Bronwyn Jameson - Zane: The Wild One

Julia looked out the window. They had reached the edge of town. In a couple of minutes she would step down from the truck, toss him a careless “See you later” and know that later might be another twelve years. She felt a deep, totally inappropriate sense of disappointment. Her loss indeed.

Of course, she could always change into some jeans and walk down to the Lion. She could saunter up alongside him and say, “Hey, Zane. You want to shoot some pool?”

Then she could watch the whole bar population either A: burst into spontaneous laughter, B: keel over with shock, or C: call for the men in white coats.

Julia Goodwin sauntering up to a public bar? That isn’t going to happen, she concluded fatalistically as he turned the corner into Bower Street and pulled up alongside number fourteen. When he reached for his door, she leaned across to stop him. “There’s no need to get out.”

She felt him still, and when his gaze dropped to where her hand rested on his forearm, she was suddenly aware of more than his stillness. His skin felt warm—no, hot—and slightly rough, with its smattering of hair. It also felt incredibly hard, and she realized with a start how long it had been since she had touched a man’s bare skin. And how much she missed that sensation of heat and strength, of leashed masculine power.

The moment stretched out, silent and thick with awareness, until she reclaimed her hand, dragging her fingers a little because she couldn’t stop herself. Telltale heat rose from her neck to her ears, and she silently thanked Kree for making her leave her hair down. At least she had got that part right!

She cleared her throat, unable to look at him in case he had misinterpreted that touch as some sort of come-on. “I just wanted to say thank you, and sorry for interrupting your night, and I hope you catch up with Kree soon.”

“I’ll call her at work on Monday.”

“Mornings are usually quietest, especially Monday. She might even be able to take a half day.” She reached for the door. “See you later, then.”

“What about your car?”

Julia blinked, and he hooked a thumb back over his shoulder.

Ah, that car! How could she have forgotten? “It’s my mother’s, actually. I don’t have a car at the moment, so she loaned me hers while she’s overseas. My parents are in Tuscany.” And why am I telling him all this? She clutched her evening bag with unsteady fingers. “What did you need to know about the car?”

“D’you want Bill to fix whatever needs fixing, or just do up a quote?”

“Oh. Yes.”

“Yes…what?” he asked slowly, and she felt that same intense scrutiny she had felt out by the roadside. Her ears burned with heat as she scrambled for an answer to the simple question.

“Yes, please.” Good grief, could she have said anything more stupid? She bit her lip, then tried again. “Yes. Please have him fix whatever needs fixing. Bill does all our work—there’s no need for a quote.”

Quitting on that positively eloquent note seemed like a good plan, so she opened her door and slid down to the curb, but before she closed the door she forced herself to smile up at him. “I really can’t thank you enough for bringing me home.”

“You’ll get the bill.”

Julia shook her head. “I wanted to thank you, personally.”

“Buy me a drink sometime.”

She stared up at him, one part of her brain screaming, How about now? while another urged her to smile, offer something politely meaningless such as, Yes, we must do that sometime, and walk away.

Oh, but she didn’t want to listen to that safe, sensible, good-girl voice. For once she wanted to do something a little bit bad. Ordinarily one drink wouldn’t qualify as even vaguely bad, but she had a strong feeling—a hot, dizzying feeling—that a drink with Zane O’Sullivan wouldn’t be ordinary.

“I think I would like…” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, moistened her lips, then realized she had lost his attention. He was frowning into his side mirror, while his fingers drummed against the wheel.

“Looks like you have a visitor.”

She stepped back just far enough to see the gleaming white Volvo that had pulled up behind them, and the gleamingly groomed man who stepped from the driver’s seat. He looked solid and respectable and, yes, dull.

She heard the tow truck kick over and felt such a jolt of panic, she had to stop herself from leaping at the window. Instead she stepped onto the running board and somehow above the thud of her heart she heard herself say, “I really would like to buy you that drink sometime.”

Perhaps he saw the nervous tension in her face. Or perhaps he was looking right by her at Dan the Dentist waiting patiently on the verge. With those impenetrable lenses, it was impossible to know. Whatever he saw, it caused one corner of his mouth to kick up wryly. It also caused him to shake his head and say, “Thanks, but I’m thinking that’s not such a great idea after all.”

Of course he was right.

She stepped down from the window and away from the truck, and as she watched it pull away, she felt a weighty gloom settle over her.

Drinks with Zane O’Sullivan might not be such a great idea, but that didn’t make a dinner party with Mr. Solid and Respectable sound any more palatable.

In the end she didn’t go to Chantal’s dinner party. Instead she shared a considerably less formal supper, sitting at her kitchen table, with Dan. He wasn’t as dull as she had imagined. In fact, he seemed nice, in a comfy, companionable way. When he sheepishly admitted that Chantal had browbeaten him into attending her party, Julia decided she could like him.

She certainly liked how her concentration remained fixed on the conversation, instead of straying to his lips. She enjoyed the complete absence of breathlessness and butterflies, and she positively loved how she could read every expression on his open face.

If she ever went for a drink with Dan she wouldn’t consider it bad, and touching his arm would be simply that. Touching his arm. It wouldn’t remind her how long it had been since a man’s arms embraced her, or how many nights she lay awake wondering if she would ever be held that closely again.

If Dan reminded her of a mild autumn morning next to Zane O’Sullivan’s midday summer heat, then so much the better. Summer had never been her favorite season.

After she waved Dan goodbye, she told herself she liked a man who fit her homely decor, as Dan surely did. As Zane wouldn’t. He would fill her kitchen with his size and his maleness. He definitely would not look at home. Nor would he succumb to Chantal’s velvet-steamroller tactics, as Dan had done, although that was a moot point.

His name would never grace one of Chantal’s guest lists.

For a start, he dressed for work in rugged denim instead of fine Italian suit cloth, and second, he didn’t have a prestigious address. In fact, if he even owned a home, Kree hadn’t mentioned it. He lived wherever his work as a heavy-machinery mechanic took him—most recently the mines in remote West Australia—and he didn’t stay anywhere long. His seven years in Plenty had probably been the longest he had lived in one place.

As she propped open her bedroom window and breathed the heady scent of moonlight and roses, Julia recalled how the O’Sullivan family arrived in town. What a stir they’d created in the conservative community—two rebellious preteens and their mother, old before her time and carrying more baggage than could ever fit in the beat-up van that died slap-bang in the middle of Main Street.

That was how they arrived, and they’d stayed because they couldn’t afford to leave.

Julia remembered the hushed talk—ugly rumors of a shadowy strife-filled past—and she remembered how most of the township had ostracized them. A smaller part had adopted them as its charity du jour. Not an easy introduction to a new community, especially for adolescents, and they’d each handled it differently.

Kree had built a brash facade, stuck her snub nose high in the air and refused to accept that she couldn’t belong. She battled to win not only acceptance but popularity, too, while her brother…well…Zane never won any popularity contests, because he’d refused to enter.

Some said he would have joined his father behind bars if Bill hadn’t given him a job at the garage, first pumping gas after school and then full-time. But as soon as he completed his apprenticeship he’d left Plenty—and those Claire Heaslip rumors—behind.

It seemed as if he had been moving ever since.

Why he’d chosen that lifestyle was not her concern, Julia told herself as she settled into bed and punched her pillow into shape. She had no business thinking of Zane O’Sullivan at all. She should be thinking of Dan—nice, comfortable, settled Dan—who had left with a promise to call her during the week.

Unfortunately, with her eyes closed and the summer air embracing her in its sultry caress, the mild dentist didn’t stand a chance. Instead she remembered the supple strength of a man’s arm beneath her fingers, the movement of snug white cotton over the casual shrug of broad shoulders, hair glinting with gold in the sun’s dusky light.

And with startling clarity she recalled one simple scrap of conversation.

Zane had been hooking the truck to her car when he’d asked how it ended up in the drain. When she told him the sequence of events, magpies and all, he didn’t shake his head critically or fix her with the scathing look she’d expected. He simply murmured, “Accidents happen,” and carried on with his task.

Julia slipped from wakefulness into sleep with that neutral, nonjudgmental phrase in her mind and a small smile on her lips.

Six days later, Zane stood on the neatly mown verge outside 14 Bower Street, juggling her car keys from one hand to the other. Distracted first by the touch of her hand and then by the arrival of Volvo Man, he had barely glanced sideways at the place on Friday night. Today he saw the truth of Kree’s excited exclamation when she had moved in last summer.

“You wouldn’t recognize the old Plummer place!” she had practically screamed down the phone line.

A gross understatement, Zane decided.

Julia had transformed the rundown weatherboard cottage, painting it some soft shade of blue and framing it with a garden. He wasn’t big on descriptive labels, but right after pretty and peaceful, he thought of welcoming. He could almost imagine the old house itself smiling gently as it opened its arms and beckoned, Come on in.

Houses with arms? Houses that beckoned?

“Time you started sleeping nights, O’Sullivan,” he muttered as he turned to study the wider streetscape. It registered that number fourteen wasn’t the only recent renovation in the low-rent street…although it was likely the only one resurrected personally by, and now inhabited by, a woman who belonged up on the hill.

He resisted the impulse to look that way. He hated the bitter, edgy feeling in his gut from just thinking about looking up there. It made him want to jump in his car—any car—and put pedal to metal. To keep on driving until Plenty was nothing but a hell of a bad memory.

But he didn’t, and he wouldn’t. Not in her car, anyway.

Although, juggling her keys from hand to hand, he still considered leaving. Suddenly his reason for being there seemed more like an excuse, and a transparent one at that. He should have left a message on her answering machine telling her to collect the car on her way to work. She walked by the garage at eight forty-five every morning, her body swaying enticingly beneath the black skirt and white blouse that were the staff uniform of the town’s only department store. He tried not to notice the swaying, but he was only human.