Out of Bounds (7 page)

He grinned to himself and turned away to his
clean white walls just as the three girls came laughing out of the
sitting room. They dived in through another doorway, and he tuned
out their noise and began peeling the masking tape from the
skirting boards. Nice edge. Good result. Even though it would be
the most temporary of homes.

He reviewed the apartment timeframe yet again
as he worked. Tight as hell, but it should be okay if everything
went to plan. Demolition of number seventeen would start first
thing Tuesday, and they’d be laying out foundation boxing by the
end of the week. They had to be.

Time wasn’t the only tight thing. Finance was
so tight it squeaked. He’d saved, begged, borrowed, and damn near
stolen to get his project under way. One major hiccup and he’d be
dead.

He hoped he’d forecast every possible
eventuality.

Hoped he could get Jetta sorted, too. Why
hadn’t Horrie been in touch with her? That really rankled, because
the old boy had assured him everything was set up and ready to
go.

But maybe she’d be off to New York and out of
his hair before they came to blows? Had they agreed on anything at
all
yet? He cast his mind back as he peeled off the last
long ribbon of tape.

Colors for the apartment exteriors, and that
was it. He mashed his lips together. The next little while would be
rocky.

As he rolled all the tape strips up into a
tacky ball, the girls reappeared, shrieking and exclaiming. How
could three women make so much noise?

“Totally retro,” Bren insisted. “Why would
anyone not love it? Are you serious?”

“Really not my sort of thing,” Jetta replied,
and then called across to him, “Are you interested in it, Anton?
Gran’s old bedroom suite?”

“I’ve got storage, thanks. What’s it
like?”

“Shiny mahogany laminate. Fluted gold strips
round the edges. Stepped-down drawer in the middle of the dressing
table.”

“And a line of little stars etched across the
top of the mirror,” Hallie squealed. “So fifties.”

Anton shuddered, thinking with appreciation
of his own sleek Scandinavian pieces. “Sounds more like Bren than
me.”

“It’d never fit your big bed anyway. Jetta
told us—ow!”

“Told you what?”

“Nothing!” Jetta exclaimed, glaring at
Bren.

“That you’ve a huge bed,” Hallie
continued.

“I did not,” Jetta said.

Anton glanced across at her. Her face was on
the way to becoming as red as her top.

“I did
not
, she repeated. “I might
have said something like ‘the headboard should fit Bren’s bed but
it wouldn’t be any good with your kingsize one’.”

“
California
-kingsize.”

“Aye—you’re nice and tall,” Bren agreed.

Jetta stayed silent, still pink, and looking
curiously flustered.

So she noticed my bed? Has she considered
joining me in it? No way in hell.

“Go for it, Bren,” he said. “The sooner it’s
out of the way, the better. Tomorrow would be good.”

“I’ll get Nick to bring his van around,” she
said.

“There’s none of Gran’s stuff left in the
drawers. I’ve had a good clean out in her room,” Jetta muttered,
still not looking him in the eye.

“It’s supposed to be your birthday, not
mine,” Bren grinned. “And speaking of birthdays, we’d better go now
or we’ll only get pathetic movie seats.”

“The housewarming present!” Hallie exclaimed.
“Open it while we’re here and tell us if it’s okay.”

Jetta set the box down on the kitchen bench
and tore the ribbon and wrapping away. The gift clanged and jangled
as she turned it over. Then she solved the mystery. “Wind-chimes!”
she said with real pleasure, grabbing each girl in turn for a
hug.

“To hang in your garden. You often said you
liked helping your Gran outside.”

“It’s lovely,” Jetta said. “And yes, I did.
Not that I’ll have a garden much longer if Demolition Man has his
way.”

“You’ll have a courtyard to hang it in—even
better,” Anton insisted.

She shot him a look cold enough to freeze
hell over. He almost decided against painting the cupboard doors
after such a glare. But it was too good an opportunity to pass up.
Surely she’d be pleased when she discovered what he’d done for her,
and a lot more amenable to the apartment project?

“Mind if I stay on for a while?” he asked.
“I’ll get some more taping done. Make a start on tomorrow’s
work.”

“Suit yourself. The house is half yours if I
can believe you.” She handed him the keys and turned her back on
him. “Just stay in your half, wherever that might be,” she called
over her shoulder. “Put them under the pot when you’re done.”

And she flounced out, leaving a trail of
spicy perfume and the faint sexy aroma of leather.

Anton stood there simmering at her snarky
comments, wondering all over again if he’d bother wasting his time
on the damn doors. But he couldn’t help enjoying the sexy wiggle of
her butt as she sashayed along the hall after the others...and
inhaling the fragrance that wafted in his direction until the front
door closed.

No doubt about it, she was one hot little
package. With looks and spirit and attitude in just the right ratio
to drive a man mad.

Except... it wasn’t him she’d be driving
mad.

This was a business arrangement. Strictly a
commercial proposition. Keeping well clear of her was the only way
it would work.

He balled up one fist and slapped it hard
into his other palm several times. Restless. Needing to work off
some energy.

Painting cupboards wasn’t ideal. Taking a
feisty and sweet-smelling woman to bed definitely was. And wouldn’t
be happening tonight.

Grimacing, he pulled open the nearest door to
inspect the condition of the old paint. Not bad—a quick wipe over
with heavy duty cleaner and he’d be away. Not even worth sanding
the surfaces for such a short-term job.

He frowned at the number of knobs and handles
to remove, checked the screw heads, and dived home for his toolkit.
Ten minutes later, he was back, wearing khaki shorts, battered
sneakers and an old black T-shirt with the sleeves hacked out.

Just as well the clients of Barker Haviland
Mosely can’t see me looking like this.

By 10.45 the higher doors were finished, and
the lower ones clean and ready to go. He’d worked like fury, going
at it like a madman to get the job finished before Jetta
returned.

Because the summer night was warm, he’d
closed all the windows to protect the wet paint from insects. Far
too hot, he yanked the old tee off and threw it onto a chair. Sweat
trickled down his long back, cooling deliciously as the air
caressed his skin.

He stood for a moment surveying the job so
far and grabbed a beer from the fridge. After a few deep gulps, he
wiped the back of a hand across his mouth. Satisfaction for a job
well done flooded through him. Yeah—she’d owe him for this all
right. Looking good.

The next cupboard contained
canisters…cornstarch, cocoa, brown sugar… He had no interest in
them, but a small colorful box caught his eye. Birthday cake
candles. Uh-huh...

He remembered the two pieces of chocolate
gateau he’d bought from the deli earlier that evening. The arrival
of the gigglers meant he’d never produced them.

He took another long swig of beer, and
considered. Hmmm. Could be fun.

He sauntered home, enjoying the fresh air for
a few more minutes, and retrieved the cake. Then he set one slice
on a pretty plate and studded the whole dozen candles on top. A
rummage through the rest of the cupboards turned up a clear plastic
box big enough to up-end over it for protection.

He slid it to the very centre of the kitchen
table, stole the ribbon off the wind-chime package, and curled it
around artistically. Bingo. Instant birthday.

He wolfed down the other slice, grinning to
himself as he imagined the look on her face when she discovered
what he’d been up to.

The lower doors were easier. He checked his
watch periodically, calculating that two movies and a drink
afterward still gave him plenty of time. By half past midnight he’d
finished, stowed his painting gear away, and only the knobs and
handles remained to be re-attached. A job for the morning once the
paint was harder.

He stretched—weary now, long arms and back popping
and pulling. And couldn’t resist wandering through the rest of the
house while he had it to himself. How much would be worth salvaging
when the time came to demolish it?

Jetta sipped her dry white. Hallie and Bren
were into expensive cocktails, but she’d been watching her money
with New York in mind.

In truth she was now more interested in
planning where to hang her wind-chimes than flirting with the men
in the crowded bar. Music pounded, conversation brayed back and
forth, a dozen different colognes warred with a further dozen
perfumes. Deafening, overpowering, no longer fun.

She felt wrecked. Wrecked and alone.

It had been terrible waiting for Gran to die.
Horrible watching the woman who’d been her substitute mother for
the past eleven years fade to a shell of her former lively
self.

Since she’d turned twenty and gone flatting,
Jetta had visited often, helped when she was able, and felt guilty
she no longer lived there full time.

But Gran would have none of it, insisting in
her no-nonsense way that Jetta needed her own life, and pointing
out she couldn’t be on constant watch when she worked in the
city.

Jetta shuddered, remembering the lunchtime
she’d dashed in with strawberry muffins and smelled burning.

The stench of scorching varnish had been
sickening. She’d followed the cable into the hall cupboard and
found the electric heater switched on and glowing merrily. On a
pleasantly warm summer’s day.

She closed her eyes in anguish. Had her
insistence that Gran moved from her long-time home to the safety of
the Eventide Hospital killed her? And had there been any other
option?

A burst of raucous laughter right behind her
provided a brief distraction from her sad thoughts. She glanced
fondly at Bren and Hallie. You could choose your friends, but not
your family.

She’d presumed her only living relative was
disgusting Uncle Graham who had never re-appeared after his final
hideous breach of her parents’ trust.

But maybe now there was Anton as well—the man
from over the fence who’d breezed in just that morning and turned
her life upside down. Claiming to be part of the family. Assuring
her he was entitled to half of her house. All too keen to prove
it—which made her very uneasy indeed.

Suddenly she wanted to be back in number
fifteen, guarding it from him. She slid down off her bar stool and
tapped Bren on the shoulder.

“I’m off,” she mouthed over the din. “I’ll get a
cab—don’t worry. See you and Nick tomorrow.” She gave Hallie a
wave, twisted her fingers into her bag handle, and pushed her way
out to the street.

Anton prowled.

The kitchen and dining room were familiar,
but he’d never seen the sitting room. It opened off the dining room
through a pair of doors that boasted hideous fifties ribbed glass.
He eased them open.

Looks like someone went mad and replaced the
original stuff.

It would make a good party space with the old
curtains and carpet gone, the doors thrown open, and his long sofa
and wide-screen TV in place.

He hoped he’d soon have plenty to celebrate.
Although he tried for an icy cool exterior, his gut twisted with
apprehension and excitement. So much whizzed around in his head it
was a miracle steam wasn’t hissing out his ears.

Ballentine Park Mews. The project that would
leave him with a clear million dollars once all the expenses were
covered, all the borrowing paid back.

After that, life would be easier. A few more
apartment blocks, then on to the bigger stuff. He was Haviland
Homes for now, but would be Haviland International in a few years.
He hoped.

He paced through the long central hallway of
the old house, imagining the walls light and clean, and without
their current sprinkling of scenic watercolors.

There were generously sized bedrooms on the
other side. One was half full of accumulated junk. One had the door
firmly closed. Jetta’s, no doubt. Maybe she’d booby trapped it? He
left it well alone.

A bathroom—functional but dated. And a big
moonlit front bedroom with a three sided bay window and Bren’s
truly awful suite, just as described, sitting on splayed
brass-ferruled feet.

He shuddered to think anyone had once
considered such a design beautiful, and dropped down to sit on the
bed for a few moments in the dim light.

Ballentine Park Mews. So close now he could
taste it. Paved forecourts in front of the ground floor garages,
with narrow gardens and low walls separating each. Color-schemed
for individuality, built fast and efficiently, and finished with
flair.

He lay back and stretched his arms above his
head, tired but satisfied. His hands hit the old
headboard—certainly not big enough for his bed, and absolutely not
to his taste.

He closed his eyes and imagined what he’d
really like ornamenting his bed. She looked surprisingly like his
challenging firecracker of a cousin.

Impossible of course, but no less desirable.

Jetta paid off the cab and limped up the path
in her too-high heels. Anton had left the hall light on for her.
Good—that’d make it easier to find the right key in the bundle.

She bent and felt under the pot. Nothing.

A prickle of unease raised the hairs on the
back of her neck.

They’d joked about burglars earlier that
evening. Surely the house wasn’t being done over right at this
instant? She’d heard a funeral notice in the newspaper could act as
a signal for undesirable visitors.