Addicted to Nick. BRONWYN JAMESON
he homed in on her telephone and picked up the receiver she’d left off the hook. “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with the constant busy signal?”
“I must have bumped it. Or something.”
He stared at her for a full ten seconds, then gestured with the instrument in his hand. “Is this on the same line as the house?”
T.C. cleared her throat, told herself it was ridiculous to feel such a sharp frisson of apprehension at the sight of a phone, at the thought of it being able to ring and ring and ring…. “Yes. There’s only the one line.”
“Then if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer we keep that line open.” As he cradled the receiver, the meaning behind his words gelled. If he needed a phone, he must be staying.
“Why are you here, Nick?” she blurted. “I expected George, or that solicitor with the bullfrog eyes.”
The corners of Nick’s mouth twitched. “We used to call him Kermit.”
T.C. tried to ignore the mental image of Kermit in pinstripes but failed. And as they smiled in shared amusement, as she had done so many times with his father, T.C. knew why Nick was here. It made perfect sense that Joe would leave the place of his heart to the son of his heart, the one he had spoken of with such obvious love.
It also explained the delay. Nick—self-indulgent, freewheeling Nick—had disappeared on some wilderness skiing jaunt the day his father was hospitalized. Joe lingered ten more days, but Nick didn’t come home.
As she collected Ug from the floor and hugged the dog’s furry warmth close against her chest, T.C. felt the tight twist of pain for the man who had been her boss, her mentor and her savior—and the strong sting of resentment for the son who had let him down.
Nick watched as a sheen of moisture quelled the sea-green intensity of her gaze, and he felt a sharp kick of response, a need to ease the pain he glimpsed in those spectacular eyes. He actually took a step forward, but she nailed him to the spot with a fierce look that reminded him of his bruised ribs and scraped shin. He gave himself a mental tap on the head.
What was he thinking?
Jet lag must be kicking in if he thought she needed comforting. The pale cap of baby-soft hair, the cute little nose, the huge eyes—they were all a deception. This little firebrand had a tough streak a mile wide. His gaze slid to her lips for at least the tenth time since he’d flicked the light switch. Full and soft, with a distinct inclination to pout, there was absolutely nothing tough about them. They looked downright kissable…until they tightened savagely. Nick cleared his mind of all kissing-thoughts as he cleared his throat. “So, Tamara…”
“What did you call me?”
“Tamara. That is your name, isn’t it? Or would you rather I kept on calling you sweet hands?”
“You can call me T.C.”
“That’s hardly a name, just a couple of initials. I think I’ll stick with Tamara.”
Her lush lips compressed into an angry bow, and Nick felt a sudden spike of stimulation. It was the kind of buzz he’d chased across continents, from challenge to challenge and from woman to woman. The kind he hadn’t felt for too many years, and he didn’t understand where the feeling was coming from.
Apart from her mouth and the way those big eyes sparked green fire, Tamara Cole didn’t come close to his type. He liked women who slid out of bed with silk clinging to their curves. He liked women who knew they were women. Must be jet lag—that was the only explanation. That and the fact that George had got her all wrong. From his description, Nick had imagined big hair, a big blowzy body, an even bigger attitude. She surely had the attitude, but her blond hair was cropped boyishly short, and, frankly, there wasn’t a whole lot of body.
Just a nice little handful.
He allowed that sensory memory to drum through his blood for a whole minute before he reminded himself how deceptive appearances could be. George was a prime example. Just because Tamara Cole didn’t fit George’s description of the shrewd opportunist who had wriggled her way into Joe’s life as well as his bed—just because the very thought had caused his earlier guffaw of amusement—didn’t mean she hadn’t done just that.
“Why are you here, Nick?”
Her question cut into Nick’s reverie, and he pretended to consider it as he strolled over to her bed, tested the mattress, sat and swung his legs up. He picked up her pillow and propped it between his head and the wall.
“Why am I here?” He regarded her bottom lip through half-closed eyes, and the low-grade buzz in his veins intensified. “I’m here to meet you…partner.”
Two
“Part-ner?” T.C.’s voice cracked midword, so the second syllable came out squeaky. She tried to control her trembling legs but failed miserably, and the nearest storage trunk came up to meet her backside with an audible thump, jolting Ug from her arms. “What do you mean by partner?” Her voice sounded as weak as her knees felt.
“Standard definition. Two persons, sharing equally.”
Oh, no. Joe, you didn’t. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t. “Sharing what…exactly?”
“This place.”
T.C. swallowed, ran her tongue around her dry mouth. “You’re saying Joe left me half of Yarra Park?”
“And everything on it, four-legged and otherwise. You have a problem with that?”
“Of course I do. It’s too much, too…” Her throat constricted around the words, and she had to stop, to swallow twice before she could continue. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t he say something? Why hasn’t anyone said anything?”
“There was a clause in the will…. Joe requested that I come here and tell you.”
That made about as much sense as the rest of it.
T.C. shook her head slowly. Oh, Joe, why did you do this? She jerked to her feet and must have walked to the window, because she found herself staring into the aluminum-framed square of night. She forced herself to look beyond her stunned senses, beyond the thick emotion that constricted her chest and blurred her vision.
Why?
Her boss had been a steady, almost ponderous, thinker—this couldn’t be some whim. He had also been devoted to his large family to such an extent that he had often lamented spoiling them with a too-easy lifestyle. Staring into the dark, she recalled their hostility the day of Joe’s funeral, and for the first time she understood where it had come from. She had been in that same place. She knew how it felt to be overlooked in favor of a virtual stranger. “I imagine your family has a problem with it,” she said slowly.
“You could say they’re less than thrilled with our little windfall.”
T.C. whirled around. “Don’t call it that! I didn’t expect anything. I don’t want anything.” She spread her arms wide in an imploring gesture. “Why did he do this, Nick?”
“Gee, I don’t know, Tamara. Some might assume it’s because you were very good at your job.”
Heat flooded T.C.’s cheeks, then ebbed just as rapidly. Surely he couldn’t mean what that suggestive drawl implied…could he? Stunned, she stared at him, taking in his laid-back posture, the mocking half grin, and the heat returned in a flash of red.
“Yesss!” The word came out a long, low hiss as she advanced on him. “I am very good at my job—that’s why Joe employed me—so I hope you’re not insinuating I earned this windfall doing anything besides training horses.” She reached down and wrenched the pillow from behind him, then seriously contemplated koshing him over the head with it.
“Hey, take it easy. I said some might assume.”
The some most likely encompassed the