Trouble in Nirvana (16 page)

Sean had stepped in eager to placate their father and eager to have a purpose when he left school. Eight years younger than Tom, he loved the land with as much of a passion as his father. Fortunately he also admired his big brother and understood the value of his knowledge.

“Don’t you get lonely out here on your own?” Primrose asked, interrupting his meandering thoughts with an abrupt change of subject. Her tone suggested she’d be bored rigid stuck in such a backwater. Probably already was. After a week.

Tom leaned against the table, arms folded. When she tossed in remarks such as that it was much easier to ignore the urge he had to hold her face between his hands and kiss the words from her lips. Those comments reminded him very smartly how superficial the country girl layer was and how deeply different they really were. “Too busy to get lonely. Anyway, I’ve got plenty of friends about the place.”

“Do you miss your girlfriend?” Another change of tack catching him unawares.

“Sometimes,” he admitted before he thought about denial. It was true, though. But surprisingly, now he
had
thought, it wasn’t so much Alison he missed as the little feminine touches. He liked the softening effect in his life.

Primrose nodded. “I miss Martin though I’d strangle him if he came near me.” And he didn’t doubt that for a minute. She wiped down the bench briskly and dried her hands. “Coffee?”

“I’ll make it. You sit down.”

She yawned and quickly covered her mouth. “Thanks. I’m tired all of a sudden.”

“Not much sleep last night,” Tom commented and couldn’t prevent a sly smile. An image of her sexy body beneath his fingers made him catch his breath. The memory would probably keep him awake on many nights to come.

“Mmm.” She met his eye fearlessly. “But I’ll be getting plenty of sleep tonight so don’t get any ideas.”

“Me? I have no intention of going anywhere near you tonight or any other night.” Sleepless nights or not, the emotional price tag attached to Primrose Pretty was way out of his reach. “I was thinking the same about you as a matter of fact. Don’t be getting any ideas.”

“Likewise,” she confirmed.

“Agreed.” Tom turned his back on her while he finished making the coffee. She really meant what she said. A one night stand. Cool as ice. He firmed his mouth into a hard line. Toughen up, country boy. She doesn’t know what love is. Don’t show her any weakness.

“Which is my bedroom?”

He jerked his head in the direction of the spare room. Primrose strolled across and looked in. “Nice. Where are the extra sheets and things?”

“Hall cupboard second shelf. There’s a doona already on the bed.”

He heard her open the cupboard. The door always squeaked. He never remembered to oil it. Do it now. He left the coffee brewing in the plunger pot and went to the laundry for the little oilcan. Primrose was busy flapping a sheet about in the spare room. He squatted down and applied a few drops of oil to the top hinge then the lower, swung the door experimentally. Silent.

Tom straightened to find her standing behind him, watching. He looked down into her face and smiled. “Been meaning to do that.”

She returned his smile, genuine and warm. He wanted to kiss her. An incredibly strong pull, irresistible. She was very close, her eyes shining in the softer hall light, hair tousled around her face, body enveloped in his clothes, fragrant and desirable, the more so because he knew exactly the taste and feel of her. He swallowed.

“I need a pillowslip. Excuse me.” She extended her hand to the shelf behind him.

“Right, sorry. I’ll get out of your way,” he babbled like a fool, and barged past her for the laundry. Total idiot!

While he poured their coffee. Primrose said, “Would it be all right if I washed my clothes? They might dry overnight.”

“Go ahead. I’ve some work to do on the computer.” Nothing that couldn’t wait but the alternative was sitting here making small talk with her when all he wanted to do was throw her into his bed again. Agony. He took his coffee to the study.

The washing machine sloshed and gurgled Primrose’s mud spattered clothes about enthusiastically. She had a feeling the clayey brown earth would stain her lemon coloured pants but Tom didn’t have any stain removal powder so there was no choice. At least they’d be wearable. Pity. His clothes were snug and warm. She wrapped her arms around herself. Almost like being hugged by Tom. His sweatshirt enveloped her with his smell and she closed her eyes momentarily, remembering.

He needn’t have sounded so convincing when he said he had no intention of hopping into her bed tonight. And so determined to keep her out of his. As if she’d be doing any midnight visiting...The look in his eyes when she went to the linen cupboard for a pillowslip. So sure he wanted to kiss her. But he didn’t, even though she’d waited, giving him time. Wrong. Not interested. He’d ensconced himself in his study with the door half closed. Clearly not wanting to be disturbed by his enforced visitor.

She wandered into the living room and found the book she’d been reading. Rain pattered softly on the roof. Cosy inside Tom’s house. This roof wouldn’t leak. She liked his taste in furnishings and his taste in music. Gentle, soothing Mozart this time. Violins quivered into the room. She sat on the comfortable old sofa, tucked her legs underneath her and began to read.

At about ten thirty Tom finally gave up on pretending to do his accounts and trying to concentrate on articles in the latest issue of
Good Fruit
. The Mozart CD had long since finished and Primrose hadn’t put on another one. Maybe she’d gone to bed.

He stood up and stretched, yawned widely. He hadn’t slept much either last night and a farmer couldn’t sleep in. The cow had to be milked, eggs collected, and the hens fed every morning. Plus Danny had arrived with his usual swag of questions and problems. Somehow Tom had unwittingly become Danny’s confidante and sounding board. Sworn to secrecy. Not that Tom was given to gossip—but the things he’d confided over the years were things Tom would have preferred not to know. Still, Danny was a good bloke all round, and Tom understood his reluctance to divulge certain information to his wife. Secrets, though, had a habit of coming back to bite you on the bum.

The money aspect was already causing trouble with Primrose. She wasn’t one to be fobbed off, not like innocently vague Nirupam. And given her current mental state Primrose was highly unlikely to understand or be amenable to any of Danny’s muddled reasoning.

Tom sighed. Life was simple until she arrived. Simple but duller. He switched off the light and headed for the living room.

She hadn’t gone to bed, she’d gone to sleep on the couch again, curled up with her head on a couple of cushions. Tom walked across and turned off the CD player. He picked up the book from the floor and placed it on the coffee table. Primrose didn’t stir.

He studied her for a moment. His Rose. She was lovely in sleep. Sweet faced, soft skinned, hands clasped lightly by her cheek. Silent. He smiled ruefully. If she could keep as quiet as this when she was awake they’d have no problems—he or Danny. But then she wouldn’t be the woman he found so exciting. A secret definitely worth keeping to himself.

“Rose,” he said gently. “Rose, wake up.”

No reaction. He shook her shoulder lightly. She stirred but didn’t wake. “Rosie, bedtime.”

“Mmmph.”

“Come on.” Louder.

Her eyes flickered open, focussed. She smiled slowly. “Tom.” In a whisper of sound. The lids closed again and she sighed, a contented, happy sound.

In one swift movement Tom bent and scooped her into his arms. She nuzzled her face into his neck as he strode to the spare bedroom. Her hair tickled his nose, smelling of herbal shampoo. Her body, warm and fragrantly desirable, tempted him to change course for his own bedroom but he resisted. He wouldn’t succumb a second time. Especially not when she was so sleepy she didn’t know where she was. The consequences of bedroom action taken in those circumstances would be catastrophic.

He dumped her gently onto the bed and rolled her so he could pull the doona aside then roll her back under the covers. She sighed and snuggled in. Tom bent and dropped a gentle kiss on her exposed cheek right where the cheeky dimple lived. Such a beautiful, complicated, dangerous woman.

He went to bed and lay listening to the rain pattering on the roof until sleep came.

The smell of frying bacon curled into Tom’s nostrils when he awoke the next morning. Hot sunlight streamed in through the window. A furious bellow from the paddock meant Daisy was waiting to be milked and angry about the delay. He glanced at the clock. Quarter to seven. Late. Primrose must have woken early. He threw on shorts and went to the bathroom.

“Hi,” she said when he emerged dressed and ready for breakfast. “Sleep well?”

“Yes, overslept. Haven’t done that for years.”

“It’s a lovely morning. Rain’s all gone. Eggs and bacon?”

“Yes, please.” He eyed her curiously as she fussed with the spatula and the eggs. Very domesticated. How long would it last? Primrose placed a heaped plate in front of him.

“Do you have a cow?” she asked after another loud moo from outside.

“Daisy. She wants to be milked. I’m late.”

“Really?” Her eyes opened wide in astonishment. “You’re kidding. How does she know what time it is?”

“No, I’m not kidding. Cows like routine. Their udders get uncomfortably full of milk.”

“Does all the cream in the fridge come from Daisy?”

Tom nodded with his mouth full of bacon. To go with her other delectable attributes she could cook like a champion, and this chatty friendliness could very easily undermine his security system which had been lulled by the night’s sleep. Beware. A smiling Primrose in the morning was a treat he couldn’t afford to get used to.

“How come Danny doesn’t have a cow? All they have are those goats who don’t do anything except eat.”

Tom shrugged. “They prefer goat's milk. Lot of people do. Plus goats are cheaper to buy and feed. They eat anything.”

“They’re not cheap if they don’t produce anything.” Primrose poured him tea and sat opposite with her own toast and one egg.

“True.”

“Can I watch you milk the cow?”

“If you like. You can collect the eggs for me.”

“Okay. I was on egg collecting duty while Mojo was away.” She smiled a big happy smile which made his breath catch, but faded abruptly.

“What went wrong?” He hid a smile at the spontaneous indignation on her face, but she grimaced almost immediately.

“I didn’t lock up the chooks and a fox killed four.”

Air hissed between his teeth.

“I thought Mojo would take over when he got home and he thought I...anyway.”

“They’re a real problem, foxes. I shot a couple last year. They won’t do that next door though, of course.” Much safer to discuss predators than dwell on her smiling mouth, and the perfect body he’d wanted to take to his bed last night.

“No!” Kurt might. No telling what he would do but the thought of him wielding a gun was terrifying. “There aren’t any guns at Nirvana. Thank goodness. Why do you need a gun?”

“Farmers are allowed to have them for just that reason. Culling feral animals and sometimes destroying injured stock. What would you do about it? Foxes and rabbits aren’t native animals and they kill off the natural wildlife and plants. They don’t have any predators. Except humans. Feral cats are just as bad,” he added.

Primrose bit her lip. “I don’t know,” she muttered. “Trap them?”

“And then what? Take them somewhere else to bug some other poor bloke? Farming life is harsh.”

Primrose ate the last of her egg in silence. She was wearing her own clothes. Crumpled but clean. How did she manage to look so sexy? When he’d first seen her she was attractive but city slick, now, relatively dishevelled, relaxed and natural she looked even better. He took a gulp of hot tea in an effort to curb thoughts which should have been on the day’s work but circled constantly around the minefield of a woman across the table.

She finished her toast and looked up.

“Did you put me to bed?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” She studied him for a moment but didn’t comment further. No probing into his mental state or accusations of anything untoward. “Have you got lots to do today?”

“Fair bit. I’ll have to check the fences along the river in case of flood damage, and I’ll need to have a look at the crops in the far paddocks for the same reason.”

“Will the bridge be clear?”

“Not sure.”

Tom scraped the last of his toast around the plate collecting up smears of egg yolk, and shoved the lot in his mouth. He stood up, anxious to remove himself from the temptation which had roared back powerful as ever. “Thanks for breakfast. I’d better get a move on.”

“I’ll clean up here and come down in a little while.”

“The cowshed is behind the garage and round the back past the chook run.”

“I’ll find it.” Another brilliant smile. So co-operative. What was she up to?

Primrose hummed to herself as she washed and dried the dishes. Tom’s spare bed was very comfortable. She hadn’t slept so well since she’d arrived in the valley. Tom’s whole house was comfortable—much nicer than the commune. Tom’s house felt like a home. The commune felt like a hostel for the homeless. Animal Farm.

But it needn’t! Primrose hung the tea towel neatly on the oven door. If Danny kicked out all the hangers on and made the big old place his own instead of sharing it with all and sundry it would take on a completely different aura. She could help. Painting her bedroom had made a terrific difference. Poor Nirupam had been amazed. She needed better treatment. The nursery would have to be the priority now. Shopping for baby things. Primrose smiled in anticipation. Fun. Maybe there’d be more babies and the Pretty family would totter on into the future.

She went to the back door and pulled on the rubber boots for the trek to the cowshed. The yard was muddy and slippery despite the heat of today’s sun. Primrose breathed deeply of the fresh air as she walked. Country air had a marvellous quality, invigorating and refreshing. Deeply cleansing for the lungs. She’d only had two sessions but Fern’s Chinese exercises had awakened her to the subtleties of such things. Cleared her head of city fumes and city stress.