The Flyer (25 page)

“Sulking, if you must know. Annie’s thrown me out again, hasn’t she. I stole a bottle of Swan’s out of your icebox.” Tim lifted the bottle of grog over his head before finishing the beer in one draught.

“Can you blame her? Perhaps if you were to actually marry her instead of just making ankle-biters …” Tossing his keys on the table beside the door, Paul sat in a leather chair by his small, dormant fireplace. “What happened?”

“She screamed at me and told me to leave her alone.”

“And what had you done, mate?”

“Nothin’,” he slurred. “I haven’t even been home in goin’ on five bloody days.”

“You don’t think that’s a problem?” Paul shook his head. Tim had a wonderful woman in Annie Sullivan. She was honest and pretty, funny and kind. Everyone knew how much she loved Tim, yet Tim couldn’t bring himself to stay home longer than it took to make another baby. “You’re cracked. And you know she isn’t going to wait forever for you.”

Tim smiled. “Yeah, she will. She’s my Annie, and she always will be. She’s just not speaking to me at the moment.”

“Like I said, you’re cracked. If I had a woman like her waiting for me, do you think for one bloody second I’d be standing here talking to you?”

“What about the new doc? You’ve been spending a fair amount of time with her, haven’t you?”

“That’s business.” He wanted it to be more. But he’d made a promise, hadn’t he? That promise meant a lot to

Helen, and he was going to live up to it if it killed him. And based on the condition of his body at the moment, it might.

“Sure it is.” Tim laughed, then finished his beer.

“You whanker. You need to keep your eyes on your own. And if you don’t start squaring things with Annie, you’re going to end up miserable and alone. You need some sense beat into you, mate. That’s your problem.” He paused. “You sleeping here, then?”

“If that’s jake with you, yeah.”

“No worries. Just don’t drink all my grog.”

Paul sauntered into his bedroom, the only other room in the house, and closed the door. He collapsed on the mattress without taking off his strides or his boots. He was too tired.

No, not tired, really. Worn out.

If he were to be perfectly honest with himself, he was lonely. It was hard work pretending to be happy all the time when he was about as unhappy as a man could be.

He could pinpoint the exact moment when he’d become lonely, in fact. The day he’d fought Bessie Monro. That’s the day he’d met the most beautiful, complex, confusing woman on the planet. She was everything he’d ever wanted, and hadn’t known he’d wanted. She was delicate at the same time she was strong. She was vulnerable and passionate, and lonely, too.

What was it about her that made him want to protect her? He’d never come close to falling in love before. Was that what this was?

Once, a few years ago, he’d thought about getting married. But that had nothing to do with love. It had been a business decision; survival in the bush. Times had changed, and he’d made a life for himself alone.

He’d been fine. Until she’d shown up.

Until she’d maneuvered herself into his heart.

The clock next to the bed ticked in the dark. He lifted it, holding the face to the moonlight that drifted through the window. Almost two in the morning.

He wasn’t going to sleep tonight.

A few minutes later, after sneaking past Tim, who slept like the dead on his settee, he meandered through the streets. In the distance, shouting and laughter came from Grogg’s. The occasional horse whinnied in its stable, but otherwise the night was quiet.

He tucked his hands in his pockets and strolled along the main street until he came to an intersection.

He could turn left, or right, or keep going straight. Left took back him to the docks. Straight ahead offered more of the same.

Right took him back to her place. He sighed and turned right.

There hadn’t really been a choice at all.

Helen rolled over beneath her grandmother’s quilt. Again. She’d been turning over, repeatedly, for no fewer than two hours. Paul had left her apartment at six minutes past midnight, according to the anniversary clock on the shelf beside her bedroom door. Helen had fallen straight back into bed.

It was now eight minutes past two in the morning.

She’d almost ruined everything! How could she sleep after that? She’d wanted to ravish Paul tonight. She’d wanted to feel his arms around her, his hands on her naked skin, his mouth on hers. Exactly what she’d been trying to avoid since she’d left home.

She tried to tell herself it was only because she hadn’t been held in too long. She was a mature, sensual woman, and having been introduced to the fine art of loving, she missed it.

But that wasn’t true. She might be able to lie to others, but she couldn’t lie to herself.

Climbing from beneath the quilt, she pulled it from the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. She crossed to the window to close it, pushing the lace curtains to the side. A slight movement in the dark caught her attention. Paul stood in a shaft of moonlight across the street. He leaned casually against a post, his hat pushed back slightly and his arms folded over his chest. The material of his shirt pulled against the full, solid muscles of his chest.

He looked directly at her window. At her.

Heat rushed through her.

It was too late for her, she decided. She couldn’t place exactly when or where she’d fallen for him, but the tumultuous knots in her belly cried the truth. This was more than a mere infatuation. The feelings were so familiar, and yet so new. She’d never felt like this before. Not even with Reginald.

Her relationship with Reginald had been wrong from the beginning. Even before she’d known the whole truth about him. She closed her eyes, forcing the wicked memories out of her mind. When she opened them, Paul was gone.

A moment later, a tap sounded on the door of her apartment. She frowned.

There was no question it was Paul. He had a key to the outside door. The question remained, should she let him into her private flat? The very air around her screamed, “No!”

Her bare feet answered for her. Carrying her down the hall, her feet were the only part of her body that feared nothing. Her mind argued. Her heart skipped every other beat. Her stomach danced.

When she opened the door, Paul was leaning on the jamb, his hat in one hand and one finger pressed to his lips in a thoughtful posture. “I’m not sure why I’m here,” he stated.

“I’m not sure why I opened the door,” she whispered.

“Good. I’m not the only one confused, then.” His smile was like a warm summer day after a long, cold winter.

She pushed the door open and took a single step back.

He followed her into the apartment and closed the door behind him. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk. My feet found their way here.”

“I’m glad they did.”

“Are you?” The question was sincere. And direct.

She couldn’t blame him. She’d been running hot and cold since the day she’d met him. Afraid of herself, afraid of him. Afraid of feeling anything and, most especially, afraid of repeating the same mistakes. The answer to his question would be a defining moment.

“I am.”

Paul brushed past her and went to her phonograph. He picked up a record, tilted it in the moonlight to read the title, then set it to play. Marion Harris crooned “It Had to Be You” in her subtle, jazzy voice while Paul tossed his hat on the back of the settee.

“That’s one of my favorites,” Helen commented, pulling the quilt tighter around her shoulders.

“Is Nanara sleeping?” he whispered, crossing the creaking wooden floor, then tugging on the edges of the quilt.

“Like the dead,” she answered. She allowed him to pull it free. When it dropped, his arm circled her waist, his other hand taking hers and pulling her against his chest. His body swayed so subtly she couldn’t be sure when they’d started dancing. The music surrounded them, brought them so close to each other it was like she was inside his mind. The too-sad melody mimicked her heartache, spelling out everything she’d been unable to say out loud.

Helen allowed Paul to draw her into his embrace, falling into the warmth and kindness that seemed to pour out of him. It was so easy to believe that he would never hurt her.

The truth could be something entirely different and probably was. But the question remained, hovering over her like some wild storm cloud. Was it worth the risk of being hurt again just to feel this way? A part of her jumped up and down like a child on Christmas morning. Yes! Yes! It was always worth taking that chance. To be loved. To love someone in return.

The wounded woman in her heart argued against emotions. She wouldn’t survive another blow.

“What are you thinking about, love?” He spoke in barely a whisper, yet the rich, sweet tones of his voice flowed over her like warm honey.

“Nothing. Everything.”

“I don’t know what happened before you came here, but I bloody well know what’s happened to me since. I can’t go on thinking that you and I will just be friends. I want more than that, Helen, and I think you do, too. Somewhere deep inside.”

She closed her eyes. Isn’t that what love was supposed to be? Two people who could read each other’s souls? Paul could read hers like a book. She had no place to keep that from him. What if she was supposed to be with him? What if they’d been created for one another, like Blue had said? What if she was his only chance at happiness? How unfair would it be for Paul if Helen stole his only chance for love simply because she’d made a bad decision?

“There’s something I have to tell you first, Paul. It may change your mind about me.”

He stopped swaying, hooking her chin with one finger and looking so intently into her eyes that she grew dizzy and weak. “Nothing you say could make me change my mind.”

Hypnotic. Everything about him, from the way his flesh rolled over sinewy muscle and that little curl landed in his forehead, made her want him. She couldn’t fight it anymore.

His lips brushed hers in a gentle tease for barely a second before he claimed her mouth. Swirling heat rose from her belly to encapsulate her limbs and her mind. He tasted of ale and light when she opened her mouth and drew him inside. Strong hands roamed her back, searing her through the thin material of her nightgown.

A slight moan caught in the back of her throat, making light of the fact she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. She could only feel.

In a rush of heady excitement, Paul pulled away to rest his forehead on hers. His breath came in gasps, his lips parted slightly in a wry grin. “If you tell me to leave now, I’ll feed myself to the crocs, I swear to God.”

Her throat closed over a sudden lump. “I won’t tell you to leave.”

What was she doing? Panic almost made her freeze, but she pushed it aside. She was a grown woman. And no matter how much she tried to deny it, she was in love with Paul Campbell. What that meant for her future, she was afraid to even guess. But there was no helping it. She’d fallen. Hard.

“Are you sure?”

She could only nod.

Seemingly without effort, he lifted her. His muscles bunched beneath her fingertips, sending erotic fire to the pit of her stomach. He carried her down the hall and into her bedroom, where he laid her softly on the coverlet. Kneeling on the floor beside the bed, he trailed his hands over her calves, lifting the fabric of her nightgown as he went. His touch was like fire, searing an image into her mind she’d never had before.

It was the image of forever.

How did one define heaven or hell? For Paul, he found both in Helen’s touch. The dawn of heaven coupled with the fires of hell in the gentle caress of her fingertips. Her hands were everywhere at once, scorching his back, his arms. One hand circled his hip and found his shaft, already hard and ready, beneath his strides. With deliciously wanton fingers, she stroked him. Her touch was like magic, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted more.

He needed more.

Pulling away from his mouth, she threw her head back, exposing the flesh of her throat in a silent plea. He obliged, tasting the sweet salt of her skin while she thrust her hips in deliberate invitation.