough self-pity. This was her new life. Wandering around in the dark, coshing her landlord, looking for steak for the Hound of the Baskervilles?

It was her new life until tomorrow, she thought miserably. Tomorrow Gabe would ask her to leave.

Another city might be more sensible than moving back to Sydney. But it was probably time she faced the fact that moving to the coast had been a romantic notion, a dignified way she could explain her escape to friends.

‘I can't stand the rat race any longer. I can deal with my clients through the Internet and the occasional city visit. I see
myself in a lovely little house overlooking the sea, just me and my work and time to think.'

Her friends—Jon's friends—thought she was nuts, but then they didn't know the truth about Jon.

Scumbag.

She'd walked 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.