Only when he was good and ready, would he return home to his visitor.
The sun had started its descent behind the rugged western cliffs of Killarney Gorge before Tomas returned to the homestead. His narrowed gaze scanned the deepening shadows of the veranda and, sure enough, found Rafe. He didn’t care. He was resigned to enduring his brother’s smart-ass company this evening. In fact, he was looking forward to crossing words if not swords—either would suit his mood. But first, he was looking forward to a long cold beer and a longer hot shower.
“Rafe,” he said in greeting, as he hit the veranda and kept moving.
“Pleased to see you, too. I was getting bored with my own company.”
“No kidding.” He paused with the door half-open. “I’d have saved you the tedium if you’d rung first.”
“You’d have laid on hot and cold running housemaids?”
“I’d have told you Ruby Creek was on.”
Rafe chuckled softly. “I knew that. I’m heading out there in the morning, but I thought I’d spend the night with Mau first. I’m surprised she’s not home yet.”
“She’s over at Killarney, mustering.”
“Better that she’s keeping busy.” No surprise, no censure, barely a pause to digest the news. “I’ll fly down tomorrow and see her.”
“Only if you’ve got a couple of days free. She’ll be out in the back country by now.” And they both knew that no one—not even Rafe—could land a twin-engine there.
“How’s she doing?”
Tomas let the door swing shut and tipped his hat back. “She’s coping.”
For a quiet minute they were in accord, everything else forgotten in shared concern for their mother. Worry that she may sink back into the same depression as after she lost her baby daughter—their sister—so many years ago. Rafe made a scoffing noise and shook his head. “Why didn’t he just leave her one of the stations to run? That would have made more sense than this grandchild thing.”
“Is that why you think he did it? For Mau?”
“Don’t you?”
Tomas let his breath go in a long sigh. “Yup, I do.”
“Do you reckon it’ll make any difference? That she’ll buy we’re doing this because we want to?”
“Does it matter in the end? If she gets the grandchild to dote on?”
“Point.” Rafe expelled a long, audible breath. “I’ll fly out next weekend to see her.”
Tomas nodded, but he could see there was more going on in Rafe’s head than the fact he’d wasted a trip. He looked almost…pained.
“What are you doing about the baby?” Tomas asked, taking a stab at what bothered his brother’s usual carefree attitude. “Have you decided on a mother yet?”
“There’s someone I’m hoping to bump into at Ruby Creek tomorrow.”
Hence the look of a man headed for the gallows. If he didn’t feel a barrowload of empathy, Tomas would have found his brother’s situation funny—the last of the great playboys forced to choose one woman. He didn’t ask for the lucky lady’s name because the look on his brother’s face reminded him of his own circumstances. Of Angie, who Rafe would have seen as recently as yesterday. It had been over two weeks. She’d said she’d call as soon as she knew. She should have called.
He scowled down at his boots, tried to find the words he needed down there. How’s Angie? Two simple words, one question. How hard was that? Instead he found himself asking, “How’s the hotel business?”
“Booming.” Rafe stared at him a moment. “Can’t say you’ve ever expressed an interest before. Is there a reason? Anything specific you wanted to know?”
Tomas gritted his teeth. Okay, all he had to do was ask. He took off his hat, slapped it against his thigh. “How’sAngie?”
“Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
Call her? His gut clenched and fisted. “Yeah, I guess I could phone her.”
“I meant you should ask her. In person.”
Tomas frowned. “In Sydney?”
“Inside.” Rafe hitched a shoulder in that direction. “I think she mentioned something about taking a bath. She liked the look of that new spa you put in.”
In his bathroom? Like hell!
Tomas barreled down the long hallway and shouldered through the half-open door. Yes, she’d taken a bath. In his bathroom. Wisps of steam wafted toward the open louver windows, and the moist sweet fragrance of honeyed bath oil still hung in the air.
The house had a half-dozen bathrooms and she’d had to use his? Dammit to hell and back…
He slapped his hand against the doorjamb, whipped around and his eyes narrowed in cold fury. His bedroom door lay open. Oh, no. No, no, no. No. A dozen long strides and he came to a grinding halt, everything locked up by the sight that greeted him through that open doorway.
Angie was bent over his bed, ratting through an open suitcase. Not that he took much notice of the suitcase, since she wore nothing but a towel. For a long minute his anger dissipated, swamped by the heated rush of a body remembering. The soft pliancy of her thighs. The full curves of her buttocks. The sheer carnal pleasure of sliding inside.
She stilled suddenly and turned, as if she’d heard the groan of his lust or the snarl of his restraint, and her eyes widened in surprise. Vaguely he was aware of something—hell, it could have been the crown jewels for all he noticed—drop from her fingers as she straightened.
“Hi.”
The husky note of her greeting stroked his aroused glands like a velvet fist, and in that spun-out moment she had only to smile and unwrap her towel and he’d have forgotten every grievance. But she didn’t smile. And she clutched the front of the towel with an edginess that reminded him of everything wrong with this picture.
Her body, in his towel, in his bedroom. Uninvited.
“What are you doing here?” he growled, low and mean.
“Looking for clothes. I was about to get dressed.” Gathering her usual assurance, she let go the towel and leaned back into her luggage. “If I can just find my—”
“Dammit, Angie, you know that’s not what I asked!”
She knew it and she had to know how much was revealed when she leaned over like that, but it didn’t stop her dragging out the moment. Deliberately? Was she trying to provoke him? Entice him? Seduce him?
Tomas ground his teeth and forced his attention to her busy hands. They rummaged some more then paused, holding up a piece of ivory satin underwear that dangled from her fingertips like some blatant stroke-me invitation. Oh, yeah, this was deliberate, unsubtle and doomed for failure.
“Forget getting dressed,” he barked. “We need to talk.” Her gaze skittered with the same edginess she’d dis-
played earlier. Good. This was his home, his territory, and he was calling the shots. She had cause to look nervous.
“Why didn’t you call?”
“That’s why I’m here,” she said quietly. And as if her legs lost strength, she kind of flopped down onto the edge of his bed. “Instead of calling.”