One Night Before Marriage

CHAPTER THREE

SLIDING his sunglasses down his nose, Ben studied the house from his hire car, checked the ad again. ‘Want a quiet retreat away from city noise?’ it read. ‘Spacious old family home. Own bed/sitting/bathroom, share kitchen. Meals cooked if preferred.’

The house itself was a gracious old bungalow but someone had let it go. The midday sun glared off a khaki lawn and a row of straggling rose bushes. Faded paintwork was peeling along the verandah and around the windows. The roof sagged and one of the wooden steps leading to the front door was missing.

Mozart—at least he thought it was—drifted through an open window as he unfolded himself and climbed out of the car. He pushed open the gate, caught the scents of coffee and fresh-baked cake as he walked up the path.

He knocked and a voice sounded from somewhere inside. The door opened and a young woman with a long flow of black hair and grey eyes looked out. Her skimpy olive crop-top revealed smooth tanned skin. Black Lycra shorts clung to shapely legs. She was, in a word, a knockout.

‘Good morning, my name’s Ben Jamieson. I’ve come about the room.’

She stared at him a moment, then her mouth curved into a wide grin. ‘Hey, Carrie, your piano tuner’s here,’ she called in an amused voice to someone down the passage.

‘No,’ he began, ‘there’s some misunderstanding, the room—’

‘Ben Jamieson.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Wait up. The Ben Jamieson?’ She grinned. ‘I’m Melanie Sawyer, Carrie’s stepsister.’ She offered her hand, her grip firm. ‘I just called round on my way home from the hospital—I’m a nurse.’

‘I didn’t ring for a piano tuner, and the kitchen sink…’ A woman joined Melanie, her voice trailing off when she saw him.

His blue lady transformed.

Biting back the first word that sprang to his lips, he exhaled sharply, rocked back on his heels.

‘Carrie, there you are,’ Melanie said. ‘This is Ben Jamieson. He’s come about the room. Ben, this is—’

‘Carissa.’

He compared the two females, both gazes fixed on him. Melanie might dazzle the eye, but Carissa shone with an inner spark that set her apart.

Right now her hair was an out-of-control waterfall of gold. A buttercup-yellow vest-top clung to braless breasts. Mile-long legs gleamed beneath short denim cut-offs and she had two dark stains on her knees and a glob of something black on her cheek. Her feet were bare.

She didn’t look pleased to see him.

Her cheeks flushed but those blue eyes turned a dangerous shade of cool. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I was in the staff cafeteria…’ He held out the ad.

Her eyes narrowed. ‘How did you manage that?’

‘Friends in high places?’ He should just get the hell away, but he couldn’t seem to move his feet.

Melanie frowned. ‘You know each other?’

‘I don’t…’ Carissa threw him a suspicious look, then turned to her sister. ‘How do you know him?’

Melanie shook her head at Ben. ‘The queen of pop, Carrie is not. Ben’s a songwriter.’ Her brow creased. ‘You were there when…oh, God.’ Her sentence hung in an awkward silence broken only by the chattering of birds and Mozart pouring from the stereo inside. ‘Rave Elliot, XLRock,’ she finished in a low voice.

Carissa’s eyes widened and thawed to lukewarm. ‘That horrific accident. I read about it.’ She leaned a shoulder against the door. Not flushed now but pale as milk. ‘I had no idea you…I’m sorry. For your loss.’

The pain struck hard. ‘Rave and I were like brothers.’

For a few hours this woman had taken his mind off his grief. Not just with her body, but with charm and optimism. Could she be good for him a little longer? If they laid the ground rules from the start…

He took a fortifying breath. His best decisions were often ones he didn’t think about too deeply. ‘I’d like to look at the room.’

But Carissa frowned. ‘Why? Why would you choose a cheap rented room over a penthouse suite?’

A fair question. ‘I need a private place for a while. If you’re worried about the short stay, I’m happy to pay you six months’ rent up front.’

The frown remained.

Melanie flashed him a reassuring smile. ‘Excuse us a moment. Wait right here,’ she said, tugging Carissa inside and pushing the door to.

He paced a couple of steps away and considered the wisdom of his offer. Carissa obviously didn’t want him here and he—

‘Ben?’

He turned at the sound of Melanie’s voice.

Carissa stood beside her, flicking one hand against her thigh and looking aggrieved. He saw her throat bob as she swallowed, then she nodded. ‘Okay, you can take a look.’

‘So, how did you two meet?’ Ben heard Melanie ask.

Carissa swallowed again. ‘The piano bar. We had a drink…’

Knowing eyes met his, deep ocean-blue, and he had a mental flashback of that long, slender body laid out and arching beneath him. ‘Which reminds me.’ He dug into his pocket. ‘I have something of yours.’

‘Oh, no…don’t…I…’ She did a quick embarrassed shuffle.

He took his time, watching the way her eyes darkened, heated, pleaded, then chilled. ‘You must’ve dropped this.’

‘Oh…my—Thank God.’ Pink and flustered again now, she made no move to take the gold chain he held in front of her eyes.

He cocked a brow. ‘You sound surprised. Have you lost something else?’

Her eyes skittered to Mel, then away, and she seemed to fight a little war within herself before the glare was back, the chin up. Ignoring his last question, she opened her hand, palm out. ‘It was my grandmother’s. I only discovered I wasn’t wearing it this morning.’

His fingers grazed hers as he poured it into her hand. He lingered over them a second before she snatched them away.

‘The room’s this way, Mr Jamieson,’ she said, all business as she turned and headed down the passage. ‘The upkeep of the room is the tenant’s responsibility. There’s no room service here.’

‘Carrie,’ Melanie scolded, bringing up the rear. She cast an apologetic glance at Ben. ‘She’s not been herself all morning. I don’t know what’s gotten into her.’

He almost smiled. Was this the same woman who’d melted—burned—in his arms last night? That fragrance, her cool blue water scent that had enveloped him like a misty morning, was tantalising him again, reminding him of the passion he’d woken in her. Only him. The thought persisted a little longer than he’d have liked.

It was an airy house with only the basics, and echoes of a time when it had looked different. They passed a couple of empty rooms, then entered a spacious area that must have been used for entertaining. A piano filled the space by a huge bay window. Sheet music was scattered over the lid; some lay in a cardboard box. A tatty sofa, a couple of sagging chairs and a coffee-table were the only furniture.

He wished she’d stop, wished Melanie would get lost so he and Carissa could talk, but she strode on, long legs flashing beneath those skimpy shorts.

‘Careful,’ she warned at the kitchen door. ‘Sink’s blocked.’

Which explained the black knees. They trod carefully over the slippery floor. ‘You called the plumber?’

Melanie let out a hoot, which earned her a black look from Carissa.

‘I’ll take a look—’ he began.

Carissa waved him off. ‘Got it covered.’ A phone rang. ‘Can you answer that, Mel, please, and tell whoever I’ll call back?’ She pushed at a door. ‘These are the rooms. Not up to your usual standard, I’m sure, so—’

‘I’ll take it,’ he said, without bothering to look. He preferred watching the conflicting emotions play over her face. ‘Hold still,’ he murmured, flicking the drop from her cheek with his thumb. ‘A spot of drain dew. Gunk,’ he clarified when she just stared at him.

She touched her cheek. ‘This is not happening.’

He cocked a brow. ‘Think of it as a coincidence.’

‘I believe in signs, not coincidences, Mr Jamieson.’

‘A sign, then.’ Of what, he wasn’t sure. Stretching a lazy arm across the doorframe, he foiled her getaway. ‘What’s with the Mr Jamieson? We’ve seen each other naked. Shouldn’t we be informal?’ He watched her colour flare and gentled his voice. ‘We need to talk, Carissa.’

‘If you’re referring to last night, there’s nothing to talk about. Anything else is purely business, Mr Jamieson.’ Her voice was crisp and edgy. She started to push past, then stopped, obviously unwilling to touch him.

He saved her the trouble, curling his fingers loosely around her arm. The faintest tremor ran through her. ‘I think there is. I’m making you uncomfortable. If we’re going to be living together we need—’

‘I haven’t decided yet whether or not to take you on. And if I do, we will not be living together.’

‘Okay,’ he conceded. ‘If you decide I’m the right man for the job, we’re inevitably going to be in each other’s space. I don’t want you uncomfortable in your own home.’

He was all too aware of the smooth skin beneath his palm. He was trying to reassure, but it was too tempting to remember her flesh sliding against his. Damn, but he wanted that feeling again.

‘I’m a good bet, Carissa. You don’t want someone you know nothing about coming into your house.’

‘And I know you?’ she said wryly. She chewed her lips a moment. ‘Okay, we’ll give it a go, but I’m not making any long-term deals.’

‘I’m not looking for long term.’ He cruised his hand up that slender neck, felt the rapid pulse, the shallow breathing. His gaze dropped to that full mouth and he watched it tremble before it firmed. Proud and defensive. He liked that in a woman. ‘Carissa…’

‘A one-night stand, that’s all,’ she whispered, her eyes pleading with his.

Ironic that he’d echoed those same sentiments until it was second nature to him. ‘Seems fate has other ideas.’

‘No.’ She swung away, stubbing her toes on a chair in her haste. ‘Ouch!’ Her face turned waxy pale.

‘Ouch,’ he echoed with feeling.

Clutching her foot, she staggered to the nearest available surface, a sofa with a bright hand-quilted throw-over. ‘Fudge, fudge, fudge!’

Ready to render first aid whether she needed it or not, he crossed the room and knelt in front of her. ‘Let’s take a look.’

‘It’s fine. Great. No, really.’

Her foot jerked, but he grasped her heel before she could pull away. It was smudged with dirt, the toenails painted silver. One nail was broken and bleeding. He whipped out a handkerchief and wiped away the blood, but his thumb slid back and forth over her cool, smooth instep of its own volition.

The urge to slide his hand on up that firm calf muscle, and higher, beat through his blood. His body hardened. Living under her roof might be more difficult than he’d anticipated. He looked up at her. Her teeth were worrying her lip again, a provocative sight if he ever saw one. He could press his advantage, or act like a gentleman, which he wasn’t.

But he let her go. ‘Okay, Cinderella, I think you’ll live.’ Shoving his handkerchief in his pocket, he walked to the window, willing his inconvenient erection to subside.

This bed-cum-sitting room was better furnished than what he’d seen of the rest of the house, with a view overlooking the rear grounds, grounds being the operative word.

Filmy white curtains moved in the breeze, another handmade quilt in maroon and cream covered a single bed. The rug on the floor was new, the pine floor freshly lacquered. He could still smell polish, disinfectant and sunshine on the fabrics.

‘There’s no air-conditioning, but you’ve a fan,’ she said, still hugging her foot. ‘Bathroom’s through there.’

He took the opportunity while inspecting the sixties-style green and black room to moisten a dainty embroidered towel. ‘This is a beautiful old house,’ he said, offering her the cloth.

‘I think so. Thanks, but I’m okay.’ She folded it neatly and put it on the table in front of her. ‘It was my grandparents’ home. I’ve had to let things go a little. Upkeep on a place like this costs an arm and a leg, but I don’t want to sell. It’s all I have left of my family.’

‘That’s tough,’ he said, and meant it. He knew all too well about losing the people you loved.

‘I do just fine on my own.’ The unconscious lift of her chin told him she had to work hard at it. It was obvious she needed money.

She glanced at her watch. ‘I have to go out for a while. There’s cake and coffee in the kitchen. Don’t use the sink. You’re free to use the kitchen, but the rest of the house is private, just as I’ll respect your privacy. That way we can keep out of each other’s hair.’

‘Okay.’ He nodded, but keeping his hands out of that tangle of gold was going to be a serious exercise in restraint.

She pushed up. ‘I’ll be back in time to cook tea, if you want to settle in.’ She slid open a drawer, took out a set of keys and put them on the table. ‘Back and front doors. And you can park that bomb you call a car in the garage; it’s empty for now.’

‘Hey, that’s a fine car. Paintwork’s a bit dodgy but the engine’s reliable—so they tell me. We’ll have to take a drive some time, see if they’re up to their word.’

She didn’t reply to that, but knotted her fingers at her waist. ‘Rent’s payable up front, two weeks in advance.’ She paused, and twin spurts of colour sprang to her cheekbones. ‘And, please, knock off the money I borrowed this morning. I intended to drop it off at the hotel.’

‘No,’ he said quietly, drawing out his wallet. He counted the notes and held them out. ‘It’s yours.’

‘Okay. Thanks…um, Ben.’ She took them, carefully avoiding contact with his hand.

He was tempted to cuff her wrist and test the beat of her pulse, but thought better of it. Business was business.

As she closed the door behind her he pulled out his keys. He’d head back to the city and grab his gear. Then maybe he’d take a stroll to the beach, a few minutes’ walk away from here, and make some short-term plans.

Plans that might or might not include Carissa Grace.

As expected, Melanie leapt off the couch with a ‘Wow!’ the moment Carissa entered the living room.

‘Yeah. Wow,’ Carissa mimicked less enthusiastically as she snatched up a fabric band from the piano and dragged her hair through it. ‘Who was on the phone?’ she asked as casually as she could manage.

‘Didn’t say. I told him you were out, said he’d ring back. So, come on, Carrie, you were going to knock back his offer, for goodness’ sake. You wouldn’t say no to the extra income from a gorgeously handsome guy. What’s going on with you two?’

Her stomach jittered. ‘Nothing’s “going on”.’

‘Don’t give me that. I saw the way he looked at you. Hot.’

‘I didn’t notice.’ She glared at Melanie, but she could still feel that flash of heat on her skin. ‘Wipe that smirk off your face.’ It was making her nervous. She could feel her face flaming, so she began collecting the scattered sections of yesterday’s newspaper.

‘The piano tuner?’ Melanie murmured.

‘Stop it, Mel.’

‘Okay, but look at the points in his favour. He’s a hunk, you have to agree.’ She held up her fingers as she checked them off. ‘He’s available, he must be loaded, he’s here—’

‘That’s just it,’ Carissa interrupted. ‘He’s here. If I wanted a one-night stand, would I choose my lodger? Someone I see day in, day out?’ And felt hot all over again.

‘I don’t know—would you?’

Carissa looked up to see Mel’s eyebrows arched and a speculative gleam in her eyes. ‘And five, he’s interested. You want someone to tickle your ar…peggio—he’s a songwriter and musician. What better credentials?’

‘I don’t know why I’m still talking to you, but stay for tea, Mel. Help me out here.’

Mel shook her head, setting her long hair swinging. ‘You don’t need any help from me, sis. And Adam and I made plans to go bowling tonight.’

‘Bring your sexy and available flatmate too. The more the merrier.’ And safer.

‘Not tonight. You’re on your own with this one.’

‘Traitor,’ Carissa muttered, tossing the paper on the coffee-table and throwing herself onto the couch.

Melanie grinned, picked up her bag and swung it over her shoulder. ‘You’ll thank me later. Gotta go.’ But she paused at the door. ‘You’re not still thinking about Alasdair, are you? If you want to talk, I’m always free, or if you want to kick something, Adam’s available.’

Carissa couldn’t help smiling back. ‘I’ll tell Adam you offered him. And, no, I’m not thinking of Alasdair.’

When Melanie had gone, Carissa slapped on her floppy old hat and stepped out into the zap of a white summer’s afternoon. The heat seared her exposed skin and baked the ground to biscuit, burning the soles of her worn sandals.

She welcomed the distraction. First up he’d walked into her piano bar. What were the odds of that same man walking into her home? Her life? She lifted the sprigs of lavender and rosemary she’d picked from her miniature herb patch, inhaling their calming scent as she walked.

She wanted alone. She liked alone. The desperate need for money was the only motivation for letting some of the spare rooms, not any desire for company. Now she had someone she neither needed nor wanted in her space.

Well, he wouldn’t follow her here. A row of tired casuarinas shaded the tiny graveyard behind the old church. The gate registered her arrival with a mournful screech of rusted metal. She walked straight to her grandmother’s grave.

‘Hi, Gran.’ She arranged the herbs in the earthenware pot, then sat, tossing her hat to the ground beside her. Her father and Mel’s mother’s grave lay a couple of rows away. Her own mother had been out of Carissa’s life longer than she could remember.

She’d been visiting her grandmother’s grave for fourteen years. It was Gran she talked to when she wanted to get something off her chest. No one interrupted here. She made important decisions under these trees. Solved problems, answered questions.

The peace of the hot afternoon lay over her like a languid blanket. Closing her eyes, she tuned her senses to her surroundings. The kiss of warm air on her skin, the scent of herbs and casuarina needles, the drone of a plane.

She opened her eyes and traced the grooves of her grandmother’s name. ‘Gran, I’ve done something I’m not sure you’d approve of. I met a man.’ She found her heart thudding louder and rubbed the heel of her hand over it. ‘You know the type—tall, dark and deliciously dangerous. We had a drink and I gave him my virginity. I’d known him an hour.’

She clasped her hands around her knees, conscious of her breathing, a little faster than usual, skin newly sensitised, the tingling in her breasts as the memories flowed back, clear and fluid.

‘And you know what else? I’m not ashamed of it. Even knowing there’ll never be anything between us. He didn’t seduce me. I went in with my eyes wide open. I used him, knowing I’d never see him again. How’s that for women’s rights? Except now…now he’s living under my roof.’ She heard the tremble in her own voice and stood up.

‘The moment I saw him standing at my door it was all I could do not to lay my lips on his and take.’ She shoved her hands in the pockets of her shorts and frowned at the ground. ‘But that’s not going to happen, I made it quite clear. I think.’

A car whizzed by, a blur of sound. The air stirred, thick and heavy with summer scents.

‘How am I going to face him over the kitchen table knowing what we’ve done?’ Her head suddenly filled with Ben’s face, his eyes on hers as he drove into her. Her body writhing beneath his, her shameless moans…

She shook it away, clenched her fists. ‘Alasdair’s got someone else.’ Her lip curled. ‘Pierre. I thought I’d feel hurt but I feel used and angry. I was counting on his financial support. He’d promised to fix up the house. It was going to be my turn to study at the conservatorium.’ She blew out a breath. ‘I’ve realised I’m more upset at the loss of his income than the man himself. We had a good partnership. Now I realise that’s all it was.

‘So I had no choice but to rent those rooms. It was supposed to be temporary, but now it’s vital. I’ll keep your house, Gran, if it’s the last thing I do.

‘And Ben Jamieson’s going to help me pay for it.

‘He likes rock, for heaven’s sake. We’re worlds apart.’ She bent, picked up her hat, then kissed her fingers and touched the headstone. And sighed as a smile curved her mouth. ‘But I haven’t felt so alive in for ever.’

CHAPTER FOUR

BEN spent a quiet half hour unloading his gear. It felt good tripping up the rickety front steps, hearing the squeak of the porch screen door. If Carissa had no objections he might put his energy to productive use and fix the place up a bit, bring the garden back to life.

As he set his laptop and paperwork on the tiny desk in his room he noticed the homey touches. The dish of pot-pourri, a handmade candle that smelled of vanilla, the embroidered pillowslip and tissue-box cover.

Twenty-four hours ago he’d never met Carissa Grace; now he was living in her house. He stared at the ad still on the table. What twist of fate had led him to that notice-board yesterday? Was this one of those mystical signs Carissa believed in? He sure as eggs didn’t believe in that mumbo jumbo.

So why did he have this odd niggly feeling in his gut?

To distract himself, he wandered to the kitchen, found a vase for the roses he’d brought from the hotel, put them on the table. Next he picked up the tools Carissa had left and inspected the sink. So she was a plumber too. He wasn’t, but he was prepared to give it a try.

Half an hour, a bruised elbow and a few curses later he had the drain flowing freely—he hoped. He let himself out the back door and hunted up a hose on top of a pile of cracked pots in an old garden shed. She obviously didn’t find time for gardening, which was a crying shame. The garden could be quite spectacular with a little time and effort.

He’d never had a backyard of his own. The simple pleasure of pottering around in your own garden, watching it grow, was not something he’d ever given much thought to. He connected the hose and soon had the water playing over what he imagined had once been lawn. He wasn’t sure it could be revived, but he’d give it his best shot.

The activity reminded him of his mother. Her garden had been her pride and joy. His gut tightened at the memory. Even then she’d been lost. At sixteen he’d been too focused on himself to look at what was going on around him—he’d just known he wanted out of there.

He’d come back four years later and been shocked at what he’d discovered his drunken father had been doing. But she’d refused to go to the women’s shelter he’d arranged, refused to return with him to the outback pub he’d been working in at the time. Still, the guilt that he’d had to leave her with the bastard remained like a wound that never healed.

‘What are you doing?’ The steel in Carissa’s voice had a red-hot edge to it.

He turned to see her marching across the yard towards him, hat in hand, eyes blazing. ‘Giving the lawn a helping hand,’ he said. ‘Looks like it needs it.’

‘And who appointed you gardener?’

He couldn’t resist. He adjusted the nozzle to a fine spray and grinned. ‘You look a little hot and bothered. Let’s cool you off.’

‘Don’t—’ She gasped as the fine mist enveloped her.

Her hat sailed into the dust. Water sparkled on her shoulders, in her hair. She didn’t look cooled off at all. He wondered that the water didn’t turn to steam, she looked so darn angry.

‘Turn it off. Now.’

When he just stood watching in fascination, she renewed her march, this time towards the tap. He moved to intercept her.