Chapter 22
Hamish
Jemma whirled to face him, dropping her kit bag, one hand curled into a fist, the other clutching a jewel-coloured fabric sack.
He stepped forward—or at least he tried to.
The ute was designed to lug around bales of hay, not to accommodate his frame for three hours of waiting on the side of the road, and even though he’d clambered out as he spotted Jemma, his left leg was cramped.
He stumbled, reaching toward her to steady himself.
She lashed out, a fingertip punch aimed at his armpit.
‘Jemma!’ he yelped as his arm went dead.
She’d already hauled back, ready to attack him again, and he threw up his forearm.
‘Jemma!’
She checked the move and he cautiously lowered his hand.
‘With reflexes like that, I don’t know why I was wasting my time worrying about you! You probably need to find yourself a good lawyer to get you off a string of murder charges.’
‘Manslaughter,’ she corrected. Her scowl had turned quizzical as she recognised him. She moved a little closer. ‘You were worried about me?’
‘Unnecessarily,’ he grumbled, massaging his arm.
‘Sorry about that.’ She pressed the heel of her hand against his armpit.
It seemed a strangely intimate thing to do, and for a second he was stuck for words.
‘I just thought I’d pass by, make sure you’d got home okay.’
‘That’s a late appointment.’
‘Appointment?’
‘Your physio works interesting hours. Sure there’s not an extra-special massage involved at this time of the night?’
He ran a hand around the back of his neck, cursing the brightness of city streetlights. He needed to be fully awake, on his toes, to engage—or perhaps that should be indulge—in verbal battles with Jemma. ‘For what he charges, there should be.’
‘I thought you never lied.’ Jemma leaned down to pick up her kit bag from the pavement and he forced himself to look away from the flash of cleavage the scoop of her blouse revealed. ‘You said you had physio here today.’
‘No. I said I have physio on Saturdays. Not necessarily this Saturday.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Semantics.’
‘Nothing wrong with a little oral dexterity.’
Jemma’s eyes widened, but a smile hovered around her lips. She settled the bag on her shoulder. ‘Indeed. I like to think it’s something I excel at.’
This time he turned away, gesturing at his car as though it wasn’t the only ute parked in the street. ‘You obviously don’t excel at peripheral awareness.’
‘My mind was elsewhere.’
‘Tough party?’
She gave a short laugh. ‘You could say that. But I was thinking how different the city feels to the country. Even now.’ She gestured at the silent street. ‘It’s quiet, obviously, but there’s not that sense of … peace that the country has.’
‘You’ve clearly not been to a footy game, then,’ he joked. ‘Never would have picked you for a country convert.’
‘Didn’t say I was converted. Just that I’m astute enough to notice the differences. One of them being that guys don’t wait out in the streets of Settlers Bridge for people to come home at two am.’
‘Only because Ant would have a fit if he had to keep the pub open that late.’ And because Settlers was safe. Or at least it had been, until recently.
‘How did you find my place, anyway?’
‘Your dad.’
She groaned. ‘I would have hoped even he’d find it somewhat inappropriate to share my address so he could have me babysat.’
‘He didn’t exactly share it,’ Hamish admitted. ‘Lachy and I helped him haul some gear from here when he moved out to Settlers.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t know whether that’s more or less stalkery.’
He gave an embarrassed chuckle. ‘Yeah, well, me neither, now. That said, you’re home safe, so I’ll be on my way.’
Jemma reached out again, this time settling a hand on his forearm. ‘You’re going to come up, aren’t you? As you didn’t get your massage—or whatever—the least I can do is offer you something … hot.’
Her innuendo was unmistakeable—and he knew he needed to run. He refused to risk messing this up by rushing into anything. ‘No, I’ve got to start work at sparrow-fart, so I’ll be on my way.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the ute, but his feet refused to take the hint.
Jemma glanced from him to the cafe entrance. ‘Actually … would you mind coming up? Just for five minutes. I’ve not been back in the apartment since …’
‘Shit, yeah, of course. Sorry, I didn’t realise …
’ Didn’t realise that she’d been asking him to make sure her apartment was safe, not coming on to him.
Didn’t realise that she was taking him at his word that he’d simply come to check she was okay.
Didn’t realise that his charm wasn’t infallible, and he’d been imagining interest into the repartee.
He took her bag, masking his embarrassment by striding toward the cafe door.
‘I appreciate your enthusiasm, but my keys are in there,’ Jemma said, with a lilting laugh in her voice.
This woman had only to speak to throw him off balance. Confused, disoriented, his reactions scrambled, but in an invigorating way, like he was on a wild fairground ride at the local show. He turned and held up the bag.
Jemma came close in a waft of perfumed alcohol. Unzipping the bag, she rummaged around to find the keys. She unlocked the door, then quickly tapped a code into the alarm system situated just inside. Then she flicked on her phone torch, dispelling the shadows cast by the streetlight.
‘Through the back, upstairs.’
‘After you.’ He stood aside. ‘Or did you want me to go first?’ He ground his teeth in frustration. Could he not even decide something that simple anymore?
Jemma appraised him for a long moment. ‘I think I’d like you to be first.’
No, he wasn’t imagining her double entendre. But it was different; her insinuations were laced with an intelligent gravity, not just sexual hunger. His grin returned.
‘Really? You’ve not had anyone … here … before?’
She chuckled and waved him toward the stairs. A light turned on at their approach, then another on the landing. Jemma handed him the keys and he unlocked the door, and stepped back for her to enter. She hesitated, and he was surprised to realise the extent of her nervousness.
‘Your dad mentioned there’ve been three notes,’ he said, locating a light switch by running his hand down the wall.
‘Of course he did,’ she said, her dark eyes flashing resigned annoyance.
‘What did they say?’
Jemma pulled a face. ‘Generic intimidation. “You’re being watched. You’re not as safe as you think you are.” And the last one was “three strikes, you’re out”.’ She put the fabric bag on a glass-topped table.
‘What were the strikes?’
‘That’s just it: I have absolutely no idea. I’ve not done anything of note to tick anyone off. Not lately, anyway.’ Her grin suggested she derived some enjoyment out of infuriating people. ‘One of my clients had been a bit off, but I thought we’d moved on from that. Guess I’ll find out on Monday.’
‘You’re seeing the client then?’
‘Meeting with my managing director.’ Jemma opened the bar fridge, leaning down to look inside. She opened a bottle of milk and sniffed at it. ‘Hope you like your “something hot” black and in a teabag.’
‘I don’t need a drink.’
‘I do,’ she said. She left the carton in the fridge, sighing as she straightened. ‘I’ve been tag-teaming on a case with the other barrister, Rohan. But we have very different ideas on what will bring the best outcome for our client.’
‘Is that normal? That you don’t agree?’
She placed a glass kettle in the sink and flicked the tap on. ‘Typically we’d argue it out, then move ahead with a cohesive strategy. The problem is, while I’ve not been in the office—actually, before that—Rohan’s been playing his own game. And he just happens to be the boss’s nephew.’
As they chatted, Hamish glanced around the apartment with more interest than when he’d briefly been here before.
The colour palette was boringly restrained, with inoffensive off-white walls and austere furniture.
The kitchen was functional: black subway tiles on the small splashback, silver appliances, smooth white countertops.
He assumed the single door on the left of the open-plan space led to the bedroom—but dragged his mind away from there immediately.
The opposite wall boasted the only colour in the room: the rich, muted tones of the leather-bound spines of what he assumed were legal books seeming to lend credibility to their heavy contents.
There were no plants, no artwork, no sign of the personality of the owner. No heart.
Jemma searched through the cupboards, eventually locating a box of teabags. She shook it dolefully, holding it against her ear and pulling a face before tossing it toward the chrome bin. She poured two glasses of water instead and handed him one.
His fingers touched hers briefly, but he snatched his hand back. ‘Seems like you don’t spend much time here?’
‘Don’t know what gives you that idea.’ She chuckled. ‘But you’re right. I’m at work most of the time, and I get my coffee from the cafe downstairs.’ She widened her eyes theatrically. ‘So I guess I have you here under false pretences.’
He frowned, trying to make the link. Her brain was so agile, her mouth so fast, if he let his guard down for a moment he’d fall behind.
‘I can’t deliver on the “something hot” I initially had in mind,’ Jemma clarified.
He took a sip of water, hoping to buy some time to slow his pulse.
Jemma’s eyes danced with merriment and he recalled her assertion that she only ever said precisely what she meant.
Yet, as appealing as that lack of subterfuge was, Jemma had been outspoken about the fact that she viewed men as nothing more than accessories—and he suspected that the more he got to know Jemma di Angelis, the less he’d be willing to settle for that role.
He held up his glass. ‘I’m more of a coffee-in-the-morning guy, anyway.’
She quirked a brow.
‘There’s a time and a place for everything.’
She narrowed her eyes on him for a long moment, then nodded. ‘Interesting.’
He needed to keep control of the situation. ‘So, now I know you’re home safe, I’ll get back myself.’
She frowned, then a wicked smile curved her lips. ‘You’re new to this bodyguard business, aren’t you?’
‘Not a huge demand in Settlers,’ he said, although his mind darted to Tara. ‘Why?’
Jemma inclined her head toward the internal door. ‘You didn’t check the rest of the apartment for intruders.’
His heart was suddenly thumping too damn fast, too damn hard.
Since when was he daunted by the prospect of entering a woman’s bedroom?
Though his issue wasn’t with the room, it was doubt in his own resolve to take this thing, whatever it might be, slow.
Jemma was wildly attractive but a large part of her appeal was in the way they seemed to connect on an intellectual level—and he wanted her to acknowledge that before they risked muddying the waters with a physical relationship.
At least, that’s what his brain told him he wanted: certain other parts of his body had entirely different intentions, particularly as Jemma brushed past him.
She smelled … expensive, a mixture of alcohol, perfume, body lotion and God knows what else.
And that made him pause. Jemma was class and finesse.
He was … country. A mechanic, a farmer. Tonight, he’d ended up wearing chinos and a collared shirt, because he didn’t even own a suit.
If circumstances hadn’t thrown them together at Mutfagim Askim a few weeks back, he wasn’t the type of person Jemma would even associate with.
Sure, she was making it clear she’d like to take a tumble with him, but he was an idiot to hope for more than that.
He needed to focus on walking out, not holding out.
He put his glass on the counter. ‘I’ll check the rooms, but then I’m hitting the road.’
Her hand on the doorhandle, Jemma glanced toward the darkened window.
‘Given how late it is, is there any chance I can persuade you to stay over? As a favour, I mean. No pressure.’ She gave a wry smile but it failed to mask her sudden nervousness.
‘I get your “no means no” vibe, and I’ll respect that—or at least, I’ll try to, though I don’t promise I’m not going to give you a hard time about it.
’ She gestured at the small lounge room.
‘I should have come back here during the day, or when the cafe was open, so there’d be people around …
’ She gave an annoyed click of her tongue.
‘You know what, don’t worry about it.’ She yanked the door closed again.
Hamish covered her hand on the doorhandle. ‘Let me check the rooms. Then I’ll bunk down in here.’
Jemma snorted. ‘On my tiny sofa?’ Her gaze travelled from his head to his feet. ‘I think not. You take the bed; I’ll take the lounge.’
‘You’re not exactly short yourself.’ He hoped she didn’t notice the slight raggedness of his voice, or the twitch of his hand. Damn, this self-control idea was setting up to be the hardest thing he’d ever done.
‘So what do you suggest?’ she almost purred. ‘It is a luxury king bed, in case you’re wondering.’
‘Perfect,’ he said, as though she wasn’t unnerving him. ‘Head to tail.’
‘Huh?’
‘Didn’t you ever share a bed when you were a kid?’
‘I’m an only child.’
‘That figures. I’d say there’s only room for one Jemma di Angelis in the world.’ Which was just as well, according to his soaring blood pressure. ‘One of us nabs the pillow, the other sleeps with their head at the bottom of the bed.’
‘Gross. And yet, weirdly, I instantly sexualised the image,’ she said.
He had his swag in the ute, as always. Now would be the time to mention it. ‘You can go under the quilt, I’ll sleep on top,’ he suggested instead. His swag would crowd the apartment.
‘Sure, But, just so you know, I’m a restless sleeper. Bound to throw a leg out of the covers at some stage.’
‘That’s fine. Don’t reckon I’ll be getting much sleep anyway,’ he replied, meeting her gaze. His chuckle broke the tension. ‘You love to shit-stir, don’t you?’
‘I am a barrister, you know.’
‘Yeah, why it is that sometimes you say lawyer, others you say barrister?’ he said conversationally, as though the need to get into her bedroom wasn’t pounding through him. ‘What’s the difference?’
‘Basically, either can provide legal advice, but a barrister is the one who’ll get up in court and argue for you.’ She lifted one shoulder, giving an angelic smile. ‘Or against you, as the case may be.’
‘You must love being the centre of attention.’ He could certainly watch her all day.
‘Don’t we all?’
‘Yep.’ His history spoke to that. ‘But not many of us will admit it.’
‘I told you, I say what I mean,’ Jemma said. Linking her fingers through his, she opened the door with her other hand. ‘Welcome to my bedroom.’
He took a ragged breath. ‘By the way, you’re misreading that whole “no” vibe.’