If You Can't Stand the Heat... Read online

  Oh, good grief. Did she have to? Really?

  ‘Maybe.’ Which they both knew meant that she would. ‘But, Dad, seriously? You can’t just dump your waifs and strays on me.’ He could—of course he could. He was Mitchell Evans and she was a push-over.

  ‘Waif and stray? Jack is anything but!’

  Ellie rubbed her temple. Could this day throw anything else at her head? The bottom line was that another of Mitchell’s colleagues was on her doorstep and she could either take him in or turn him away. Which she wouldn’t do...because then her father wouldn’t be pleased and he’d sulk, and in twenty years’ time he’d remind her that she’d let him down. Really, it was just easier to give the guy a bed for the night and bask in Mitchell’s approval for twenty seconds. If that.

  If only they were normal people, Ellie thought. The last colleague of her father’s she’d had to stay—again at Mitchell’s request—had got hammered on her wine and tried to paw her before passing out on her Persian carpet. And every cameraman, producer and correspondent she’d ever met—including her father—was crazy, weird, strange or odd. She figured that it was a necessary requirement if you wanted to chase down and report on human conflicts and disasters.

  Mitchell’s voice, now that he’d got his own way, sounded jaunty again. ‘Jack’s a good man. He’s probably not slept for days, hasn’t eaten properly for more than a week. A bed, a meal, a bath. It’s not that much to ask because you’re a good person, my sweet, sweet girl.’

  My sweet, sweet girl? Tuh!

  Sweet, sweet sucker, more like.

  Ellie sneaked another look at Mr-Hot-Enough-to-Melt-Heavy-Metal. He did have a body to die for, she thought.

  ‘Have you met Jack before?’ Mitchell asked.

  ‘Briefly. At your wedding to Steph.’ Wife number three, who’d stuck around for six months. Ellie had been eighteen, chronically shy, and Jack had barely noticed her.

  ‘Oh, yeah—Steph. I liked her...I still don’t know why she left,’ Mitchell said, sounding plausibly bemused.

  Gee, Dad, here’s a clue. Maybe, like me, she hated the idea of the man she adored being away for five of those six months, plunging into the situation in Afghanistan and only popping up occasionally on TV. Hated not knowing whether you were alive or dead. It’s no picnic loving someone who doesn’t love you a fraction as much as you love your job.

  She, her mother and Mitchell’s two subsequent wives had come second-best time after time...decade after decade. And she’d repeated the whole stupid cycle by getting engaged to Darryl.

  She’d vowed she’d never fall in love with a journalist and she hadn’t. But life had bust a gut laughing when she’d become engaged to a man she’d thought was the exact opposite of her father, only to realise that he spent even less time at home than her father had. That was quite an accomplishment, since he’d never, as far as she knew, left London itself.

  She’d been such a sucker, Ellie thought. Still was...

  Maybe one of these days she’d find her spine.

  Ellie looked down at her mobile, realised that her father hadn’t said goodbye before disconnecting and shrugged. Situation normal. She glanced at the monitor again and saw the impatience on Jack’s face, caught his tapping foot. The muscles in his arms bulged as he folded them across his chest. Although the feed was in black and white she knew that his eyes were hazel...sometimes brown, sometimes green, gold, always compelling. Right now they were blazing with a combination of frustration, exhaustion and a very healthy dose of annoyance.

  He was different from the twenty-four-year-old she’d met a decade ago. Older, harder, a bit damaged. Ellie felt an unfamiliar buzz in her womb and cocked her head as attraction skittered through her veins and caused her heartbeat to fuzz...

  She tossed her mobile onto her desk and pushed her chair back as she stood up and blew out a breath.

  It didn’t matter that he was tall, built and had a sexy face that could stop traffic, she lectured herself. Crazy came in all packages.

  * * *

  ‘Jack?’

  Jack Chapman, standing in the front section of the bakery—aqua stripes on the walls, black checked floors, white cabinets, a sunshine-yellow surfboard—whirled around at the low, melodious voice and blinked. Then blinked again. He knew he was tired, but this was ridiculous...

  He’d been expecting the awkward, overweight, shy girl from Mitch’s wedding not this...babe! This tropical, colourful, radiant, riveting, dazzling babe. With a capital B. In bold and italics.

  Waist-length black hair streaked with purple and green stripes, milk-saturated coffee skin, vivid blue eyes and her father’s pugnacious chin.

  And slim, curvy legs that went up to her ears.

  ‘Hi, I’m Ellie. Mitchell has asked me to put you up for the night.’

  His pulse kicked up as he struggled to find his words. He eventually managed to spit a couple out. ‘I’m grateful. Thank you.’

  Whoa! Jack dropped his pack to the floor and resisted the impulse to put his hand on his heart to check if it was okay. With his history...

  You are not having a heart attack, you moron! Major overreaction here, dude, cool your jets!

  So she wasn’t who he’d been expecting? In his line of work little was as expected, so why was his heart jumping and his mouth dry?

  Jack rocked on his heels, looked around and tried not to act like a gauche teenager. ‘This is a really nice place. Do you own it?’

  Ellie looked around and the corners of her mouth tipped up. ‘Yep. My mum and I are partners.’

  ‘Ah...’ He looked at the empty display fridges. ‘Where’s the food? Shouldn’t there be food?’

  Her smile was a fist to his sternum.

  ‘Most of the baked goods are sold out and we put the deli meats away every night.’ She fiddled with the strap of her huge leather tote bag. ‘So, how was your flight?’ she asked politely.

  Sitting on the floor of a cargo plane in turbulence, with bruised ribs and a pounding headache? Just peachy. ‘Fine, thanks.’

  The reality was that he was exhausted, achingly stiff and sore, and his side felt as if he had a red-hot poker lodged inside it. He wanted a shower and to sleep for a week. His glance slid to a fridge filled with soft drinks. And he’d kill someone for a Coke.

  Ellie caught his look and waved to the fridge. ‘Help yourself.’

  Jack grimaced. ‘I can’t pay for it.’

  ‘Pari’s can afford to give you a can on the house,’ Ellie said wryly.

  The words were barely out of her mouth and he was opening the fridge, yanking out a red can and popping the tab. The tart, sugary liquid slid down his throat and he sighed, knowing the sugar and caffeine would give him another hour or two of energy. Maybe...

  He swore under his breath as once again he realised that he was stuck halfway across the world. He couldn’t even pay for a damn soft drink. He silently cursed again. He needed to borrow cash and a bed from Ellie until his replacement bank cards were delivered. He grimaced at the sour taste now in his mouth. Having to ask for help made him feel...out of control, helpless. Powerless.

  He hated to feel beholden, but he reminded himself it would only be for a night—two, maximum.

  Jack finished his drink and looked around for a bin.

  Ellie took the can from him, walked behind the counter and tossed it away. ‘Help yourself to another, if you like.’

  ‘I’m okay. Thanks.’

  Ellie’s eyebrows lifted and their eyes caught and held. Jack thought that she was an amazing combination of east and west: skin from her Goan-born grandparents, and blue eyes and that chin from her Irish father. Her body was all her own and should come with a ‘Danger’ warning. Long legs, tiny waist, incredible breasts...

  Because he was very, very good at reading body language, he saw wariness in her face, a lot of shyness and a hint of resignation. Could he blame her? He was a stranger, about to move into her house.

  ‘Funky décor,’ he said, trying to put her at eas
e. Hanging off the wall next to the front door was a fire-red canoe; its seating area sprouting gushing bunches of multi-coloured daisy-like flowers. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen surfboards and canoes used to decorate before. Or filled with flowers.’

  Ellie laughed. ‘I know; they are completely over the top, but such fun!’

  ‘Those daisy things look real,’ Jack commented.

  ‘Gerbera daisies—and I don’t think there’s a point to flower arrangements if they aren’t real,’ Ellie replied.

  He’d never thought about flowers that way. Actually, he’d never thought about flowers at all. ‘What’s with the signatures on the canoe?’

  Ellie shrugged. ‘I have no idea. I bought it like that.’

  Jack shoved his hand into the pocket of his jeans and winced when the taxi driver leaned on his horn. Dammit, he’d forgotten about him. He felt humiliation tighten his throat. Now came the hard part, he thought, cursing under his breath. A soft drink was one thing...

  ‘Look, I’m really sorry, but I’ve got myself into a bit of a sticky situation... Is there any chance you could pay the taxi fare for me? I’m good for it, I promise.’

  ‘Sure.’ Ellie reached into her bag, pulled out her purse and handed him a couple of bills.

  Jack felt the tips of his fingers brush hers and winced at the familiar flame that licked its way up his arm. His body had decided that it was seriously attracted to her and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Damn, Jack thought, as he stomped out through the door to pay his taxi fare. He really didn’t feel comfortable being attracted to a woman he was beholden to, who was his mentor’s beloved daughter and with whom he’d spend only two days before blowing out of her life.

  Just ignore it, Jack told himself. You’re a grown man, firmly in control of your libido.

  He blew air into his cheeks as he handed the money over to the taxi driver and rubbed his hand over his face. The door behind him opened and he turned away from the road to see Ellie lugging his heavy rucksack through the door. Ignoring his burning side, he broke into a jog, quickly reached her and took his pack from her. The gangster bastards had taken his iPad, his satellite and mobile phones, his cash and credit cards, but had left him his dirty, disgusting clothes.

  He would’ve left them too...

  ‘Here—let me take that.’ Jack took his rucksack from her.

  ‘I just need to lock up and we can go,’ Ellie said, before disappearing back inside the building.

  Jack waited in the late-afternoon sun on the corner, his rucksack resting against an aqua pot planted with hot-pink flowers. He was beginning to suspect—from her multi-coloured hair and her bright bakery with its pink and purple exterior—that Ellie liked colour. Lots of it.

  Mitchell had mentioned that Ellie was a baker and he’d expected her to be frumpy and housewifey, rotund and rosy—not slim, sexy and arty. Even her jewellery was creative: multi-length strands of beads in different shades of blue. He could say something about lucky beads to be against that chest, but decided that even the thought was pathetic...

  He heard the door open behind him and she reappeared. She pulled the wooden and glass door shut, then yanked down the security grate and bolted and locked it.

  Jack looked from the old-style bakery to the wide beach across the road and felt a smile form. It was nearly half-past six, a warm evening in summer, and the beach and boardwalk hummed with people.

  ‘What time does the sun set?’ he asked.

  ‘Late. Eight-thirty-ish,’ Ellie answered. She gestured to the road behind them. ‘I live so close to work that I don’t drive...um...my house is up that hill.’

  Jack looked up the steep road to the mountain behind it and sighed. That was all he needed—a hike up a hill with a heavy pack. What else was this day going to throw at him?

  He sighed again. ‘Lead on.’

  Ellie pulled a pair of over-large sunglasses from her bag and put them on, and they started to walk. They passed an antique store, a bookstore and an old-fashioned-looking pharmacy—he needed to stock up on some supplies there, but that would raise some awkward questions. He waited for Ellie to initiate the conversation. She did, moments later, good manners overcoming her increasingly obvious shyness.

  ‘So, what happened to you?’

  ‘Didn’t your father tell you?’

  ‘Only that you got jumped by a couple of thugs and were kicked out of Somalia. You need a place to stay because you’re broke.’

  ‘Temporarily broke,’ Jack corrected her. Mitchell hadn’t given her the whole story, thankfully. It was simple enough. He’d asked a question about the hijackings of passing ships which had pushed the warlord’s ‘detonate’ button. He’d gone psycho and ordered his henchman to beat the crap out of him. He’d tried to resist, but six against one...bad odds.

  Very bad odds. Jack shook off a shudder.

  ‘So, is there anything else I can do for you apart from giving you a bed?’

  Her question jerked him back to the present and his instinctive answer was, A night with you in bed would be great.

  Seriously? That was what he was thinking?

  Jack shook his head and ordered himself to get with the programme. ‘Um...I just need to spend a night, maybe two. Borrow a mobile phone, a computer to send some e-mails, have an address to have my replacement bank cards delivered to...’ Jack replied.

  ‘I have a spare mobile, and you can use my old laptop. I’ll write my address down for you. Are you on a deadline?’

  ‘Not too bad. This is a print story for a political magazine.’

  Ellie lifted her eyebrows. ‘I thought you only did TV work?’

  ‘I get the occasional assignment from newspapers and magazines. I freelance, so I write articles in between reporting for the news channels,’ Jack replied.

  Ellie shoved her sunglasses up into her hair and rubbed her eyes. ‘So how are you going to write these articles? I presume your notes were taken.’

  ‘I backed up my notes and documents onto a flash drive just before the interview. I slipped it into my shoe.’ It was one of the many precautionary measures he took when operating in Third World countries.

  ‘They let you keep your passport?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘They wanted me to leave and not having a passport would have hindered that.’

  Ellie shook her head. ‘You have a crazy job.’

  He did, and he loved it. Jack shrugged. ‘I operate best in a war zone, under pressure.’ He loved having a rucksack on his back, dodging bullets and bombs to get the stories few other journalists found.

  ‘Mitchell always said that it’s a powerful experience to be holed up in a hotel in Mogadishu or Sarajevo with no water, electricity or food, playing poker with local contacts to the background music of bombs and automatic gunfire. I never understood that.’

  Jack frowned at the note of bitterness in her voice and, quickly realising that there was a subtext beneath her words that he didn’t understand, chose his next words carefully. ‘Most people would consider it their worst nightmare—and to the people living and working in that war zone it is—but it is exciting, and documenting history is important.’

  And the possibility of imminent death didn’t frighten him at all. After all, he’d faced death before...

  No, what would kill him would be being into a nine-to-five job, living in one city, doing the same thing day in and day out. He’d cheated death and received a second swipe at life...and the promise he’d made so long ago, to live life hard and fast and big, still fuelled him on a daily basis.

  Jack felt a hard knot in his throat and tried to swallow it down. He was alive because someone else hadn’t received the same second swipe...

  ‘We’re here.’

  Ellie’s statement interrupted his spiralling thoughts and Jack hid his sigh of relief as she turned up a driveway and approached a wrought-iron gate. Thank God. He wasn’t sure if he could go much further.

  Ellie looked at the remote in her hand,
took a breath and briefly closed her eyes. He saw the tension in her shoulders and the rigid muscle in her jaw. She wasn’t comfortable... Jack cursed. If he had been operating on more than twelve hours’ sleep in four days he would have picked up that the shyness was actually tension a lot earlier. And it had increased the closer they came to her home.

  ‘Look, you’re obviously not happy about having me here,’ Jack said, dropping his pack to the ground. ‘Sorry. I didn’t realise. I’ll head back to the bakery—hitch a lift to the airport.’

  Ellie jammed her hands into the pockets of her cut-offs. ‘No—really, Jack...I told my father I’d help you.’

  ‘I don’t need your charity,’ Jack said, pushing the words out between his clenched teeth.

  ‘It’s not charity.’ Ellie lifted up a hand and rubbed her eyes with her thumb and index finger. ‘It’s just been a long day and I’m tired.’

  That wasn’t it. She was strung tighter than a guitar string. His voice softened. ‘Ellie, I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable in your own home. I told Mitch that I was happy to wait at the airport. It’s not a big deal.’

  Ellie straightened and looked him in the eye. ‘I’m sorry. I’m the one who is making this difficult. Your arrival just pulled up some old memories. The last time I took in one of my father’s workmates I was chased around my house by a drunken, horny cameraman.’

  He sent her his I’m-a-good-guy grin. ‘Typical. Those damn cameramen—you can’t send them anywhere.’

  Ellie smiled, as he’d intended her to. He could see some of her tension dissolve at his stab at humour.

  ‘Sorry, I know I sound ridiculous. And I’m not crazy about talking about my relationship with Mitchell for this book you’re helping him write—’

  ‘I’m helping him write? Is that what he said?’ Jack shook his head. Mitchell was living in Never-Never Land. It was his book, and he was writing the damn thing. Yes, Mitchell Evans’s and Ken Baines’s names would be on the cover, but there would be no doubt about who was the author. The sizeable advance in his bank account was a freaking big clue.