Out of Bounds (8 page)

Empty house now—come and rob me late at
night.

Oh, please no. Even though there was very
little to take, the violation would be the final insult on a
shocking day.

She put a cautious foot on the lowest step.
It was probably silly to go in on her own. Was Anton awake? She
glanced next door in the faint hope he might still be up. Total
darkness—no help there.

She climbed a further step and cocked her
head to one side, listening intently. There were no sounds apart
from distant traffic and her own thudding heartbeat.

Up the third step. She reached across to the
door and with the utmost caution tried the handle.

It turned.

Her pulse kicked up another notch. At least
she had access, but what was Anton thinking, leaving the house
unlocked after his earlier lecture on security?

She stepped inside, grateful the lights were
on. Nothing seemed amiss—then down the far end of the hallway she
caught sight of the repainted kitchen cupboards. Her jaw dropped
and she clutched her bag to her chest.

She tiptoed toward them, silent on the old
carpet, still wary, but intensely curious. He’d done them while she
was at the movies! How was it possible to achieve that in half an
evening? Where had he found paint?

She gazed around, transfixed. What a
difference the paler doors and plain timber floor made. If she took
the kitten calendar down and replaced it with the big avant-garde
one Modus Textiles had given her for Christmas, things would look
good.

Then she caught sight of the gateau,
carefully centered on the table.

Anton?

Who else, you fool? Bren and Hallie were both
at the movies with you.

Tears stung her eyes, and she tried to blink
them away. He’d done this for her after all her harsh and
disbelieving words, all her bitchy behavior?

She drifted across to the table, pushed the
ribbon aside, and lifted the plastic box. Very professional and
delicious looking cake. Very amateur placing of candles... Her lips
quirked.

Unable to resist, she pinched off the end of
the slice and popped it into her mouth. The rich chocolate icing
and moist crumbly cake melted on her tongue. Heaven.

But why was the house unlocked? She saw now
that he’d tossed the keys onto an old black paint rag on the
nearest chair. Satisfied the place wasn’t being ransacked, she
grabbed them and walked along the hallway to secure the door.

Level with the front bedroom she froze.

A noise! A soft sighing sound. Definitely
human. Oh God—was her imagined burglar real after all?

The sound came again, but it was quiet,
almost soothing. There were no shadows to indicate movement, and
her commonsense told her if anyone lurked in the bedroom the
combination of moonlight and the nearby streetlamp would throw
their silhouette onto the opposite wall.

She crept across and peered through the
narrow gap by the door hinges. On the bed was... an almost naked
man. Making snuffly, sleepy noises.

Every hair on her body slammed upright. Every
nerve pinged to full alert.

She tried to get a better view through the
small space. He sprawled out as though he owned the place.

Anton?

She sharpened her attention even further. One
arm lay flung out to the side, and the other shielded his eyes from
the streetlamp.

It had to be Anton.

Even though she couldn’t see his face, she
could see plenty else. He was bare-chested, long-legged, male, and
terrifying.

She dropped the keys and clapped a hand
across her mouth to keep herself silent. Violent trembles raced up
and down her spine. Her knees did their jellifying act again, but
this time she had no handy chair to drop onto. She sagged against
the doorframe instead, eyes tightly closed, trying not to vomit up
the movie popcorn and her white wine and the mouthful of delicious
cake.

Would she ever,
ever
,
ever
conquer the fear?

For maybe sixty seconds she remained cowed
and terrified, eyes averted, clutching the woodwork.

Breathe in. Deep and slow. Breathe out. All
the way, just like Doctor Julia Menzies taught you.

In again.

Out. There’s nothing to be scared of.

It’s not Uncle Graham. You’re not nine years
old.

It’s Anton. He’s not going to touch you, not
going to hurt you. Breathe in. Breathe deep. Relax your
fingers.

Let go of the doorframe. It’s not Uncle
Graham.

Gradually, gradually, the frantic hammering
of her heart slowed until it was down to an uneven and
throat-filling thump.

Slowly the nausea passed, and she regained
control of her stomach.

One hand continued to hold the doorframe in a
vise-like grip, but the other relaxed enough to scrub over her
sweat-beaded face. Her fingers still trembled, vibrating against
her skin as she rubbed at the nervous wetness that had sprung out
across her forehead...over her top lip...on the back of her
neck.

Not Uncle Graham. Not Uncle Graham.

She wobbled down to a crouch and retrieved
the keys from the carpet, fingers numb and fumbly. Did she dare to
lock herself in with him? She walked the few steps to the front
door, tried the wrong key first, sliding it into the lock, and then
finding it wouldn’t turn. Cursing under her breath, she pulled it
out and inserted the next. The bolt moved into place. Now no-one
from outside could get in—but could she make a dash out to safety
if she needed to? She hoped she could.

She retraced her steps to the bedroom
doorway.

Heard deep regular breathing, and then a
small snore.

He’s sound asleep. You’re safe.

Another small breathy snore. More like the
whicker of a horse, really. Her lips curved up into a smile, even
though she still felt very far from calm.

Had he been so tired after all his work that
he’d needed to crash? And wouldn’t he get cold wearing so
little?

Jetta slipped off her tall shoes, picked them
up, and padded along the hallway to her room. She swapped the
stilettos for a pair of old sandals, twitched her favorite mohair
blanket from the wardrobe shelf, and took a couple of slow deep
breaths for bravery.

At least two more minutes passed before she
dared creep right in to the front bedroom. He was quiet again
now—still lying in exactly the same position. His feet were flat on
the floor. Big feet in old sports shoes. No socks that she could
see. Had he been sitting on the end of the bed and collapsed
sleepily backward?

His long thighs were meatier than she’d
expected for such a tall man, but maybe it was because they were
pressing down against the mattress? They looked strong and
streamlined, and in the moonlight she could see the faint haze of
hair covering them.

Perhaps if she could bear to be as close as
this tonight she might manage to overcome her fear. Some day.

Flicky panic waves tweaked at her nerves,
calling her a coward, an inadequate woman, a crybaby.

Uncle Graham had called her a crybaby.

She stood statue-still, fighting her old
terrors. She had never been so close to a semi-clad man. Not on her
own.

She could manage being part of a group at the
beach or pool where friends acted as the buffer she needed. Where
she could edge away if she got too uncomfortable.

She was fine at dinner parties. Or at movie
outings when there were at least two couples. Unbothered at work,
even when visiting a male client at his home for a design
consultation. That was business, and let’s face it, he was often
gay if there was no wife present.

This was not business. This was as personal
as it got.

A bed, a man, and way past midnight.

A big handsome man who was sound asleep. Who
didn’t know she was there, wanting so much to look, and to learn,
and to test herself.

She shook the blanket out and stepped
closer.

He had shorts on. Proper outdoor shorts, not
underwear, she saw with relief. And although the fabric bulged at
his groin, it was nothing like the shocking big lump that used to
stick out in Uncle Graham’s trousers.

Jetta knew what went on in men’s trousers,
and she was careful never to put herself in the situation where a
terrifying lump might rear up.

So far, so good
. She advanced a
cautious half pace and let the blanket settle beside him on the
bed. If he woke she had her excuse right there. But he continued to
breathe deeply and slowly. His chest rose and fell, and the deeper
breaths sometimes made his belly rise, too. His long, flat, smooth,
golden belly.

Suddenly she wanted to touch. Wanted to know
how warm he’d feel. How smooth and firm. How nice. He was so much
nicer than Uncle Graham; the small hot ripples of pleasure between
her thighs made that abundantly clear.

The memory of the morning returned. She’d
stood in front of the drawing board with him, aware of herself as a
woman—confused but strangely thrilled. She bit her lip. Her mouth
was watering! She swallowed, and felt the saliva begin to pool
again.

Anton drew a much deeper breath, tensed,
sighed and relaxed. The arm flung up over his eyes slid sideways.
Now she could see his face, but was he going to wake up?

She moved the blanket closer in case she
needed to pretend she was covering him, and was pleased when his
breathing slowed and his eyes remained shut.

Finding untold courage from somewhere deep
inside, she reached a cautious finger down and laid it on his
nipple. The small flat disk made such a tempting target. A warm
smooth target, soft as velvet. She moved her fingertip lightly to
and fro, and gasped as it changed shape and pushed up, almost as
though searching for her. She pulled her hand away, astounded. So
his did it too?

Perhaps I shouldn’t touch him again, even
though I really want to.

She lowered her face close to his chest and
sniffed instead. She smelled the soap from his earlier shower...
the biscuity aroma of hardworking man... the underlay of male
musk.

She straightened, and touched his hair—the
lightest brush over the top of his head. At dinner, her fingers had
wanted to wander there, and it felt exactly as she’d imagined it
would. Springy and thick; as vital as he was.

More daring now, she stroked again, and then
again—this time touching his brow before traveling slowly
backward.

His nearest hand gave a sleepy swat at her as
though brushing away an annoying insect. His fingers curled and
clamped around her wrist, warm and inescapable.

The panic came sweeping back, and Jetta did
her utmost to remain silent and calm. Why had she started this? She
had no right being here, touching him…using him as an experiment,
if she was honest.

Anton turned slightly in his sleep. His lips
nuzzled her hand and he muttered something she couldn’t decipher.
His breath warmed her skin, hot, damp and thrilling.

With a stealth she didn’t know she possessed,
she extricated her hand from his in tiny increments. She stepped
away and looked down—only to find that somehow in his sleep he’d
sensed the presence of a woman. The fabric of his shorts now
strained upward in a tent that rivaled anything Uncle Graham had
ever shown her. She couldn’t help the anguished moan that burst
from her throat as she flung the blanket into the air and dashed
from the room.

“Hmmmmph? Anton muttered as it landed on him.
“Hmmmm?”

Jetta woke to blinding sunshine, positive
she’d never been asleep. But somehow the whole long night had
passed. Somehow she’d relaxed enough to doze off—even if it had
only been to see Anton again and again, stretched out half clad, or
unclad, or so rampant her thighs jerked with fright and
longing.

All night she’d thrashed around, trying to
find a cool, calm place in her bed. Trying to find a cool, calm
place in her imagination too, but it was smoking hot in there.

The pictures in her brain had become ever
more vivid. Ever more lustful.

Uncle Graham was nowhere to be seen; it was
all Anton. Anton who was due any minute to start painting again—if
he’d ever gone home. Maybe he was still in Gran’s room?

Shocked by that thought, she scrambled from bed,
pulled her most concealing robe around her, and yanked the belt
tight, but when she cleared her throat loudly in the hallway and
called his name, there was no reply. She peered around the
doorframe. He’d left her blanket neatly folded, but he’d gone.

Anton took another gulp of coffee, set the
cup down, and broke a second egg into the spitting fry-pan. The
bacon smelled fantastic, and he was starving.

He’d woken an hour ago in a room he didn’t
recognize, under a blanket that smelled like Jetta. Hard as hell
inside his shorts, and totally confused. What was he doing
there?

The previous night slid slowly back into his
head. The impromptu birthday dinner. Jetta’s curvy butt in those
black leather trousers. Hallie and Bren’s cheerful ribbing. The
cupboard doors.

And something else that couldn’t be for real;
Jetta bending over him like a guardian angel, stroking his hair,
holding his hand, and then disappearing in a puff of smoke.

He knew she’d found him asleep some time
after she returned home. The sweet-smelling blanket proved
that.

The rest made no sense at all. She was hardly
going to caress him in his sleep. Throwing a bucket of water over
him was a lot likelier.

He flipped the eggs and shoveled the bacon
onto a plate, still speculating. The ethereal angel had seemed much
more real than the raunchy dreams that followed. He knew them for
what they were—total fantasy.

The toast popped up and he threw the hot
slice beside the bacon, slid the eggs on top, and took the plate
outside to the sunny courtyard.

His mother had always cooked bacon and eggs
for Sunday breakfast, even when her money must have been terribly
tight.