The Billionaire Boyfriend Proposal: A Kavanagh Family Novel (3 page)

"So that's it," Becky said, checking her list
over a cup of coffee. "I guess I get contractors to quote
next."

"Reece's property manager will have some
contacts," I said.

"I want to do it on my own."

"I know you do, but there's no point in
reinventing the wheel. It doesn't make you less of a property
manger if you leverage off someone else's work. Besides, Reece will
want you to use reliable contractors."

She chewed her lip. "I suppose."

We discussed the repairs until Cleo called
and Becky had to go. I was alone again. Usually I didn't mind being
on my own. Hell, I'd had long enough to get used to it. But
tonight, the memories made me restless. Not the ones I usually had
of my beautiful, fragile sister, Wendy, or of our parents, but of
Blake. Having him waltz back into my life after years of nothing
had me reaching for the chocolate and wine. Worse than my tendency
to drown my sorrows with bad eating habits, however, was my body's
reaction to him. It still hummed with awareness when he was near. I
didn't have to see him to know he was there. And God damn, but he
was still sexy as ever, maybe more so.

Reece's words echoed in my brain:

He's at a loose end, and he's someone who
needs work or he'll go mad.
He said he was worried about Blake.
Reece
was worried about
Blake
—now there was a change.
It had always been the other way round. Surely Reece was
exaggerating. Surely tough guy Blake was as capable as ever of
walking away from his problems. He could just up and leave again if
he wanted to. There was nothing and no one to stop him.

Yep, Reece must be worried over nothing. I
sure wasn't going to waste any time thinking about Blake.

If only my subconscious heard me, because I
dreamed about him that night, and the next, and almost every night
for three months.

That's how long it was before I saw him
again. I thought he'd left Roxburg. I hadn't asked Becky as she
came and went from my house with contractors, and I refused to ask
a Kavanagh. Besides, it was merely curiosity and they would read
something into my questions that wasn't there.

"He's done it again," Becky said one morning
when she arrived for art class ten minutes earlier than my other
students.

I looked up from the brushes I was laying
out. My heart fell silent in my chest. "Disappeared?"

"Huh?"

"Blake. You said he's done it again."

"Not Blake." She gave me a sly smile, as if
she were sharing a secret, only I didn't know what that secret was.
"The friendly neighborhood graffiti artist."

My heart kicked again. I concentrated on
getting the brushes positioned just right. "He struck again
overnight?"

"Yep. This time he painted two skinny dogs
fighting over a bone."

The graffiti artist still hadn't been caught,
despite the best efforts of the police. Every two or three weeks he
paid Willow Crescent a visit and painted a different picture on the
large fence opposite my house then tagged the other fences. My
fence was never targeted, despite it presenting a good canvas.
After the first tearful clown picture, he'd gone on to paint a
beach scene with a war ship on the horizon, a burning building with
intense orange flames licking at the windows, followed by the burnt
out shell of a house, and now the dogs. All showed raw talent as
good as any of my students, and sometimes much better.

"It's definitely a cry for help," I said,
leaning back on the cloth-covered table. "I'm sure of it now."

"Maybe he's homeless," Becky said. "Poor
kid."

The CCTV footage showed there was only one
guy, but he always wore a hood and never showed his face. It was
only a matter of time before he was caught. The residents of Willow
Crescent were in uproar that their domain had been targeted by
something they considered ugly. There was a place for artwork,
according to them, and it wasn't their front fences.

"Reece told us that the cops are planning to
camp out and catch him," Becky said.

I shook my head. "The kid might not come back
for weeks. It's a waste of their time and resources."

My other students started to arrive and the
graffiti was forgotten until I had to go out again in the evening.
The cool fall air was made cooler by a strong breeze that played
havoc with my hair. I tried to tie it back, but it was the sort of
hair that refused to behave. I sat in my car for a full five
minutes and eventually pulled the lot back and plaited it. I was
only meeting an acquaintaince for drinks after work at her gallery
anyway.

I drove out of the driveway, but had to slam
on the brakes as a motorbike zoomed past me on the street. It was
Blake and he wasn't wearing a helmet. Idiot. The guy must have a
death wish. At least I knew he was still in Roxburg. Maybe he was
staying with his parents. I didn't want to know.

But I couldn't shake thoughts of him all
night. Did his parents know he didn't wear a helmet? His mother
wouldn't be happy. Then again, he was over thirty, he could do what
he wanted. Still, someone needed to sit him down and give him a
talking to about safety.

I was poor company for Steph and left early.
It was already dark outside as I drove home and parked the car in
the garage. I'd forgotten to leave a light on and the house was
dark, silent, a dense void set against the rustling tree canopies
and a starless sky. I wasn't ready to go inside.

I didn't know what made me walk back along my
driveway. There was no way I would catch the graffiti artist. It
was too early and he'd only struck the night before. He wouldn't do
it again so soon. Yet I looked for him anyway.

A movement near the Kavanagh gates caught my
attention. It could have been a cat, or just the wind, but I didn't
think so.

"Hello?" I called out. "Anyone there?" I
suddenly wished I'd brought a weapon with me. What sort of idiot
strolled around at night without protection? A trusting one, I
guess. I folded my arms across my chest against the chill seeping
into my bones. "Look, you're freaking me out, so if there's someone
there and you're not going to hurt me, just show yourself."

To my complete shock, someone did emerge from
the shadows. I recognized his broad-shouldered physique, the
self-assured stance. Blake.

I wanted to run back up my driveway, but my
feet were rooted to the spot. He headed my way. The streetlamps had
been upgraded to brighter bulbs in recent weeks, but their light
still seemed to miss Blake. He kept to the shadows like a panther
prowling up to its prey. I realized I was standing within an arc of
light, an easy target.

"You shouldn't be out here alone," he said
softly. His rich, masculine voice slid through me, warming me.
"It's dangerous."

"I don't think the graffiti artist is a
threat."

"You don't know that."

We stood some feet apart, not speaking, just
looking. I felt at a disadvantage. It was difficult to see, but he
would be able to see me easily. The moment stretched, became
uncomfortable. Blake didn't make a sound. I couldn't even hear him
breathing. The blood pumping through my veins was too loud in my
ears anyway. I should have left before he approached, but I hadn't
and now I was stuck making inane small talk with him.

"Why are you out here?" I finally asked to
break the tension.

"Just keeping an eye on things."

"What are you, the self-appointed graffiti
police?"

My joke fell flat. He said nothing.

"If you catch him, don't hurt him," I
said.

"Why not?"

"It's probably just a homeless kid."

"You don't know that."

I blew out a breath. "When did you get so
heartless, Blake? In the army or before?"

Several moments ticked by before he answered.
"You've concluded that I'm heartless from that one comment?"

I bit my lip. Maybe I had jumped on him too
quickly. But Blake had a way of pushing my buttons and the last
three months of not seeing him while looking for him around every
corner had stretched my nerves to breaking point.

"Sorry. You're right. I should just…shut up."
I went to walk off, but his low, guttural voice stopped me.

"Stay. Please, Cassie. Don't avoid me."

"Me avoid you? I've been right here at home
on Willow Crescent, Blake. Where have you been these last three
months? Or the last eight years for that matter?"

"Working. The last three months I've been
doing up an old house I bought. It sold on the weekend so I'm back
living here until I find another project. Before that, I was
wherever the army wanted me to be. Sometimes on home soil, other
times in Afghanistan and a few other places I'm not allowed to
mention."

Wow. It was a more detailed answer than I'd
expected to get. In fact, I hadn't expected him to answer me at
all. "You did some high level top secret stuff?"

"A couple times."

"Why did you quit?"

He shifted his weight for the first time
since coming up to me. He tucked his hands into his jeans pockets
and looked down at the pavement. "A couple of reasons."

I got the impression he might talk about it
if I pushed him, but I didn't. I didn't want to see inside Blake's
head. I was afraid of what I might find.

"You might be out here a while," I told him.
"He only strikes every few weeks."

He shrugged. "I've got nothing better to do
right now."

"You're going to stay out all night, every
night?"

"Worried about me, Cass?" He sounded amused,
damn him.

"Of course not. You're big enough to look
after yourself. But speaking of being worried, does your mother
know you ride your motorbike without a helmet?"

"You are worried about me."

"I am not! It's your head and I know how hard
and stubborn it is. I bet it would survive anything."

I walked off without looking back over my
shoulder. I swear I heard him grunting out a laugh, but I could
have been mistaken.

I switched on all the lights in the part of
the house I lived in. I'd shut the other half of the place off
after Gran died. It was too big to keep clean and it was cheaper to
have only half of it cool in summer and warm in winter. For the
next hour, I tried to occupy myself, but I couldn't settle to
anything, not even the still life I'd been working on.

What I really wanted was to talk to someone.
I picked up the phone to call Becky, but put it down again. She had
her sister for company. She didn't need me wasting her time. The
only other person I felt I could call was Steph, but I'd just come
from seeing her. She'd think me weird calling for no particular
reason.

So I sat in the window embrasure in my
bedroom with a cup of cocoa cradled in my hands. I couldn't see the
road from there, but it didn't matter. I imagined Blake standing in
the shadows, watching for the graffitist.

I sat in my bedroom window the next night and
every night for a week. More than once I got up to go outside, but
changed my mind. In the second week, I just did it. Knowing Blake
was out there in the brisk night air beyond my gate was driving me
crazy. Not that I wanted to see him or speak to him. It just seemed
unfair that he was burdened with protecting the neighborhood when
he was only an occasional resident.

I was careful to step on the soft soil on
either side of the gravel drive. It had rained that afternoon and
the earth smelled damp, the air fresh and clean. I hugged the iron
gatepost and peered into the darkness at the Kavanagh gate. There
was no movement. If he'd seen me, he didn't come out. Maybe he
wasn't even there.

I waited, watching. What did he think about
as he kept vigil? Me? His army experiences? Or maybe he let his
thoughts drift off into nothingness.

Hours passed. My legs grew stiff and my
stomach growled with hunger. The moon glowed behind a bank of
clouds. I tracked its progress across the sky until I figured it
must be past midnight. I was about to head inside when movement
opposite caught my attention. It wasn't near the Kavanagh gate, but
the fence of my opposite neighbor.

The graffiti artist was back.

He wore a dark hoody, jeans and trainers. He
didn't care about the brighter streetlamps or the increased
security cameras. He set his pack down and pulled out brushes,
paints and a palette. No spray cans for him. The guy was a pro.

I looked to the Kavanagh gate, but it was all
quiet. The graffitist began painting. Still Blake didn't show up.
Was he going to wait until the guy was finished? Or maybe he wasn't
even there.

The artist put brush to fence in a sweeping
rust-colored arc. "Hey!" I called out. "Stop!"

He wheeled round, brush in the air, and
didn't move. He seemed uncertain whether he should stay or run.

I held my hands up in surrender and stepped a
little closer. "Keep your hands where I can see them," I told him,
speaking in soft tones as if addressing a skittish cat. "I don't
want to hurt you, but I do want to talk."

He laughed and turned back to the fence. He
must have figured I wasn't much of a threat. He was right. He was
bigger than me. "Then talk. Doesn't mean I'm going to listen."

Oh-kay. I remained on the edge of the
sidewalk, several feet away. He kept painting. "The residents
around here aren't happy. They're sick of cleaning up after
you."

"They don't appreciate art." He continued
with the large brush and spread the rust paint wide. I was pretty
sure he wasn't going to hurt me. He could have attacked me
already.

"Actually they do. Just not on their fences."
He said nothing. "I should call the police."

"Don't you want to see what this will be?" He
switched brushes and dipped it in brown.

I tried a different tactic. "Why this
street?"

"It's got good canvases and too many stuck-up
assholes."