Bronwyn Jameson - Quade: The Irresistible One

“Don’t thank me, just give the man my business card.” Chantal closed her eyes for a second and wondered if she could put the card under Quade’s door. Or in his mailbox. “Oh, and you might toss in a personal recommendation. If this Cameron Quade saw your garden, he’d know I do good work.”

“Look, sis, he may not want to do anything with the old place. He might not be staying.”

“You didn’t ask Godfrey?”

“I asked but I don’t think he knows any more than I do about his nephew’s plans.”

“Easily fixed. What’s the man’s E.T.A.?”

Chantal shifted uneasily in her seat. For some inexplicable reason she didn’t want to share news of the Cameron Quade encounter with her sister, at least not until she’d come to grips with it herself. “Today some time.”

“So, when you pop over to welcome him to the neighborhood, you ask how long he’s staying.”

Chantal’s response fell halfway between a snort and a laugh. When you pop over. Huh!

“What? I thought asking questions was what you lawyers did for a living.”

“You watch too much television,” Chantal replied dryly. Far more of her time was spent on reading and researching and documentation than in courtrooms. She cast a quick glance at the box of files on her passenger seat and felt her heart quicken. Some day soon she hoped that would change, and that the brownie points she’d earned this week would speed the process along.

“So, you’ll see him over the weekend?” Julia persisted.

“You don’t think this garden design thing could wait, say, until after your wedding?”

“No way! I need something to do other than worry about what we’ll do if it rains.”

“You did have to choose a garden wedding,” Chantal pointed out.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I chose a garden wedding and I chose to wait until spring so my guests would have something to look at other than bare-limbed trees.”

“Like your belly?” Chantal teased, and was rewarded with her sister’s laughter. Better.

They said their see you tonights and disconnected as Chantal braked at the first of three traffic lights in Cliffton’s main street. The way her day was going, she’d likely catch every red. Her CD player flipped to the next disc and she remembered the one she’d left in Quade’s house. Wonderful. As if she needed another reason to call on her new neighbor…

When you pop over, you ask.

If only Julia knew the half of it!

This morning she hadn’t asked any of the questions that needed asking, and she wasn’t talking about Julia’s garden design aspirations. She was talking questions that had been gnawing away in her mind like a demented woodworm ever since she first heard of Quade’s imminent return.

Questions such as, What’s a hotshot corporate attorney like you doing back in the Australian bush?

And, Has Godfrey asked you to join his firm?

Questions whose answers might impact on her own career aspirations. Straightening her shoulders, she reminded herself that she was no longer a gauche teenager with no people skills. She was a mature twenty-five-year-old professional who had worked hard on her inadequacies, on overcoming her fear of not measuring up, at focusing on what she was good at, namely, her job.

As such, there was only one option.

Tomorrow she would pop over to Merindee and ask her questions.

Two minutes later Chantal swung into the car park behind Mitchell Ainsfield Butt’s offices and—thank you, God—found a vacant spot. Maybe her day was about to get better, although she wasn’t betting any real money on it.

Juggling keys and phone in one hand, she jammed her briefcase under the other arm and balanced the box of files on one hip. With the other she nudged her car door shut—one of the few instances when a sturdy pair of hips proved an asset, she noted as she crab-walked her load between the closely parked cars.

The back door to the office block swung open just as she reached the stoop. And yes, her luck did seem to have changed for the better. The man holding the door for her, the man taking the box and briefcase and carrying them into her office was Godfrey Butt himself.

“Quite a load,” he said, sliding it all onto her desk.

“The Warner files. Since I spoke with Emily I’ve been doing some further research—”

“Good, good.”

Chantal bristled at the interruption, but didn’t have a chance to object before he continued.

“And that other little job? Merindee all ready for Cameron’s arrival, I trust?”

“Yes, absolutely.” She forced herself to smile. “I called in this morning to drop off food and flowers.”

“Flowers, eh? Nice touch. I’m sure Cameron appreciates your efforts.”

Chantal wasn’t so sure but who was she to quibble when Godfrey looked so pleased? Wasn’t this exactly why she’d worked so hard on that dang house? “Do you have a few minutes, sir? Because I would really like to talk to you about Emily Warner’s concerns.”

“I was about to go out. Is this urgent?”

“It’s important.”

“What time frame—today, next week, this month?”

“The last,” Chantal conceded reluctantly. “But I would appreciate your input sooner.”

“See Lynda about finding some time next week.” He was almost at the door before he paused, lips pursed consideringly. “Do you play, Chantal?”

Caught midway through a mental happy dance, his question caught her unprepared. Did she play…what? Then he started to swing his arms in a mock golf shot and the light dawned. Friday. Of course, the partners’ regular golf date with People Who Mattered.

As Godfrey completed his follow-through, as Chantal considered the implications of his seemingly casual question, her heart kicked hard against her ribs. Visions of green fairways and time-consuming strolls and relaxed back-slapping bonhomie with Partners Who Mattered popped into her mind.

“I haven’t played in a while,” she supplied slowly. How far should she bend the truth? “My game is probably a tad…rusty.”

“Take some lessons. The new pro at the Country Club worked marvels with Doc Lucas’s swing. When you’re up to par, you can join us for a round.”

“That would be…” She struggled to find the right description. Perfect? What I’ve been waiting for? Terrifying? All of the above? She swallowed. “Thank you, sir.”

After the door closed behind him, Chantal spent several minutes riding a dizzying emotional seesaw. One second she wanted to punch the air with elation, the next she wanted to thwack her head—hard—against the desk. Because Godfrey’s invitation came with a proviso.

Once her game was 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.”