Quade: The Irresistible One. BRONWYN JAMESON
up to scratch.
Once she could be relied upon to spend some time on those verdant fairways of her imagination, instead of watching ball after ball leap into the water trap like lemmings into the sea. That’s precisely what had happened the last time she’d attempted the “game.” She deliberately inserted quotation marks because the word “game” connoted fun, and there’d been no fun in learning golf under her big brother’s tutelage.
“But Mitch lacked the necessary teaching skills,” she reminded herself, standing and pushing her chair aside. She never could debate worth a fig sitting down. “Not to mention how he rushed me and bullied me and laughed at my ineptitude. How could anyone learn under such conditions? With a decent teacher and the right motivation, I can learn how to hit that stupid ball.”
Same way she learned everything else. Preparation and practice and patience. With that personal credo, nothing had yet defeated her.
What about sex? a tiny voice whispered.
No contest, she argued. Inadequate preparation, insufficient practice, impatient tutor.
Sinking back into her chair, she reached for the phone and phone book. With receiver clasped between ear and shoulder, she flipped pages, dialed, then opened her schedule. She combed a hand through her hair, grimaced at the overgrown mess, but deleted Make Haircut Appointment. Ruthlessly she X’ed another six items on her To Do list—including Shop For Skirts One Size Bigger—and substituted Golf Lessons, all the while ignoring the nervous palpitations in her stomach.
Sure she hated golf, but she would push that little white ball from hole to hole with her nose if it helped raise her profile at Mitchell Ainsfield Butt, if it helped her earn enough respect to represent clients like Emily Warner. It wasn’t that her current work was boring, more like…routine, when what she really craved was a stimulating challenge.
“Cliffton Country Club Pro Shop. May I help you?”
“I hope so,” Chantal replied briskly. “I need lessons and lots of them. How soon can I start?”
Twenty-four hours later Chantal was peering through the window closest to Cameron Quade’s front door into a still, silent, seemingly empty house. The lack of response to her first dozen raps could simply mean he slept soundly. But, dear God, she did not want him opening the door straight from his bed. Possibly half-dressed, probably bare-chested, definitely ruffled.
Apprehension shivered up her spine…at least she figured it might be apprehension, or indecision, or, God help her, cowardice. Rubbing her hands up and down her arms, she turned and took six steps across the porch before halting her hasty retreat. Retreat? Cowardice? From the nebulous threat of a bare-chested man? No way, José. Last night she had braved a Kree O’Sullivan hosted bridal shower. A bare-chested man should be a walk in the park after that fracas.
The breath she puffed out formed a white vapor cloud of warmth as it met the chill morning air, but with renewed determination she strode back to the door and gave the brass knocker all she had. She figured the strident metallic clanking would carry all the way down to her house, three paddocks away.
Even if he were in the farthest of the sheds out back, he couldn’t not hear it…could he?
The seconds ticked by. She tapped her foot—in the schmick two-tone golfing shoes purchased three years ago and worn, like the rest of her outfit, a handful of times. Tapping aside, the only other noise she detected was the scuffling of feral chickens in the undergrowth. She turned back to peer through the window one last time, pressing her face right up to the pane in a vain attempt to see around the corner…
“Looking for someone?”
She swung around too quickly. That was the only explanation for her sudden breathlessness, that and the enveloping sense of guilt at being caught in classic Peeping Tom mode. Caught, needless to say, by the very Tom she had hoped to catch a peep of.
He wasn’t bare-chested, she noted irrelevantly. He hadn’t just left his bed…not unless he slept in a snug-fitting olive polo knit with jeans worn near white in some interesting places. Not unless he was a very vigorous sleeper. For a film of perspiration dampened his brow, and as he came up the two shallow steps onto the porch she felt the heat of recent exertion radiating from his body.
One dark brow lifted, asking a silent question. Or prompting her to answer the one already asked, the one she couldn’t quite recall with him standing so close, filling the air around her with body heat.
Looking for someone?
Yes, that’s what he’d asked, in that smooth low voice that did strange things to her breathing. She waved a hand behind her, toward the front door. “I tried the knocker and when you didn’t answer—” She shrugged. “I had decided you mustn’t be home. Or that you were down the back in one of the sheds. Or taking a walk.”
“You could tell all that by looking through that little bitty window?”
Wonderful. Now he’d not only caught her snooping, but he’d made her feel like a fool. Straightening defensively, she forced herself to meet his eyes. This morning they looked exceedingly green, as if they’d absorbed the color of the garden at his back. “I could tell by the lack of response. I rang long and loud enough to wake the neighbors.”
Mentally she rolled her eyes. She was the only neighbor and she’d been awake for hours.
“I heard,” he said dryly. “I was around the back, chopping wood.”
Which explained the sleeves carelessly shoved up to his elbows and the way his top clung in places, as if to sweat-dampened skin. She cleared her throat, averted her eyes, tried to concentrate on something else. Like the fact he was chopping wood. Dang. She hadn’t considered firewood. “I didn’t think you’d bother with the log fire.”
“And if you had thought I’d bother?”
“I would have had a load of split wood delivered.”
“Then I’m glad you didn’t think of it.”
He moved away to lean against one of the pergola’s timber uprights. This is good, she told herself, trying not to notice the pull of denim across long muscular thighs and the dark dusting of hair on his bared forearms. Trying to ignore the little jump of response low in her belly.
Concentrate, Chantal. From this distance you can enjoy a nice neighborly conversation and extract the necessary information without it sounding like an interrogation.
“Why are you glad I didn’t have firewood delivered?” she asked.
“I enjoyed the exercise.”
His gaze rolled over her, taking in her daffodil-yellow sweater complete with crossed-golf-clubs logo, her smart tartan A-line skirt, her thick stockings (it was winter, after all), and the shoes she loved to death. He crossed his arms over his chest—not bare but impressive nonetheless. “Looks like you’ve got the same thing in mind.”
It was her turn to lift her brows in question.
“Exercise,” he supplied.
“Yes. I have a golf…” She stopped herself admitting to a lesson. “A game of golf this morning.”
He made a noncommittal sound that could have meant anything. Then he shifted slightly and the sunlight streaming between the overhead beams caught his hair, burnishing the ordinary brown with rich hues of chestnut and gold.
Of course he didn’t have ordinary brown hair—how could she have even thought it? Inadvertently her fingers tightened…around Julia’s business card in her left hand. “My sister, Julia—”
“The bedroom decorator?”
“Actually, she’s a garden designer. An absolutely brilliant gard—”
“Was she responsible for the flowers?” he interrupted again.
“No. I brought the flowers.”
“And