Out of Bounds (16 page)

She glanced over her shoulder with a small
enquiring smile. In answer, he stepped close and bent to kiss her
nape. He’d intended only a gentle brush of his lips, but as the
scent of her skin and hair beguiled him, he opened his mouth and
pressed kiss after hot devouring kiss on her pretty neck.

She made a small throaty noise of pleasure,
and instinctively he pinned her against the car with his body. She
arched her neck, and he bit, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

“Anton...?” Her voice sounded strung with
beads of panic.

“Mmmmm?”

“That’s scary. Let me go please.”

Cursing his stupidity, he tore himself away
and leaned back so he touched her with nothing except his lips.

Of course she hates being confined. Being
overpowered. She’s shaking like a mare about to be covered by a
stallion. But God, she’s so hot, such a turn-on.

He trailed a string of soft kisses down her
spine, hoping she’d find the courage to stay for him. And was
rewarded by a breathy sigh of relief, and soon another small murmur
of appreciation. “Sorry, should have thought,” he muttered.

“I wish I didn’t get so easily spooked.”

Great—now she’s apologizing for my
thoughtlessness.

“If you saw yourself from back here you’d
know why I got too appreciative. That’s some dress, honey—and some
body inside it.”

A chuckle trembled through her, and he
changed direction, brushing his lips upward again until he reached
her nape.

“Nice,” she whispered.

He closed his eyes, enjoying her scent. After
what she’d been through, teaching her about lovemaking would test
his restraint to the absolute limit. But the rewards would be very
sweet if he did well for her.

In almost every respect, she was a virgin
needing to be thoroughly aroused and only then taken with the
utmost care. A man didn’t get an opportunity like that twice in his
lifetime.

And maybe I don’t want anyone else messing up
all my good work afterward.

He drew a sharp breath.

Get over yourself, Haviland. You’re a player.
Long-term has never been your style.

He smoothed his face against Jetta’s short
ruffled hair. Kissed her shoulder a final regretful time.

“Nice?” he asked in answer to her shy
whisper. “You like it? I’ll kiss you all over later, and I promise
we’ll take it real slow and gentle.”

He reached out and opened the door for her,
still shaken by his sudden surge of jealous possessiveness.

Long-term, and exclusive as well? Not a hope
matey.

He walked stiffly around the car to the driver’s
side. What had just hit him? He’d never allowed a woman really
close, but Jetta was different in ways he couldn’t begin to
describe.

She sat without speaking as the car growled
its way towards Customhouse Quay. The city of Wellington surrounded
its big sheltered harbor like a shawl around shoulders. In some
places, dark green vegetation held sway; in others, buildings
spilled down the slopes right to the water’s edge.

Already the sun laced the lowest clouds with
molten gold. Lights shone around the steep hills and reflected in
the rippling water. But watching Anton across the table would beat
anything the scenery had to offer.

She shivered as the ghosts of his kisses
drifted up and down her spine—by turns as soft as a butterfly’s
wings and then hot with desire.

She’d been thrilled knowing he really wanted
her. So sex gave power and
bought
power?

“You all right now?” he asked, his soft
murmur breaking into her speculation.

She turned and smiled. “Wonderful. Better
than I should be—with Gran and the house and the fire...and
everything.”

He grimaced slightly. “Is tonight the
‘everything’?”

“Part of it.”

But it wasn’t the night. It was the man. And he was
more than part of it—he was the everything.

“Tell me more about your mother?” she asked
as their waiter cleared away the big white entrée plates.

Anton glanced up to the beamed ceiling for a
few moments before fixing his dazzling blue eyes on her again.

“She’s just Mom. Isobel Scott, sixty or so.
Blonde hair—kind of Hilary Clinton-ish. Tall for a woman. I suppose
that’s where I get it from, having no father to measure myself
against.”

There was bitterness there all too clearly,
and she wished she hadn’t hurt him. But how could she solve the
mystery any other way?

He considered for a little longer before
adding, “Claims she’s putting on weight, but I can’t see it. She
paints.”

“Portraits? Landscapes?”

“Still life. Flowers, fruit—that sort of
thing.”

Jetta nodded slowly, picturing a tall fair
woman with a softened version of Anton’s features. It got her no
closer to solving the mystery though. Why did he think he was
entitled to half of Gran’s house. “Mine was a dancer,” she said.
“Short and dark like me. Ballroom dancing—I used to love her
dresses. All those sequins...” Once again, the pain of loss dragged
at her, and she bit her lip, and closed her eyes for a moment.

Anton stayed silent until she came back to
him. “Do you dance, too?” he asked.

“Not like Mom and Dad used to. They were
good—won cups at the Nationals.”

“I don’t ever remember Isobel bringing a man
home overnight,” he said. “But she must have had men friends. I’ve
never really wondered about that before.” He wrinkled his brow as
he reviewed his mother’s past.

“But you don’t with your parents, do
you?”

“Think about their sex lives?” he asked with
a grin.

Jetta shrugged, then grinned right back. “I
suppose,” she agreed. “Sixty? My mum would have been ten years
younger.”

“Isobel must have been about my current age
when she had me. Old enough to know how to avoid getting pregnant.
Perhaps she didn’t see herself marrying, but wanted a child?”

“She was hardly over the hill.”

“Times change. Maybe back then she thought
so.”

“And...your father?” Jetta asked with
caution.

Anton shook his head. “Never met the bastard.
He’s just a name on a piece of paper. And married to someone else,
according to Mom.”

“But aren’t you curious?” she pressed.

“When I was a kid—hell yes! But you get past
it.”

“So you never tried to meet him?” She reached
toward his hand as it lay on the table top and ran her fingers over
the back of it before sliding them through his.

“I go by his name. Much good it ever did me.
I
hated
having a different name from my mother. I always
wanted to be Anton Scott.”

“So that’s a ‘no’?”

“Total no. He never wanted to meet me. I
never want to meet him. That won’t change.”

She gave his fingers a gentle squeeze, amazed
she’d even had the courage to touch him. “What do you know about
him apart from his name?”

“Not a thing. Mom wouldn’t talk about him.
Whenever I asked questions, she politely discouraged me. She
couldn’t have him, so
I
couldn’t have him.”

Jetta sighed. “I bet he was gorgeous. I bet
your mother fell totally in love with him and he broke her heart.
Maybe you look just like him?”

His gaze wandered away from her face, and
then returned. “So if I sift through that lot, can I assume you
think I’m gorgeous?”

“You know you are,” she said, pleased to see
his intensity lightening.

“You wouldn’t have thought so once. I grew
tall in a hurry, and stayed skinny for ages. Hated the way I looked
at seventeen.”

“You filled out for your height.”

“Yeah, but I was a mess for years. Too tall,
too thin, mental age way past my physical age, so I never really
fitted in at school. Isobel pushed me, of course. Only child and
all that.”

“So what made you become an architect?”

Anton lifted her hand and kissed it. “That’s
for the ‘gorgeous’ comment. We should be talking about you if
‘gorgeous’ is the topic.”

“What made you become an architect?” she
asked again, as her heart sped up and she imagined his lips
drifting over her in feather-light caresses.

His mouth quirked at her determination. “Good
at math. Good spatial perception. Loved designing things. What got
you into décor?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Is it working?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head and
smiling.

“Damn. Okay—got my first qualification at
twenty-two. Went on to do my Masters. Teamed up with Paul and Ben a
few years back. The firm’s doing well, but I want something
different to them, so I’ve started my own project on the side.” He
took a deep swallow of his wine. “What got you into décor?”

Jetta sipped and thought for a minute or two.
A waiter bustled by with a still sizzling meal, and the Asian
stir-fry aromas drifted across.

She rested her chin on her fist and smiled.
“If I said Gran did, you probably wouldn’t believe me, would you?
Not the way her house was furnished.”

Anton’s eyes closed at the idea.

“But she used to be a really keen gardener,
and belonged to the Camellia Society and other clubs over the
years. They did bus trips to lovely gardens—especially out to big
country properties—and sometimes I went with her.”

“Not exactly teenage territory?”

She shook her head. “No, I was always the
youngest by miles, and I always loved the houses more than the
gardens. I found if I admired their stained glass windows or carved
veranda posts or whatever, the owners sometimes took pity on me and
invited me inside.”

“Leaving the others to prowl around the trees
and ponds and flower borders?”

She nodded. “Right. And that’s how I got
hooked. Décor generally, but the heritage stuff in particular. Did
a design diploma, worked several years for the Severino Studio,
which has a really good reputation. Next, I’m off to New York for a
seriously useful qualification. I need to get my life in order and
move forward now Gran’s gone. Set up my own business to support
myself. It’s like coming out of the fog. I can’t wait.”

He drew her out of the car and into his
arms.

“Relax,” he whispered. For all her
sophisticated appearance, she was taut as a bowstring, quivering
with nerves. He saw it in the slight shimmer of her silver tassel
earrings, the tremble of her tender bottom lip. He dropped a small
kiss on her hair. “You’re the sweetest thing I ever met. We’ll be
fine.”

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly,
trying to wind himself down too. Jetta tilted her head up just
enough to lock eyes with his.

“I’m relaxed,” she said. “I want to do this
so much.”

“You’re about as relaxed as a cat on the
prowl,” he countered. “I can feel the tension across your shoulders
and down your back.” He trailed his fingers over the offending
muscles, stroking and kneading her soft skin.

She sighed and snuggled against him,
pretending confidence she didn’t have because the telltale tension
still rolled off her in waves.

“We should have a bath together,” he
suggested, only partly joking. “I don’t suppose there’s a spa pool
hidden in the back garden?”

“No—and it’d be freezing cold and full of
dead leaves if there was,” she muttered. “Sorry —spoiling the
mood.”

He gave her a wry grin. “Yeah, not quite what
I had in mind. But your Gran’s old bath is huge. We could start
there.”

“I’m perfectly clean,” she objected.

He buried his face in her neck and made a
game of sniffing until she giggled.

“I know you are, but imagine the lights off,
a few candles, deep bubbles to preserve your modesty...?”

“What about your modesty?”

“Haven’t got any. You’ve already spied on all
I possess.”

“No I haven’t. Not...there.”

Anton grabbed her hand and pressed it to his
groin before he got any harder. “No great mystery,” he said, as
Jetta gasped and tried to pull her hand away. “Just flesh,” he
added, releasing her before she could feel the full extent of his
rapidly rising erection. “So shall we start in the bath?” he
repeated. “I bought some candles to soften the light in the
bedroom, but they’ll work as well in the bathroom?”

She tilted her head and sighed. “Are you sure
we won’t be breaking the law? I so want to do this, Anton, but…you
know…what if we find it’s out of bounds?”

He slid an arm around her shoulders and walked her
toward the house. “You’re not my sister—that’s for sure. My mother
had no other children.
Your
mother had no other children.
And if I was the result of your Dad sowing any wild oats I’d be
Anton Rivers, not Haviland.” He bent and kissed her brow. “I’ve
looked at it every way I can, so I reckon we’re safe, don’t you?
Even if we were first cousins—and we’re not—it’d still be
fine.”

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the
old brass handle and pushed the door open. Fragrant steam drifted
in the air. Candles flickered on the window ledge, on the edge of
the old pedestal basin, and on the corner shelf at the shower end
of the bath. Anton had transformed the unlovely bathroom into a
magical grotto.

Maybe I can do this after all.

He’d preceded her into the bedroom, quickly
stripped off, and departed for the bathroom in his white toweling
robe, leaving her to undress in privacy while he ran the bath,
arranged the candles, and set soft music playing.

She’d searched the laundry for anything clean
and concealing; her favorite wrap had been burned in the fire.
Eventually she settled for a long-tailed shirt, and slipped it on
over the lacy cobweb-grey thong. Surely he hadn’t expected her to
walk in there naked?

She stood for a moment until her eyes
adjusted to the near darkness. Anton’s tall silhouette threw a
menacing shadow on the opposite wall. To Jetta, who was barefoot,
he looked enormous.