If You Can't Stand the Heat... (Harlequin Kiss) (5 page)

‘When my bank cards arrive I’ll go down to the pharmacy and get some proper supplies,’ Jack told her.

Ellie sucked in a frustrated sigh. ‘Give me a list of what you need and I’ll run down and get it. I’ll be back before you’re finished showering.’ She held up her hand. ‘And, yes, you can pay me back.’

Jack looked hesitant and Ellie resisted the impulse to smack the back of his head. ‘Jack, you need some decent medical supplies.’

Jack glared at the floor. She saw his broad shoulders dip in defeat before hearing his reluctant agreement. Within a minute he’d located a notebook from the side pocket of his rucksack and a pen, and he wrote in a strong, clear hand exactly what he wanted. He handed her the list and Ellie knew, by his miserable eyes, that he was embarrassed that he had to ask for her help.
Again.

Men. Really...

The mobile in her pocket jangled and Ellie pulled it out, frowning at the unfamiliar number. Answering, she heard a low, distinctively feminine voice asking for Jack. Ellie’s brows pulled together... How on earth could anyone know that Jack was with her? She had hardly completed that thought before realising that the jungle drums must be working well in the war journalists’ world. Her father was spreading the news...

Ellie handed her mobile to Jack and couldn’t help wondering who the owner of the low, subtly sexy voice was. Lover? Colleague? Friend?

‘Hi, Ma.’

Or his mother. Horribly uncomfortable with the level of relief she felt on hearing that he was talking to his mother, Ellie scuttled from the room.

* * *

Jack lifted the mobile to his ear on an internal groan. He just wanted to go and lie down on that bed and sleep. Was that too much to ask? Really?

‘I haven’t been able to reach you for a week!’ said his mother Rae in a semi-hysterical voice.

‘Mum, we had an agreement. You only get to worry about me after you haven’t spoken to me for three weeks.’ Jack rubbed his forehead, actively trying to be patient. He understood her worry—after all that he’d put her and his father through how could he not?—but her over-protectiveness got very old, very quickly.

‘Are you hurt?’ his mother demanded curtly.

He wished he’d learnt to lie to her. ‘Let me talk to Dad, Mum.’

‘That means you’re hurt. Derek! Jack’s hurt!’

Jack heard her sob and she dropped the phone. His father’s voice—an oasis of calm—crossed the miles.

‘
Are
you hurt?’

‘Mmm.’

‘Where?’

Everywhere. There was no point whining about it. ‘Couple of dents. Nothing major. Tell Mum to calm down to a mild panic.’ Jack heard his mum gabbling in the background, listened through his father’s reassurances and waited until his father spoke again.

‘You mother says to please remind you to visit Dr Jance. Does she need to make an appointment for you?’

He’d forgotten that a check-up was due and he felt his insides contract. He did his best to forget what he’d gone through as a teenager, and these bi-yearly check-ups were reminders of those dreadful four years he’d spent as a slave to his failing heart. He tipped his head back in frustration when he heard Rae demand to talk to him again.

‘Jack, the Sandersons contacted us last week,’ she said in a rush.

Jack felt his heart contract and tasted guilt in the back of his throat. Abruptly he sat down on the edge of the bed. Brent Sanderson. He was alive because Brent had died. How could he
not
feel guilty? It was a constant—along with the feeling that he owed it to Brent to live life to the full, that living that way was the only way he could honour his brief life, the gift he’d been given...

‘In six weeks it will be seventeen years since the op, and Brent was seventeen when he died,’ Rae said with a quaver in her voice.

She didn’t need to tell him that. He knew
exactly
how long it had been. They’d both been seventeen when they’d swapped hearts.

‘They want to hold a memorial service for him and have invited us...and you. We’ve said we’ll go and I said that I’d talk to you.’

Jack stretched out, tucked a pillow behind his head and blew out a long stream of air. He tried not to dwell on Brent and his past—he preferred the
it happened; let’s move on
approach—and he really, really didn’t want to go. ‘It’s a gracious invitation but I’m pretty sure that they’d be happy if I didn’t pitch up.’

‘How can you say that?’

‘Because it would be supremely difficult for them to see me walking around, fit and healthy, knowing that their son is six feet under, Mum!’

They’d given him the gift of their son’s heart. He’d do anything to spare them further pain. And that included keeping his distance...

‘They aren’t like that and they want to meet you. You’ve avoided meeting them for years!’

‘I haven’t avoided them. It just never worked out.’

‘I’ll pretend to believe that lie if you consider coming to Brent’s service,’ Rae retorted.

His mother wasn’t a fool. ‘Mum, I’ll see. I’ve got to go. I’ll visit when I’m back in the UK.’

‘You’re not in the UK? Where are you?’ Rae squawked.

Jack gritted his teeth. ‘You’re mollycoddling me, and you know it drives me nuts!’

‘Well, your career drives
me
nuts! How can you, after fighting so hard for life, routinely put yourself in danger? It’s—’

‘Crazy and disrespectful to take such risks when I’ve been given another chance at life. I’m playing Russian Roulette with my life and you wish I’d settle down and meet a nice girl and give you grandchildren. Have I left anything out?’

‘No,’ Rae muttered. ‘But I put it more eloquently.’

‘Eloquent nagging is still nagging. But I do love you, you old bat. Sometimes.’

‘Revolting child.’

‘Bye, Ma,’ Jack said, and disconnected the call.

He banged the mobile against his forehead. His parents thought that guilt and fear fuelled his daredevil lifestyle. It did—of course it did—but did that have to be a bad thing? They didn’t understand—probably because he could never explain it—but playing it safe, sitting behind a desk in a humdrum job was, for him, a slow way to die. At fourteen he’d gone from being a healthy, rambunctious, sporty kid to a waif and a ghost, his time spent either in hospital rooms or at his childhood home. He’d just
existed
for more years than he cared to remember, and he’d vowed that when he had the chance of an active life he’d live it. Hard and fast. He wanted to do it all and see it all—to chase the thrills. For himself and for Brent. Being confined to one house, person or city would be his version of hell. His parents wanted him to settle down, but they didn’t understand that he wouldn’t settle down for anything or anyone. He had to keep moving—and working to feel alive.

Jack switched off the bedside light and stared up at the shadows on the ceiling, actively trying not to think about his past. As per normal, his job had thrown him a curveball and he’d landed up in a strange bed in a strange town. But, he thought as his eyes closed, he was very good at curveballs and strange situations, and meeting Mitch’s dazzling daughter again was very much worth the detour.

* * *

On his second night in Ellie’s spare room, Jack put aside the magazine he’d been reading, rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling above his bed. The air-conditioning unit hummed softly and he could hear the croaky song of frogs in the garden, the occasional whistle of a cricket. It wasn’t that late and his side throbbed.

Knowing that he wouldn’t be able to sleep yet, he flipped back the sheet and stood up. After yanking on a pair of jeans he quietly opened the door and walked to the stairs. Navigating his way through the dark house, he walked into the front lounge, with its two big bay windows, leaned against the side wall and looked through the darkness towards the sea. Through the open windows he could hear the thud of waves hitting the beach and smell the brine-tinged air.

Ellie’s distinctively feminine voice drifted through the bay window, so he pulled back the curtain. He looked out and watched her walk up the stairs to the veranda, mobile to her ear and one arm full of papers and files. She looked exhausted and he could see flour streaks on her open navy chef’s jacket. Jack glanced at the luminous dial of his watch...ten-thirty at night was a hell of a time to be coming home from work.

‘Ginger, my life is a horror movie at the moment.’

Ginger? Wasn’t that Mitchell’s mother? Ellie’s Irish grandmother?

‘Essentially I need Mum to come back but it’s not fair to ask her. I’m chasing my tail on a daily basis, it’s nearly month-end, I have payroll and I need to pay VAT this month. And I need to move the bakery but there’s nowhere to move it to! And, to top it all, your wretched son has sent me a house guest!’

So she wasn’t as sanguine about having him as a guest as she pretended to be. Jack watched as she balanced the stack of papers and two files on the arm of the Morris chair.

‘No, he’s okay,’ Ellie continued. ‘I’ve had worse.’

Only okay? He was going to have to work on that.

Ellie used her free hand to dig into her bag for her house keys and half turned, knocking the unstable pile with her hip. The files tipped and the papers caught in the mild evening wind and drifted away.

‘Dammit! Ginger—sorry, I have to go. I’ve just knocked something over.’

Ellie threw her mobile onto the seat of the Morris chair, then started to curse in Arabic. His mouth fell open. His eyes widened as the curses became quite creative, muddled and downright vulgar.

Jack thought that she could do with some help so he stepped over the sill of the low window directly onto the veranda and started to collect the bits of paper that were scattered all over the floor.

‘Do you actually know what you’re saying?’ he demanded, when she stopped for ten seconds to take a breath.

Ellie sent him a puzzled look. ‘Daughter of a donkey, son of a donkey, your mother is ugly, et cetera.’

Uh, no.
Not even close. ‘Do me a favour? Don’t ever repeat any of those anywhere near an Arab, okay?’

Ellie slowly stood up and narrowed her eyes. ‘They are rude, aren’t they?’

He didn’t need to respond because she’d already connected the dots.

‘Mitchell! He taught me those when I was a kid.’ It was so typical of Mitch’s twisted sense of humour to teach his innocent daughter foul curse words in Arabic. ‘I’m going to kill him! I take it you speak Arabic?’

‘Mmm.’ He’d discovered that he had a gift for languages while he was a teenager, when he’d been unable to do anything more energetic than read.

Ellie sent him a direct look. ‘So, do you speak any other languages?’

Jack shrugged. ‘Enough Mandarin to make myself understood. Some Japanese. I’m learning Russian. And Dari...’

‘What’s that?’

‘Also known as Farsi, or Afghan Persian. Helpful, obviously, in Afghanistan.’

Ellie stared at him, seemingly impressed. ‘That’s incredible.’

Jack shrugged, uncomfortable with her praise. ‘Lots of people speak second or third languages.’

‘But not Farsi, Russian or Mandarin,’ Ellie countered. ‘I’m useless. I can barely spell in English.’

‘I don’t believe that.’

‘You can ask Mitchell if you like. Nothing made him angrier than seeing my spelling test results,’ Ellie quipped. ‘Besides, English is a stupid language...their and there, which and witch, write, right, rite.’

‘And another wright,’ Jack added.

‘You’re just making that up,’ she grumbled.

‘I’m not. It’s one of the few four-word homophones.’ Jack’s grin flashed. ‘W.R.I.G.H.T. Someone who constructs or repairs things—as in a millwright.’

‘Homophones? Huh.’ Ellie heaved an exaggerated, forlorn sigh. ‘Good grief, I’m sharing my house with a swot. What did I do to deserve that?’

Jack laughed, delighted. ‘Life does throw challenges at one.’

After they’d finished collecting the papers Ellie sat down on the couch, rolling her head on her shoulders.

Jack sat on the low stone wall in front of her. ‘Tough day?’ he asked, conversationally.

Ellie slumped in the chair. ‘Very. How can you tell?’

Jack lifted his hands. ‘I heard you talking to your grandmother.’

‘And how much did you hear?’

‘You’re pissed, you’re stressed, something about having to move the bakery. You’ve had worse house guests than me.’

Even in the dim light he could see Ellie flush. ‘Sorry. Mitchell tends to use me as his own personal B&B... I didn’t mean to make you feel unwelcome.’

‘Am I?’

Ellie threw her hands up and sent him a miserable look. ‘You’re not. I’m more frustrated at Mitchell’s high-handedness than at the actual reality of a house guest, if that makes sense.’

Jack nodded, hearing the truth in her statement, and relaxed. ‘Mitch does have a very nebulous concept of the word
no
,’ he stated calmly.

‘And he’s had twenty-eight years to perfect the art of manipulating me,’ Ellie muttered. ‘Again, that’s not directed at you personally.’

Jack laughed. ‘I get it, Ellie. Relax. Talking about relaxing...’ Jack walked back into the house, found a wine rack and remembered that he’d seen a corkscrew in the middle drawer when he was looking for a bread knife earlier. He took the wine and two glasses back to the veranda. ‘If I ever saw a girl in need of the stress-relieving qualities of alcohol, it’s you.’

‘If I have any of that I’ll fall over,’ Ellie told him, covering a yawn with her hand.

‘A glass or two won’t hurt.’ Jack yanked the cork out, poured the Merlot and handed her a glass.

Ellie took the glass from him and took the first delicious sip. ‘Yum. I could drink this all night.’

‘Then it would definitely hurt when you wake up.’ After a moment’s silence, he succumbed to his curiosity. ‘Tell me what that conversation was about.’

Ellie cradled the glass in her hand and eyed Jack across the rim. Shirtless, and with bare feet, he was a delectable sight for sore eyes at the end of a hectic day. ‘You’re very nosy.’

‘I’m a journalist. It’s a job requirement. Talk.’

She wanted to object, to tell him he was bossy—which he was—but she didn’t. Couldn’t. She needed someone to offload on and maybe it would be easier to talk to a stranger who was leaving... When
was
he leaving? She asked him.