Sexy as Sin (Sinful, Montana Book 3) Read online

  “So I get to be rude?”

  He laughed. “If you like. You get to be real for a few minutes, and so do I. Whatever form that takes.”

  It was madness. She shouldn’t do it. She was in charge. She took the green ice block, though, and headed out of the marquee with him, where the summer sun instantly hit her like a hammer. Two days of not enough sleep, too much time on her feet, and too much adrenaline. She wobbled, and he put a hand under her elbow and asked, “All right?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “No worries.” He took his hand away, and she focused on cooling herself off with the frozen treat, keeping her balance over the uneven ground, and not succumbing to the wave of heat-fueled dizziness that had swept over her like a suffocating woolen blanket. It was a little hard to judge exactly how far her feet were from the ground. Like when you’d drunk too much, except that she hadn’t drunk anything at all. Her head hurt, too. “You realize,” she told him, trying to ignore the unsteadiness, “that I really am unlikely to be charming during your tour. Color me un-thrilled. I can say that, because your scary PR is the one paying, and you don’t seem like the type to give a girl a bad Yelp review because she told the truth.”

  “How do you know what we’re doing?”

  “I read it on the sign.”

  “Huh.” They were walking along the ridgeline. It was nearly five o’clock, and still hours from twilight, when it would be even more beautiful, if that were possible. Delicate yellow-white frangipani sent out their sweet perfume, and the hibiscus flowers, short-lived and gorgeous as butterflies, fluttered in a breeze that stirred palm fronds, rustled the tops of blue gums, and made its way through Willow’s sweat-soaked clothes like bargain-basement air con.

  After a minute, Hunter said, “You don’t approve of development. When did you move here yourself?”

  She shot a wary glance at him. Nothing to read in his expression. Nothing at all of the man who’d bumped heads with her over a slab of bacon and stared at her non-voluptuous body as if she’d made him forget his manners. “Six months ago. It’s been a dream on a couple of fronts. Buying into a partnership, and living here. You could call both things ‘at last.’”

  “Mm. When did you fall in love with it?” He was headed toward an outcrop of rock that stood like a gray sentinel looking out to sea. She wondered how much extra a future homeowner would pay to have it in their back garden. Or maybe the consortium would knock it over and cart it away. That would be a pity.

  “Yonks ago,” she said. Talking helped. Her head wanted to float away like a balloon. She needed to keep it here for an hour longer. Just an hour. You could always do another hour. “I moved to Oz when I was twelve, and we’d come down from Brissy—Brisbane—for summer holidays, my aunt and uncle and cousins and me, when my uncle had leave. We stayed at the holiday park, and it was the closest I felt to my life before that. Byron was sleepier then, nothing flash about it. Just the sea and the surfing, the hills and the trees, and what you call ‘lifestyle’ when you’re selling it. Comfortable, I thought. I still do. My cousin bought a house here six or seven years ago. First thing he did when he started earning well, because he feels the same way, even though he doesn’t get here often enough. I’d come down to stay at his place and never want to leave. Now, I don’t have to.”

  “So you moved here, and now you want to roll the rug up after you.”

  Her face was heating up even more, and her head throbbed. “I loved it for what it is, though. I’m not changing it. I’m . . . I’m embracing it.”

  “You don’t think that every additional resident changes something?”

  “It’s a matter of degree.” She felt off-base. Stiff. She’d shared too much, and had only given him ammunition.

  “Climb up here with me,” he said. “Let me show you what we’re doing. You may not change your opinion, but at least it’ll be a fully informed one.”

  She eyed the rock. It looked like a fairly steep climb. “Your shoes are leather.”

  “But the view is worth it. Come on. Let me show you my vision. You never know. I might surprise you.”

  Willow was still hesitating. Why? She’d been nothing but adventurous this morning. Was it him? He had turned her down. Also, she hated everything he stood for. And yet here he was, taking her on a walk when he should be working. Not exactly the action of a man who wasn’t interested. Maybe she didn’t like men who mixed their signals.

  She said, “Sure,” and wiped her face again, and he thought, Yeah, that’s some first-class people-reading, Hunter. The girl’s hot, she’s exhausted, and you’re the client.

  He always knew what to do next. Or maybe it was just that even when he didn’t know what to do next, he did something. Not acting was a decision in itself. Right now, he stuck the remains of his ice block into his mouth like a cigar and led the way up the fifteen-foot boulder. A handhold here, a foothold there, until he reached the narrow ledge at the top. When he got there, he asked, “All right?”

  “Sure.” It was nearly a gasp. She was climbing, looking hotter than ever. Her face was flushed, but when he reached for her hand to pull her up, it was clammy.

  “Hey,” he said. “I’m an insensitive jerk, aren’t I? We don’t have to do this. And have you been drinking enough water?”

  “Never mind.” She wasn’t looking any steadier up close. “I’m good. Did you take your guests up here? Bit scary for them, surely.”

  “No. Just you.”

  She leaned her upper body against the rock, looked out to sea, wiped her face once more, and said, “Right, then. Tell me. Sell me.”

  He hesitated, then went on. They were here. Why not? “Down there,” he said, motioning down the semi-steep hillside, “at the lower boundary of the property, you start with townhouses. Condos, but each one on two levels, so everybody gets their view. Lots of glass, lots of white, very clean lines. Pleasing. On the uphill side, you’ve got a lap pool, a big one, for the whole development, and you plant all around it. You’re adding some space to the uphill neighbors’ sight lines that way. Nothing too tall, nothing that interferes with the views, but all the good stuff. Palms. Yellow, uh . . .” He waved a hand. “Pretty flowers. Delicate. Yellow and white. Like stars.”

  “Frangipani,” she said. “Also jacaranda, dwarf ones if you don’t want to go tall. Dark purple blossoms, fast growing, and the most beautiful tree in the world. Hibiscus, too. Vines.”

  “Vines,” he agreed. “On a stone wall. Jasmine, and whatever that was you had around your back door. Something around here always smells sweet, and it’s not just you. A waterfall wall planted with ferns, that sort of thing. Running water, lots of green and lots of flowers, a shady oasis. And open space between the buildings. There’ll be a ring path, too, that takes you around the edge of the entire development, winding through more plantings. You leave as many of the big trees as you can, plant shade-loving things underneath them, make it look natural and wild. Jogging path, walking path. You’re not in a walled complex, you’re in a community.”

  “Hmm.” It was noncommittal, but she wasn’t looking quite as shaky, so there was that.

  “Above that,” he said, “you have the quarter-acre parcels. You have preferred builders, but you give people as much latitude as you can for their designs. And at the top, the big parcels. Same idea. More space. Premium. Nothing on the ridgeline. It all fits into the landscape, that’s the idea. It’s harmonious.”

  She was silent for a moment, then asked, “What if they don’t want to design a whole house? Not everybody does.”

  “Hmm. Good point. Do you?” He was leaning against the ledge himself, resting on his elbows, looking out to sea. Now, he turned his head to look at her. Hair trying to escape its knot, face still flushed with effort and heat. He wished he’d found her a hat.

  “Oh, yeah.” Her tone was nothing but wry. “I’ve been designing my dream house since I was twelve. For what that’s worth.”

  “When you came to Australia to live with your aunt and uncle.” />
  “Do you remember everything people say?”

  “Generally. It’s useful. It’s usually not a burden. I like people.”

  “How about when you don’t?”

  “Then it’s even more useful.” Her past was off-limits, he guessed. “But you’re right. Not everybody wants to design a house. We’ll have sample plans that they can customize. I’d love to show them to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ve been designing your dream house since you were twelve, maybe. Because you took those photos on your wall, and I think you painted those tables, and you arranged that food to look beautiful, and for the tastes to . . . go together, or whatever tastes do. You understand harmony, and you think outside the box. You see what’s around you, and you do more than that. You notice how things smell, how they sound, how they taste. You use all your senses, and you can put your finger on exactly what makes this spot so special.”

  “Flattery will get you . . . well, nowhere,” she said. “Considering that you don’t even want me on your couch.”

  “I want you on my couch. Right now?” He looked into her green eyes, shadowed now with fatigue, and didn’t brush back the curls that clung damply at her temples, because he wasn’t invited. Not anymore. “I want that fairly desperately.”

  Something changed in her face, and she said not a word. Finally, he said, “And much as I’d love to say more about that, we should probably get back. It’s hot, and we’re both still working. Let me go down first, so I can give you a hand if you need one.” She eyed him a little sardonically, and he started down-climbing the rock, thought back over what he’d said, and had to laugh. “Yeah,” he said, perched a few feet below her. “One of us fought off a shark today. One of us surfed. Neither of those was me. Come on. Leave me my masculine illusions.”

  She smiled. Finally. “Go on, then. Show me how it’s done. Impress me again. Make me sorry.”

  It startled him, or it didn’t. He put his foot onto the next spot and let go with his hand a fraction too soon.

  He knew what was happening the second he’d done it. He tried to grab for the hold again, but his leather sole had already slipped. His left hand lost its hold next, then his left foot, bang-bang-bang-bang, and there was no going back. A sharp cry from above like an eagle, or a woman, and he was falling.

  A half second of disbelief, his stomach dropping, his hands grabbing at nothing, and he landed on his feet. A shock like a red-hot poker rammed straight up his left leg and into his hip, and he was falling backward, his head hitting the ground hard, then bouncing off.

  No breath. No thought. Just pain.

  Willow wasn’t sure how she’d made it down the rock, but somehow, she was on the ground. Hunter was on his back, his eyes closed, his left leg askew. But he was breathing. She thought.

  “Hunter.” She almost said, “Are you all right?” She didn’t, because he so clearly wasn’t. He was a man who’d always get up if he could, and he wasn’t getting up. “Where does it hurt?” she asked instead.

  His eyes opened, and his breath hissed in. “Try . . . everywhere.”

  “I’m going for help.”

  “No.” He tried to sit up, let out a cry that he bit off fast, and landed on his back again. Some more hissing breaths. “Leg. I think you’re going to . . . have to . . .”

  It was bad. She already had her phone out, was hitting triple-zero with the half of her mind that was still functioning, that wasn’t trying to be paralyzed with disbelief. How could two things this bad happen in the same day?

  All kinds of things can happen, she told herself fiercely. There’s no fairness, and no rules for the universe. Your job right now is to make it better. When the dispatcher answered, she said, “I need an ambulance. Coolamon Scenic Drive. Uh . . .” She put her fingers to her forehead. Where exactly? She couldn’t think.

  “Before, uh . . .” Hunter said. “God. Happy god.”

  “Just before Happy Buddha Fruits,” Willow said. “There’s a banner hanging overhead, on the seaward side of the road. New development, selling now, that sort of thing. He has a head injury, I think, and something wrong with his leg. It’s bad. The leg is bad.”

  “No . . . head injury,” Hunter said. “Hurts. That’s all.”

  “Hurts is a head injury,” she told him. “That’s why it hurts. Do you have to be in charge all the bloody time? Let me do it.”

  “Say again?” the dispatcher said. “I didn’t get that.”

  “Nothing,” Willow said. “Head injury, but the leg hurts him more. The leg’s the bad one.”

  “I’ve dispatched the ambulance,” the woman said, her voice almost robotically calm. “Don’t move him, and don’t let anyone else move him. That’s important. You’ll need to treat him for shock, too. Cover him with a blanket, if you have one. Otherwise, get some clothes over him, and don’t give him anything to drink.”

  She rang off, and Willow knelt beside Hunter and wished he’d open his eyes. Her own headache was beating like a hammer against her skull, and her mouth felt parched, like it was full of dust. She wanted to put his head in her lap, but she couldn’t. If his neck were injured, she could paralyze him. She knew that much. If his leg was hurting that badly, and it was, judging by the way his face was twisted and the harshness of his breathing, he wasn’t paralyzed. Good news. She picked up his hand, squeezed it, and told him, “Ambulance is coming. Hang on, Hunter. You’re going well. Hang on.”

  “I . . . am.” He forced his eyes open. She could see the effort. “Hanging . . . on. You need a . . . hat. And water.”

  She tried to laugh, but her mouth was too dry. “No. I need to stay with you.”

  “Call . . . somebody.” His voice was getting fainter. “One of your . . . servers. Hat. Water. Make them . . . come.”

  “Would you stop worrying about me?” Her anxiety was trying to overwhelm her, making her own breathing shallow. His hand felt cold in hers. “You’re freezing. Right. Let’s get some help.”

  She called Martina. “Hunter,” she said. “Bloke in the suit. He’s had a fall, is badly hurt. By the big boulder to the . . .” She tried to think. “North. Turn left from where you’re facing the sea. Find the PR, and tell her to direct the ambos here when they come. Then get over here. Bring two of the tablecloths. Two bottles of water, too. Hurry.”

  “Hat.” It was Hunter. A breath of a word.

  “And a hat,” Willow said, surrendering.

  “I tell her to direct the ambulance,” Martina said. “Two tablecloths. Water. Hat. I am coming.” And rang off.

  Willow told Hunter, “Help is coming soon. Any minute. Stay with me.” His hand was so cold. She lay down beside him, careful not to touch his legs, and draped her upper body over his. He jerked and called out again, and she drew back. “Sorry. I’m trying to keep you warm. I won’t touch you anymore, though. Stay with me, Hunter. Don’t you dare die. I’ve had a bad day already.”

  “Thought you were . . . making a . . . move,” he said, still not opening his eyes. His teeth were chattering now, his face ashen, his lips waxy and colorless.

  “Ha,” she said. “You wish.”

  A ghost of a smile. “Call me . . . my name. Please.”

  “I don’t know it.”

  “Brett. My name’s Brett. Call me my name. Tell me about . . . you. Tell me . . . your story. Please. Talk to me.”

  It hurt so badly, he could barely hold on to being here. He wanted to thrash. He wanted to move. He couldn’t thrash, though, and he couldn’t move, because that would hurt more. He held himself rigid instead, locking up every muscle.

  Not screaming was so hard. He’d scare the girl if he screamed, though. The girl was important. He couldn’t remember her name. He was so cold.

  “Right, then. I was born in Rabat. In Morocco.” Her voice was like the breeze on a summer day. Gentle, but you knew it could get strong, too. He focused on it, and saw the wheat rippling in the fields on the Palouse hills. June greens turning to August yellows, an
d the waves moving across the expanse of wheat. Waves, but not scary ones, not like the river.

  You could drown in the river. The boat could hit a submerged log, and you could fall in. Your waders could fill with water and drag you under, and nobody could pull you up again, no matter how long they tried. They weren’t strong enough. You weren’t strong enough. You failed. You failed.

  He was looking at the waves of wheat, thinking about the river, and he was crying, the sobs ripping up from his chest. It hurt too much, and thinking was too hard, and he was gone. His dad was gone. He couldn’t pull him up. He couldn’t bring him back.

  The voice, then. The breeze. “Brett,” it said. “Stay with me. Squeeze my hand. Brett. Don’t you dare leave me.” Not soft anymore. Fierce, now. She meant it. His mother, that was. Or no. It was the girl. Her hair was the color of the sun at the end of a summer day, when the harvest-raised dust hung in the air and painted the sky with streaks of pink and red and orange. Her skin was white. He knew that, even though he couldn’t open his eyes.

  The voice went on, and he held onto it, and her hand, like the rope from the boat, and tried not to cry. You didn’t cry. You were a man. “Right, then,” she said. “My story. I grew up in north Africa. My parents were with the foreign service. My father was a diplomat, and my mum was an analyst. A scholar, too, I guess you’d say, because her real love, besides my dad, was Arabic poetry. She wrote papers on it. She used to read it aloud to my father at night, on the veranda, and you could fall asleep listening.”

  The voice got scratchier, but it kept going, and he rode its waves and held on. “We moved every year or two, and in between postings, we came back to Australia. It was warm, like home—like wherever home was at the time—but it was so wet. Like today. So humid, though I didn’t know what that meant. It was just wet. We’d see my cousins, and they were big and strong and tough. Rafe and Jace. I thought they were wonderful, even though they were scary, but not as scary as my uncle. He was a sergeant-major—is a sergeant-major, and I was always a little afraid of him. I was a timid girl, you see. Used to playing quietly on my own, making up games in my head, and scared of everything. They were so loud, and they were always moving.”