Wild About Harry (Hearts of the Outback Book 5) Page 2

  “I reckon the rain and threat of flooding is responsible for the lack of accommodation. You might get a room at a hotel in town, but—” Harry had family waiting for him. She tried to imagine what they looked like, this family of his. Harry was maybe in his mid-thirties so he’d have a wife and children. Did he have a dog?

  Shaking her head to clear the image of the typical Aussie family, she collected her thoughts. “Look, I’m really sorry to make you late home to your family. Just drop me off near a taxi rank and I’ll find somewhere to stay.”

  He paused and she felt as though the words were dragged from his lips like a child to the dentist’s chair. “It’s getting late and I really need to get home. We have a guest room if you’re comfortable staying with strangers for one night.”

  “Will your wife mind me showing up on your doorstep at—what is it—nine o’clock?”

  “The nanny is there with my daughter.”

  “Nanny?”

  He turned his wrist and looked at his watch. Tension rolled off him and Bri realised that she’d been staring. No wife, and a child being cared for by a nanny?

  “There’s a lock on the guest bedroom door.” A muscle jumped in his cheek.

  “Um, okay, thanks. We’ve established you’re not an axe murderer etcetera. I’m grateful to you.”

  He nodded, slipped the ute into gear, and set off without further comment.

  Suburban streets unwound past Bri’s window until Harry turned into the driveway of a neat two-storey Queenslander home. Dark shapes of trees and bushes surrounded the house, and lights blazed from the rear windows. Images from a television flickered through half-open curtains in the room closest to Bri as Harry drew up under a carport and switched off the ignition.

  “Come on in. Felicity won’t be happy I’m so late. You’ll have to make up the bed yourself.”

  “No problem.” She lifted her camera case out and set it gently on dry ground while Harry pulled out her suitcase.

  “Up the back steps and through the screen door on the right. You can leave your boots in there.”

  She ran along a short uncovered path and up the stairs, tugged the back door open and entered a neat, spacious laundry with a stool set by the door and a shoe rack alongside. As she placed her camera bag on top of the washing machine and wiped raindrops from her face, the door to the interior of the house opened and a young woman stood there. Wariness and annoyance vied for control of her face.

  “Who are you?”

  The tone accused as if Bri had been caught breaking into the house. The woman’s right hand was held low and out of sight, but Bri saw the handle of what might have been a cricket bat poking around the corner. “I’m Bri. You must be Felicity? Harry gave me a lift when my car broke down.”

  The young woman looked past Bri, then looked her up and down. Was she waiting for confirmation from Harry? But her grip on the bat handle changed and she stood the bat on end in front of her. “I was supposed to have tonight off.”

  “I’m sorry I—” What was she supposed to say? It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t her home or anything to do with her.

  “Vicky whinged and carried on that her father wasn’t home.”

  The door behind Bri creaked and Harry’s body brushed her arm as he stepped past her. “Felicity, I’m sorry I’m late. We only just made it through the crossing. Is Vicky okay?”

  Felicity’s expression barely changed and her eyes were mutinous as she turned her attention on Harry. “She’s fine, but she missed saying goodnight to you and took ages to go to sleep.”

  Harry nodded. “Look, take tomorrow off instead and again, I’m sorry I’m late. It wasn’t deliberate.”

  Appearing mollified, Felicity stepped into the room and rested the cricket bat against the wall. “Thanks. I might still make it to catch up with the guys. We were going to try out that new café and then go on to the nightclub down the road.” She turned and moments later, the front door banged.

  Harry sighed, leaned against the sink and removed his muddy boots and tossed his socks into the laundry basket. “Come on through. I’ll show you to your room.”

  Bri bent down to remove her boots. As she did, she wondered about Harrison’s wife. “Where’s your wife?”

  “She’s—not here. When you’re ready.” He stepped into the corridor outside the laundry and turned his back on her.

  Bri hurried to untie laces thick with mud and shut her mouth. His clipped response held undertones of something negative. Perhaps his wife had left him and their daughter.

  She followed him silently up the stairs to an open door. Harry paused mid-stride and looked in.

  She stopped beside him. A teddy bear night light burned low beside the bed in which a young child slept, her hand beneath her cheek. Sweet-faced, with blonde hair lying across her pillow.

  “She’s lovely,” Bri whispered.

  He blinked as though he’d forgotten her presence, and strode to the last room at the end of the hall and opened the door. A charming guest room in white with blue accents greeted her.

  “The bathroom is across the hall, fresh towels and sheets in the cupboard there. When you’re ready, come down to the kitchen and I’ll rustle up a toasted sandwich or something.”

  “Thanks.”

  She watched him retreat down the hall and turn into his daughter’s room before she closed her door and reached for her suitcase. She dug around for her toiletry bag and made for the lure of the bathroom and clean, dry clothes.

  Blissful as the hot water was, Bri kept her shower short, and dressed quickly. No wonder Harry had been tense about getting home with a young daughter waiting for him. Bri’s presence was burden enough on Harry without making him wait for her before he ate.

  As she drew near his daughter’s bedroom, the rising tones of the climax of a fairy story stopped her in her tracks. Harry, the storyteller was very different to the taciturn man on the highway.

  Peeking around the door jamb, she saw him, seated on the edge of the bed, arms extended.

  “ . . . and then Edgar the Echidna told his children to never play with matches or they’d set the bush on fire.”

  “And his children listened to him and never played with matches, didn’t they, Daddy?”

  “That’s right, Pumpkin.”

  The little girl flung herself into his arms and put her head on his shoulder. “I wuv you so much, Daddy.”

  Bright eyes met Bri’s gaze. “Daddy, who’s that lady?”

  Harry glanced over his shoulder.

  Bri took a step back, her hands wide. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just heading downstairs.”

  He beckoned her back to the doorway and turned to his daughter. “Vicky, this is Briony. Her car broke down on the road and she was stuck in the rain.”

  Bri smiled at the wide-eyed little girl. “Hello, Vicky. Pleased to meet you.”

  A solemn expression, more grown up than a child her age should wear, crossed her face. “Hi, Briony. Did Daddy save you from the rain?”

  Hero-worship shone in Vicky’s big blue eyes.

  “I gave her a ride back to town, but there were no rooms left at the hotel so Briony is going to stay in our guest room for the night.”

  “Can I get up and talk to her?”

  “No, Pumpkin, it’s really late, but if you’re not a sleepyhead, you can talk to her at breakfast. Now slide under the covers and give Daddy a kiss.”

  Harrison settled his daughter and walked to the door. He turned back and Bri caught the edge of a smile softening the hard plane of his cheek. “Go to sleep now. I’ll come in to see you before I go to bed.”

  Vicky blew him a kiss and tucked her hand beneath her cheek before her eyelids fluttered closed.

  Bri waited until they were in the white and green kitchen before she spoke. “She’s adorable. How old is she?”

  “Five. She started kindy this year and loves it. I’m making toasted ham, cheese and tomato sandwiches. Does that suit you?” Harry switched on the sa
ndwich press and pulled out the fillings for toasties. He seemed more relaxed now he was home. After meeting Vicky—and the very young nanny—Bri could understand his preoccupation on the drive. Maybe under all that tense and taciturn Harrison, there was a Harry after all.

  She joined him at the bench and the whiff of fresh basil hit her. “My favourite meal. What can I do? Cut stuff, butter bread?”

  “It’s fine. Do you want basil in your toastie?”

  “Sure. I’m game.”

  “Take a seat and tell me more about your photography.”

  “Are you sure you want to hear? Fair warning, once I start you’ll have trouble stopping me.” Perching on a low-backed bar stool, she leaned her elbows on the bench.

  “Not once you’re eating. I have it on good authority—my daughter’s—that I make the best toasties this side of Julia Creek.”

  He cut thick slices of ham, added cheese, and tomato, and plucked several fresh basil leaves and added them, then set the sandwiches in the sandwich press. He set the timer on the microwave and leaned on the counter. “So, what do you photograph?”

  “Landscapes primarily. I want to get some aerial shots while I’m up this way for an idea I have. Something along the lines of ‘How we see Australia’ or ‘One Country: Many Angles’ maybe. I’m not great with titles.”

  “Flying gives a different perspective all right. It makes you realise how insignificant we are.”

  “Do you fly?”

  “Small planes. It’s helpful when I’m doing fieldwork if I don’t have to depend on a commercial pick up every time. Of course, it depends where I’m working. Some places are only accessible from the ground.” Fieldwork again, but her ears pricked up at mention of flying.

  “Do you ever take passengers on—”

  “No.” He turned to the fridge and took out a jug of water. “There are glasses in the cupboard beside your head.”

  If she’d been less thick-skinned, Bri might have felt annoyed at his quick dismissal. She shrugged. Harrison didn’t know her, and rescuing her didn’t mean he owed her.

  If anything, she owed him.

  “I’ve also begun a collection of portraits. I plan to pitch it as something like ‘The Changing Face of Oz’. I love capturing the personality of my subject through the lens.” If she hadn’t been a guest in his house, she’d have loved to capture an image of father and daughter in the act of storytelling, unaware of their observer. Stolen moments like that revealed so much about the inner person and relationships.

  “I like black and white portraits for that too.” Harry pointed to a photo hanging on the wall behind her. “Vicky was two in that photo, full of mischief.”

  “So I see. Great shot.”

  The timer buzzed and he turned his attention to their late supper, slicing each sandwich neatly into triangles and setting them in the centre of each plate. He passed one to Bri.

  “Thanks—for the sandwich and the rescue. If ever I can reciprocate, let me know.” She bit into her sandwich, and touched her tongue to the corner of her mouth to catch an errant crumb.

  For mere seconds—so swift she wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t imagined it—Harrison’s focus dipped to her mouth.

  Just a flicker of lowering lashes and a parting of his lips before the full intensity of his gaze captured hers. Seconds more in which she realised she’d been wrong about one thing. His eyes weren’t the dull brown she’d thought when he rescued her.

  There was nothing dull about Harry’s eyes. They were rich, like melted dark chocolate flecked with toasted almonds.

  And the raw hunger in them stole her breath until he blinked once—twice, and raised his sandwich.

  “Kind of you, but I doubt our paths will cross again.” He gave his full attention to his sandwich and bit into it.

  Chapter Three

  Harry waited until his guest shut her door before checking on Vicky one more time. He sat on the edge of her bed and ran a hand over her tousled curls, delighted she’d woken when he came home, worried she’d be too tired for kindy in the morning.

  Kindy? The word clicked into place in his brain. Something special was scheduled for tomorrow. One-handed, he pulled out his phone and checked the calendar.

  Kindy photo day.

  Which meant choosing a pretty, bright dress and keeping his active daughter from racing to the climbing castle as soon as she arrived. He dropped a kiss on her forehead and tiptoed out, switching off the hallway light on his way to bed. Chances were the rain would hang around and it would be play dough rather than sand and leaves caught in her hair.

  And that was fine by him. She was his world and the reality of her couldn’t be contained in a single image. Vicky was seldom still, except when he read to her. Or when she climbed onto his lap and snuggled.

  He showered, dragged on a pair of boxers, and fell into bed, certain it would be morning before he knew it. But a little voice began in his brain, the words growing clearer, growing louder and more insistent as he tried to block them.

  Reciprocate—adventure—I’ll reciprocate—

  The darkness split open and filled with an iMax screen sized image of Briony biting into that golden toastie, her tongue touching the corner of her mouth—soft lips, fair hair, and blue eyes like a summer sky, filled with light and life.

  Looking at him.

  Forget black and white.

  Briony Middleton was under his roof in full, glorious colour, stealing his sleep and filling his dreams.

  Dammit.

  He pushed up onto his elbows and looked at the closed door.

  His wife was dead, his daughter slept down the hallway and he was lying in bed thinking of the woman in their guest room. His guest!

  Not just thinking of her. He was imagining how her lips would feel against his.

  He fell back and flung an arm over his eyes as though it could block out a desire he’d thought had died with Linda. Eighteen months wasn’t long enough to mourn the love of your life. A lifetime wouldn’t be enough.

  He groaned. How could he be so tired and yet turned on by the woman he’d rescued on the highway?

  How could he claim he’d loved his wife when his imagination turned rogue?

  ##

  “Briony, can you plait my hair please? Daddy makes them go whoopsy.” Vicky pushed away her cereal bowl and the spoon fell out and clattered onto the bench. Harry reached across, picked up bowl and spoon and wiped down Vicky’s placemat in a single smooth, co-ordinated movement.

  Bri wiped her fingers on a green paper serviette and looked to Harry for permission.

  He shrugged before his gaze slid away from hers, but he smiled at his daughter then turned and scooped three boiled eggs from a saucepan of bubbling water. “I’ve been trying to learn how to do it properly. Go ahead, if you don’t mind.”

  The image of Harry’s large hands wielding a hairbrush and bringing order to his daughter’s hair touched Bri as she stood and moved behind Vicky’s stool. “Okay, Vicky, sit up straight and pass me your hairbrush. Is something special happening at kindy?”

  “We’re having photos and Miss Spencer said we have to look like we’re going to a party.”

  “A party, hey. So you want to look all pretty and neat, but having fun. Well, let’s get this plait happening, shall we?” As she brushed, parted, and wove the little girl’s blonde hair into a French braid, Bri wondered about the distance Harrison was keeping this morning. She’d tried hard not to get in his way, to help without intruding, but no matter what she did, he walked around her as though she were wrapped in a barbed wire fence.

  “There you are, pretty as a picture. Want to look in the mirror?” Bri lifted the little girl so she could see herself in the mirror above the sideboard.

  Vicky touched a hand to her head and preened, angling her head and peering out of the corner of her eyes to glimpse the braid resting on her neck. “It’s so pretty. Can you put a flower in my hair too, please, Briony?”

  Harrison joined them and lift
ed Vicky from Bri’s arms and set her on the stairs. “Brush your teeth now, scamp, and I’ll see if there’s any growing in the garden. Off you go.”

  He turned to Bri. “I have to leave to take her to kindy in a few minutes. Where would you like to be dropped off?”

  “Honestly, you’ve done more than enough, thank you. I’ll catch a cab into town and arrange for my car to be towed.”

  “It’s no problem. Town is on our way.”

  “If you’re sure—”

  He turned away and packed a sea-blue lunch box with a smiling Ariel figure on the lid into a bright pink backpack. Barbie pink.

  Bri snapped her mouth shut. He didn’t need her making inane comments about his daughter’s kindy bag.

  Harrison just needed her gone.

  Chapter Four

  Harry glanced at Bri’s retreating figure while he waited for a break in the traffic then pulled away from the kerb.

  “Bye, Briony.”

  He could see Vicky waving madly from her booster seat, and caught a glimpse of Bri waving back as they drove past. A sense of relief rolled through him as he left his unexpected guest behind and turned his attention to thoughts of work. If not for his late return home, he’d have been well into his initial analysis before he went to bed.

  But that wasn’t strictly true. The weather had slowed him down, but the random event of rescuing Bri from her broken axle was the real reason he hadn’t worked. Not just her presence in his home, in his kitchen.

  She’d invaded his dreams, upset his ordered existence, and thrown out his routine so he did no work after telling Vicky one of their special stories.

  Nor had he worked when he woke early this morning, gritty-eyed and hating himself for letting Briony Middleton take over his dreams. Daytime thoughts could be wrangled and roped and herded into pens like cattle.

  But night-time, when his defences were down and he missed Linda rolling into his side and snuggling into his shoulder—he dragged in a deep breath. Would the pain ever fade? And if it did, was he less than the man who had promised to love her every day of his life?