Out of Bounds (10 page)

“Why don’t we do that next and get it over
with?” he suggested. “I was thinking I might shift some of my
things in tonight.”

Jetta’s heart thudded at the very thought of
it. He couldn’t. Not possibly. No way...

“No—I’m not ready yet! I—um—want proof from
that lawyer first. You promised.”

“Okay, okay, calm down. But you can’t imagine
I’d put in a hard day’s work like this if I didn’t know exactly
what the legal situation was?”

“Maybe,” she muttered, eyes downcast. “Maybe
not.”

He heaved a noisy sigh. She could imagine the
sulky expression on his gorgeous face without looking up. His
eyebrows would be down, his blue eyes cold, his beautiful lips
compressed.

“I’ll move in tomorrow as planned then,” he
said. “What are we doing for dinner?”

“
We
are doing nothing. I want some
time alone please. I want to pick flowers for Gran, and I need to
think about what I’m going to say to people at the funeral
tomorrow.”

“And that’s at ten?”

Jetta nodded.

“So come over at nine and we’ll call in to
Winters and Waterson first and clean this mess up. I’ll go home and
finish packing now. Believe me—this is going to happen.”

He swung around and stalked off.

Jetta stood there, relieved he’d gone, and
furious with his arrogant assumption she’d fall in with his plans.
That hadn’t been an invitation—it was a demand.

Five minutes later, she carried a bucket half
full of cold water out into the garden and began to cut flowers.
Long stems of lavender. Roses just unfurling. Spicy carnations,
blue hydrangeas and sprays of astilbe. Old-fashioned flowers, just
like Gran. She set them to drink as she cut them, murmuring to the
old lady as though she was there beside her.

“
Who is he, Gran? Does he really own half
my house? He’s much too old to be Uncle Graham’s son, and I’m sure
you and Grandpa would have known all about that situation
anyway...”

She reached up to pick pink sweet peas from
the trellis beside the garage.

“
I’ve never heard of his mother—this Isobel Scott.
I don’t remember hearing the least mention of any cousin called
Anton from Mom or Dad. I would have recalled that, surely? I was
fifteen when they had the accident.”

Next morning she put the finishing touches to
her makeup, and stepped back to check the longer view of herself in
the mirror. High black patent shoes, smoky pantyhose, her straight
burgundy skirt, black silk camisole, and the dark charcoal Jenny
Turner linen jacket she’d splurged on just before Christmas. Her
‘important clients’ jacket. Well, Gran was more important than any
client.

She grabbed her black patent clutch and
headed for the kitchen, lifted the dripping flowers out of the
bucket, and set them on an old towel to drain. Then she got busy
with the ribbon and cellophane she’d bought on Friday. At nine, she
was waiting by Anton’s car, complete with fragrant bouquet.

His front door opened, and she turned. The
half naked, paint-spattered, shorts clad man she’d almost become
used to had disappeared. In his place stood a corporate raider, an
investment banker, the CEO of some multinational company…

The black suit had to be Italian. If Anton
hadn’t been to Italy for a personal fitting, his tailor had done a
superb job of producing trousers that hugged his lean hips and
long, long legs... a jacket that highlighted his strong chest and
shoulders and then curved in to showcase his narrow waist.

Jetta’s lips parted in an unplanned gasp. Her
eyes roved over the snowy cotton shirt, the polished shoes, then
all the way back up to his blue silk tie and matching eyes.

He looked fearsomely tall and utterly in
charge. Lean, mean, and full of authority.

He inclined his head in her direction before
turning to pull the door closed.

“Morning.”

“Morning,” she echoed—in a voice less
confident than she’d hoped for.

“You’re a woman of many disguises. The dusty
kid in the old hat, the party girl in the leather pants, and now
the sophisticated city woman. Impressive.”

“You too.” She smiled in acknowledgement of
his description, overwhelmed by his transformation, and stuck for
appropriate words to compliment him in return.

He opened the car door for her and held out a
hand for the flowers. Jetta lowered herself in, hoping his dazzling
eyes weren’t watching her as closely as they seemed to be.

“A nice day to send your Gran off.”

She shifted her gaze fractionally—from his
vivid blue eyes to a sky that seemed pale by comparison.

“Yes,” she agreed, feeling ridiculously
tongue tied by this new and intimidating man. She reached for the
bouquet.

The immaculate old Porsche growled out onto
the road, past the flowerbeds of Ballentine Park and their deep
green backdrop of camellia bushes. In minutes, they’d reached the
business district. Anton turned into Brandon Street, and slid the
car into the last visible space.

“Good start, anyway. I’ll see if they’re
open.”

“I’m coming with you,” she insisted,
scrambling out of the low car and laying her bouquet on the
seat.

“You really don’t trust me, do you?” he asked
across the roof of the car. “This is every bit as big a hassle for
me as it is for you.”

He led her along the sidewalk and opened an
old-fashioned glass door for her. The foyer they entered had an
intricately tiled floor and marbled walls; Jetta gazed around with
appreciation.

“These tessellated tiles must be at least
eighty years old,” she said. “Much more my sort of thing than your
modern boxes. How nice that it’s not been torn down to build
something taller.”

“Fourth floor,” Anton said, not reacting to
her comment, and indicating the elevator. They rode up in silence,
only to find that while the other fourth floor tenant’s rooms
blazed with lights, Winters and Watersons’ were in darkness.

Jetta stared in dismay at the sheet of
letterhead paper taped inside the glass. Another week to wait.
Another week before she could find out where she really stood.
Anton was determined to move in tonight, and she couldn’t prevent
him.

“So much for that idea,” he said. “At least
you know where the place is now.”

She nodded numbly. “Next Monday then. Damn.
Have you got any of their paperwork you can show me? I should have
thought of that.”

“You’ll no doubt accuse me of forging it
all.”

She compressed her lips. “Probably,” she
agreed. The corners of her mouth tugged as she tried not to smile.
“And now I’m far too early for the funeral.”

Anton pushed the elevator button again.

“I want to spend a few minutes at the
office,” he said as they descended. “Come up and check out my view,
and then I’ll drop you to the chapel.”

“You’ve time?” She hadn’t looked forward to
clutching her big bouquet and trying to flag down a cab.

“Prospective apartment buyer arriving at ten
thirty,” he said with one of his sudden devastating smiles. He
looked as enthusiastic as a boy with a new puppy.

“Thanks,” she said. “Good luck with the sale,
then. I suppose it’s in my best interests.”

And that’s really brought it home to me that
he intends demolishing and rebuilding, whatever I say or do.

Anton ducked and dived through Wellington’s
twisting one-way street system with ease, and turned into the
parking entrance under the towering Majestic Centre.

“Here?” Her eyes widened with surprise.

“Need to look the part.”

The elevator shot them upwards. He unlocked
an office with ‘Haviland Homes’ on the door and ushered her in. The
harbor view stretched wall to wall.

She crossed to the window and peered down
over the cityscape to the glittering water and the green hills
beyond. “I’d never get any work done with a distraction like
this.”

“I don’t work here—it’s strictly a sales
base.”

When she turned to inspect the room, she
found it sparsely furnished with his desk, another easy care Yucca
plant in a black pot, and two low slung chairs for guests. Copies
of the same plans and drawings from his bedroom adorned one of the
walls.

“You need some mood boards,” she said. “To
make your apartments look more like homes. Color schemed to show
samples of possible furnishings.”

“Yeah—I’ve been a bit busy.”

“I could help. It’s exactly what I do. In
return for my birthday dinner?”

Why am I offering to do this? Does a great
body and a sharp suit and a smile like that really deserve such
co-operation?

The answer seemed to be yes.

“So what are your invariables?” she asked,
trying to sound businesslike.

“Black granite counter tops, white tiled
bathrooms, fittings from the Habitas range, bronze colored exterior
window and door sashes. You can pretty much go to town on the
rest.” He turned aside to search for something in one of the desk
drawers.

Jetta considered possibilities and decided
she might call in at work once her funeral duties were over. She’d
check out leftover samples and raid some of the brochures and
magazines for pictures.

While Anton was absorbed in his search, she
browsed from the top of his dark head all the way down his superbly
covered body to his glossy black shoes. He was a honey in lots of
ways, and they were both caught up in the same awkward situation.
She hoped they could sort it out—soon, and with no huge loss on
either side.

When would he mention his blonde girlfriend? Why was
he keeping quiet about her?

Later that afternoon, she had her answer.

“Jetta Rivers—Claire Frobisher.”

Five feet ten of enviable slimness topped
with far too much streaky blonde hair rose from one of Gran’s old
dining chairs as though she owned the place.

Jetta clenched her teeth, smiled slightly,
and extended a hand. The Claire person bent and gave her an
unexpected kiss on the cheek instead.

“Ants says you’ve been to a funeral, you poor
thing,” she gurgled. “Aren’t they just the pits?”

“Mmmm,” Jetta agreed, swinging around to face
Anton again.

Before she could open her mouth, two men in
jeans appeared from the sitting room and he added, “And Paul and
Ben.”

She nodded in their direction, unable to find
polite words for a moment. Obviously the four of them had been
partying. Partying! Empty beer bottles and almost finished plates
of snacks dotted the dining table. And they’d moved it from its
usual place across to the window. That was the final straw.

“What an excellent idea to invite visitors,”
she sniped. “Today of all days. When I’ve just lived through the
worst time of my life.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. Furious with
herself, and with all of them, she whirled aside and dashed to her
room. Right before she slammed her door, she heard Anton yell,
“They’ve been helping me shift my gear.”

She flung herself face down on her big new
bed, buried her head under a pillow, and clamped her hands over her
ears for good measure.

No—she did not want excuses. She did not want
his friends wandering round. And she did not, not, not want Anton
sleeping in her home, right through the wall. Probably with kissy
Claire.

After a few minutes of useless self pity she
pushed herself upright and looked down at her beautiful linen
jacket.

Creased to extinction.

She grimaced at her stupidity, stood and removed it,
and hung it in the wardrobe, hoping it would recover. Then she
kicked off her tall shoes and stripped off her skirt and pantyhose,
keeping a wary ear out for any approaching feet. Once she had jeans
on like the rest of them, she felt marginally better. She flopped
back onto the bed. The cooler air around her silky camisole felt
wonderful.

Twenty minutes later, Anton knocked on her
door, juggling a mug of coffee and a couple of cookies. No reply.
Was she even there?

He leaned his elbow on the handle and pushed
the door open. Jetta lay flat on her back in the middle of the bed,
eyes closed.

“What?” she muttered sleepily.

“It’s me. Thought you might like a drink
after your horrible day.” He sat down beside her, and she shot up
into a sitting position—eyes wide, arms crossed over her
breasts.

“No!” she gasped. The color drained from her
face. She looked terror-stricken.

“Hey…hey…don’t panic. I said it was only
me.”

Jetta clutched her arms more tightly around
herself, and Anton mistook her reaction for modesty. “It’s
okay—your red top last night displayed more than that.”

“No...” she wailed again. “Get out. Get right
out.” She scrambled backward until she’d flattened herself against
the wall, childlike and vulnerable. Her legs guarded her body like
an extra barrier, and she pressed her death-white face down onto
her knees so hard he saw her feathery black hair trembling against
the bright pink wall.

Mystified, and hoping not to spook her any worse, he
reached sideways in slow motion like a cat doing the ‘you cannot
see me’ walk when it knows it’s in another’s territory. He set the
coffee and cookies down on the bedside chest, then rose and backed
from the room, pulling the door quietly closed behind him. What the
hell had that been about? Had she still been half asleep and
dreaming?

It took her almost half an hour to gain the
courage to face him again. When she emerged from her room, it was
with a T-shirt over her camisole, and deep dread in her heart.

He’ll think I’m nuts. Bonkers. Totally la-la.
He’ll tell me to go to the doctor for tranquilizers. He’ll never
look at me the same again.

She crept, barefoot, back into the kitchen
where Anton had paperwork spread on the old table. Her coffee had
been three-quarters cold by the time she’d relaxed enough to gulp
it down, but she’d been grateful—especially after she’d been so
spectacularly rude to his guests.