The Boat Builder's Bed (14 page)

“Now’s fine.” Fran rummaged through the baby-bag. “I can probably stand about one more read-through of ‘Tigger Ted and the Magic Jungle’.”

“Or,” Sophie suggested “something of Camille’s. After Lucy reminded me on Monday night I should get a couple of books and games for visiting children, I burgled the toy-box at the
 
apartment.”
 

She swallowed the last of her chocolate before dashing into the back room for a few seconds, and emerging with a couple of picture-books and a box of colorful plastic shapes.
 

“You’re quite sure, Fran?”
 

“I’ll just be taking messages, won’t I? Lucy’s in a good mood. Make the most of it.”
 

She offered her daughter a book. “Look Luce—‘Tigger Ted and the Christmas Pudding’. How cool is that?”

“I’ll hurry,” Sophie said, making another dive into the back for her crash helmet and bag. “Smile.” She framed her studio-minders and popped off a couple of shots.

“Come round for dinner and show me those, and the house,” Fran called after her.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“So did they arrive?”

Sophie’s phone had jerked her wide-awake from her day-dreaming. She sucked in a deep breath and felt her heart thudding as though she’d completed a half-hour run.

“What on earth’s the time there?”
 

“Details as always I see,” Rafe’s amused drawl teased down the line. “I’m twenty hours behind you.”

“It’s the middle of your night then?”

“More-or-less. And it’s nine p.m. in New Zealand?”

“Yes, and you only just caught me in. I’ve been at Fran’s, showing her some photos I took of—er—her and Lucy this morning.” She prickled with a sudden flush, knowing she’d come close to giving away the fact she’d been showing his house around when she had no right to.
 

“You came up that unlit path on your own again?”

The drawl was not so amused now.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! I’ve walked up that path for ages on my own, Rafe.”

She swung her legs onto the floor. She’d been lazing on the bed, flicking through décor magazines, but she couldn’t talk to him lying down. It was too easy to imagine him lying there beside her, all tawny and relaxed and tempting.

“And when you’re
not
on your own?”

Not so relaxed then...

“Not your business,” she said as coolly as she could.

“Keeping a woman safe is always a man’s business.”

There was a small thrumming silence while she considered that. Did he mean any woman or her in particular?

“I’m perfectly safe. You don’t have to worry.”

Then she took a deep deliberate breath and changed the subject. “Yes, the flowers arrived. Thank you so much. It was very extravagant of you and not at all necessary.”

“White lilies? I asked them to send white.”

“Yes, white lilies. Far too many of them. Their scent is amazing. I had to put them in the floor-cleaning bucket for a while until I worked out what to do with them.”

“Red plastic is the new décor trend, then?”
 

She could hear his smile, and picture one black eyebrow quirked in enquiry.
 

“
Purple
plastic. Even worse. But they’re very classy now. I rescued half a dozen of the empty champagne bottles, grouped them together and shared the stems around. They look worth millions.”

“Nothing but the best for my new decorator.”

She relaxed at that. Fran’s earlier query about it being ‘definitely on’ had eaten at her confidence a little. “So what time is it in San Diego?”

“Somewhere around two. Haven’t got my watch on. I’m fresh out of the shower.”

And just like that her nipples contracted into pebble-hard peaks and pressed against the lace of her bra as though his fingertips had reached out and touched her.

Vivid pictures of him flared in her brain; a predator at ease in his patch of jungle, but ready to leap from the dappled shadows at a second’s notice.

Was he lying on his belly, strong and tanned and spangled with water? Maybe his chin rested on one fist and his other hand held the phone pressed against his ear, very like she’d inadvertently drawn him before breakfast.
 

Or was he leaning back on a pile of pillows, long legs crossed at the ankle, deep chest rising and falling with each slow breath?
 

Of course with a white hotel towel wrapped low on his narrow hips.

Yeah, right.

“What are you doing still awake this late?” she stammered, trying not to embroider the second image of him too extravagantly. She knew he was potently endowed from yesterday’s embrace, but still...
 

“Can’t sleep. Jet-lag. Work to do.”

“You probably should have been working in Wellington all Monday,” she apologized, “Instead of messing around with me.”

“Sophie...” he murmured, slow and low and so husky that desire drifted over her like a tropical breeze. Warm, insistent, overwhelming. “I very much enjoyed ‘messing around’ with you on Monday. And last night.” He let the suggestion hang in the air while she fought to re-wrap her mental bath-towel around him.

She cleared her throat. And heard his laugh from right across the vast Pacific Ocean.

Damn—he knows the effect he has on me.

“I went back to your house today and took photos,” she said, trying desperately for a businesslike tone. “I’ve imported shots of all the rooms, so I have instant on-screen references. And I’ve architectural software that lets me overlay my suggestions for colors and so on for you. I can give you a virtual tour from my desk.”

“I’d rather you walked me through the house again. You know I’d enjoy your personal service...”

Oh didn’t she just!

“Some things we can do long-distance,” she insisted, trying to stay focused. “I can email you ideas, and maybe I can make progress before you come back. I’ve had some luck with a very good painter, for instance. I was sounding him out for early next year, and found his current contract’s just gone belly-up.”

“I don’t want someone off the scrap-heap.”

“No, listen. Roy’s excellent, but the builders have had a major disaster because of a plumbing flood. They need to re-line a lot of that house, and then re-plaster. He has various smaller jobs to choose from, but he’d rather have one big one like we all would. I’ll put some pressure on him if you’d trust me?”

“Well, the walls and ceilings are all stopped and sanded...”

“So we could get quite a lot of it out of the way.
 
The children’s bedrooms, the halls, stairs, utility rooms? We’ll leave the major rooms until you’re back here, for sure.”

“Get him to do the media room while he’s at it,” Rafe said. “It’ll always be half-dark in there. Go for it, Sophie. Something neutral. I can get it painted over again later.”

She bristled at that. “I’d rather get it right first time, thanks! I’ll send you some color references—okay?”
 

So that was Wednesday.
 

Thursday she did the hardest day’s work of her life, cross-matching samples of paint, tile, carpet, and fabric.
 
Re-evaluating, discarding, re-combining, overlaying final choices on her photos, letting the phone take messages while she concentrated.
 

She called Chris to establish how the clean-up was progressing and mentioned her contact with Roy the painter. Finally she emailed some of her schemes to Rafe, grabbed a chicken and avocado sub for dinner, and called Camille.

And that was Thursday.

On Friday she woke on tenterhooks, wondering how long it would take him to respond.
 

She’d arranged an early site meeting with the painter so he could see the scope of the job and order the sealer and undercoat he’d need. Then she zoomed back into the city.

As she unlocked the studio the phone rang. She wrestled her crash-helmet off and shook her hair free, every bone in her body knowing it was going to be him.
 

“Subtle Interior Design Studio; Sophie Calhoun,” she said in her crispest voice.

“Rafe Severino.”

The two words were softly-spoken yet they were enough to send a tidal wave of pleasure washing over her.

“What time is it there?”

He gave an exultant laugh. “I bet myself ten bucks you’d ask. It’s after lunch, and it’s yesterday as far as you’re concerned.”
 

“So?” she faltered. “What do you think?”

“That I might bring back a piece of local artwork for one of my smart new rooms.”

Her brain buzzed at the compliment. “You like some of my ideas, then?”

“Almost all of them. I’d need to see samples of the bedroom carpets before I decide...”

“I could courier them to you, if you don’t mind paying for fast service?”

“...because I want to know you’ve chosen something soft and thick enough for the ravishing I mentioned.”

Sophie hitched a breath in very fast, and tried to hide her reaction by reciting slowly as though she was taking notes, “Carpet...needs...to be suitable...for debauchery.”
 

God, the man had just made her damp and twitchy from half-way round the world!

A little later the orchids arrived. A bouquet of exquisite pure white moth orchids, nodding gently on long stems. With them came a tall plain crystal vase in a gold box. The card said ‘Plastic bucket replacement. Rafe.’

Sophie shook her head in disbelief. His beautiful lilies were now on the wane, but she’d recently cut the faded ones from the stems and regrouped the best of them. So used to making do and stretching her money and possessions to go further, things like that had become automatic. Extravagance had never been part of her life.

On Sunday she rose early, showered, and pulled on her black jeans and a white T-shirt. She checked she had the silver-sequined Barbie dress, her studio photos and a library book in her bag. Then, yet again, she caught the Inter-islander ferry across Cook Strait to go and see her tiny daughter.
 

The routine was second nature by now. Sneak the scooter into a narrow wedge of the parking lot and check in by seven-forty for the eight-twenty-five departure. Buy a coffee and eat a health bar for breakfast in the hubbub of the terminal. Be among the first to board, and grab a corner seat so she could read in peace for the three-hour crossing.

Today was different though. Today she wanted to be as close as possible to Rafe’s harbor-side home.
 

Once they were under way she gave her full attention to the view she’d long-ago stopped noticing. The steep green hills of Wellington basked under a perfect blue sky. Sunlight twinkled off the windows of timber houses making use of every high vantage point. No wonder Rafe had needed to create his own building site.
 

And finally she saw the house—gliding by too fast now the ferry was up to speed. The pared-down cliff was still an ochre-colored gouge. She could just discern the cable-car rail beside it. The three levels of floor-to-ceiling glass caught the sun and flashed her a greeting. The wide timber decks overhung the restless water, defying gravity. It was magnificent, and all hers to make her reputation with.

She raised her camera and focused in close before taking several shots. Only after rounding the harbor heads to the open sea did she sit again and open her novel.
 

The ferry started to buck as it hit open water but she was used to the steady roll of the Cook Strait waves beneath her. Much later, having been engrossed in the book, she noticed the open ocean had given way to the dark green forested hills of Queen Charlotte Sound.
 

The little white ship ploughed on down the long sheltered passage to Picton. Sophie heard two teenagers trying to sound cool as they spotted a pod of dolphins cutting through the sunlit water not far distant. Once younger children joined in, shrill excitement took over.
 

The ferry slid into Picton on time, and she disembarked quickly and walked the few blocks to her mother’s house.

Cammie waited for her, perched behind the gate, toes wedged into the gaps between the timbers. It was the game they always played. Sophie bent to kiss her daughter and then swung the gate gently open.
 

“I’m flying, Mommy.”

“Right into Nanna’s pretty garden if I let go of you. How are you, darling? Going to show me your elephant painting?” She held the gate steady while Cammie climbed down. Hand-in-hand they walked to the open front door of the modest timber house. Nancy Calhoun bustled towards them, having no doubt heard the snap of the gate latch.

“My daughter the businesswoman,” she said, pride showing in her wide smile and soft blue eyes. She led them through to her kitchen. The electric kettle clicked off as they entered. She poured the boiling water into waiting mugs, and Sophie automatically took the milk from the fridge for her mother’s tea before they sat down at the table.

“Tell me
everything
,” Nancy insisted.

“Well, I took some photos of the house from the ferry, so maybe you’d like to see those to start with?”

“Me see, Mommy.”

Sophie held the camera so Camille could view the small screen first. Satisfied she was missing nothing, the little girl returned to dressing Barbie in her new silver gown.

“It’s quite something,” Nancy Calhoun agreed, giving the house a lot more attention than her grand-daughter had. “I’m so glad for you, darling—it’s about time.” She clicked through the other shots and drew a swift surprised breath. “Wherever did you get the glorious
phalaenopsis?”

“Mmmm?” Sophie enquired, coming to lean over her mother’s shoulder. “Oh, the orchids? They’re quite something, aren’t they?”

“We sell those plants for around forty dollars each at the garden centre and they have one flower stem apiece. That’s a very expensive bouquet.”

“It was a good-luck present from a client,” Sophie said, secretly horrified when she multiplied the forty dollars by a dozen stems and added the florist’s fee, and delivery, and the beautiful crystal vase as well. Even if she called each stem only half that it still meant Rafe had spent hundreds more dollars on her.