The Last Guy She Should Call Page 3

  ‘We’re on a landline, you dipstick!’ Rowan shouted above the noise he was making.

  Smart girl, he thought as he slammed the handset back into its cradle. She’d always been smart, he remembered. And feisty.

  It seemed that calling her Brat was still appropriate. Some things simply never changed.

  TWO

  Six hours later and it was another airport, another set of officials, another city and she was beyond exhausted. Sweaty, grumpy and... Damn it. Rowan pushed her fist into her sternum. She was nervous.

  Scared spitless.

  It could be worse, she told herself as she slid onto a stool in the busy bar, her luggage at her feet. She could be standing at Arrivals flicking over faces and looking for her parents. She could easily admit that Seb was the lesser of two evils—that she’d been relieved when her parents hadn’t answered her call, that she wasn’t remotely sure of their reaction to her coming home.

  Apart from the occasional grumble about her lack of education they’d never expressed any wish for her to return to the family fold. They might—and she stressed might—be vaguely excited to see her again, but within a day they’d look at her with exasperation, deeply puzzled by the choices she’d made and the lifestyle she’d chosen.

  ‘So different from her sibling,’ her mother would mutter. ‘Always flying too close to the sun. Our changeling child, our rebel, always trying to break out and away.’

  Maybe if they hadn’t wrapped her in cotton wool and smothered her in a blanket of protectiveness she’d be more...normal, Rowan thought. A little more open to putting down roots, to having relationships that lasted longer than a season, furniture that she owned rather than temporarily used.

  She’d caused them a lot of grief, she admitted. She’d been a colicky baby, a hell-on-wheels toddler, and then she’d contracted meningitis at four and been in ICU for two weeks, fighting for her life. After the meningitis her family had been so scared for her, so terrified that something bad would happen to her—again—that they hadn’t let her experience life at all. All three of them—parents and her much older brother—had hovered over her: her own phalanx of attack helicopters, constantly scanning the environment for trouble.

  The weird thing was that while she’d always felt protected she hadn’t always felt cherished. Would her life have taken a different turn if she had felt treasured, loved, not on the outside looking in?

  It hadn’t helped that she’d been a fiery personality born into a family of quiet, brilliant, introverts. Two professors—one in music, the other in theoretical science—and her brother had a PhD in electrical engineering. She’d skipped university in order to go travelling—an unforgivable sin in the Dunn household.

  The over-protectiveness had been tedious at ten, irritating at fourteen, frustrating at sixteen. At seventeen it had become intolerable, and by the time she was nearly eighteen she’d been kicking and screaming against the silken threads of parental paranoia that had kept her prisoner.

  After spending that weekend in jail she’d realised that to save herself and her relationship with her family she had to run far away as fast as she could. She couldn’t be the tame, studious, quiet daughter they needed her to be, and they couldn’t accept her strong-willed adventurous spirit.

  Running away had, strangely enough, saved her relationship with her parents. Through e-mail, social media and rare, quick phone calls they’d managed to find a balance that worked for them. They could pretend that she wasn’t gallivanting around the world, and she could pretend that they supported her quest to do more, see more, experience more.

  They all lied to themselves, but it was easier that way.

  Now she was back, and they couldn’t lie and she couldn’t pretend. They had to see each other as they now were—not the way they wished they could be. It was going to suck like rotten lemons.

  Rowan hauled in a deep breath... She had two, maybe three weeks to wrap her head around seeing her parents, to gird herself against their inevitable disappointment. Two weeks to find a place to stay and a job that would keep her in cereal and coffee and earn her enough money to tide her over until she sold her netsukes.

  She just had to get past Seb—whom she’d never been able to talk her away around, through or over. He’d never responded to her charm, had seen through her lies, and had never trusted her for a second.

  He’d always been far too smart for his own good.

  The image of Seb as she’d last seen him popped into her head. Navy eyes the colour of deep denim, really tall, curly blond hair that he grew long and pulled back into a bushy tail with a leather thong, and that ultra-stupid soul patch.

  Yet he’d still turned female heads. Something about him had always caught their attention. It was not only his good looks—and, while she wished otherwise, she had to admit that even at his most geeky he was a good-looking SOB—he had that I-prefer-my-own-company vibe that had woman salivating.

  Live next door to him and see how you like him then, Rowan had always wanted to yell. He’s bossy and rude, patronising and supercilious, and frequently makes me want to poke him with a stick.

  Rowan draped her leg over her knee and turned her head at deep-throated male laughter. Behind her a group of guys stood in a rough circle and she caught the eye of the best-looking of the bunch, who radiated confidence.

  Mmm. Cute.

  ‘Hey,’ Good-looking said, in full flirt mode. ‘New in town?’

  I’m tired, sweaty, grumpy and I suspect that I may be way too old for you.

  ‘Sort of.’

  Good-looking looked from her to the waiter standing next to him. ‘Can I buy you a drink? What would you like?’

  A hundred pounds would be useful, Rowan thought. Two hundred would be better...

  ‘Thanks. A glass of white wine? Anything dry,’ she responded. Why not? If he wanted to buy her a drink, she could live with it. Besides, she badly needed the restorative powers of fermented grape juice.

  He turned, placed the order with the waiter, and when Rowan looked again she saw that he wasn’t quite so young, not quite so cocky. Tall, dark and handsome. And, since she was bored waiting for Seb, she might as well have a quick flirt. Nothing picked a girl up and out of the doldrums quicker than a little conversation with a man with appreciation in his eyes.

  She thought flirting was a fine way to pass the time...

  Rowan pushed a hand through her hair and looked at the luggage at their feet. ‘Sports tour? Hmm, let me guess...rugby?’ Rowan pointed to the bags on the floor with their identical logos. ‘Under twenty-one rugby sevens tournament?’

  ‘Ah... They are under twenty-one...I’m not.’

  Rowan smiled slowly. ‘Me neither. I’m Rowan.’

  She was about to put her hand out for him to shake when a voice spoke from behind her.

  ‘Isn’t it about time you used your powers for good instead of evil?’

  Rowan closed her eyes as the words, words not fit to speak aloud, jumped into her head. Knowing that she couldn’t keep her eyes shut for ever, she took a deep breath and slowly turned around.

  He was leaning against the stone pillar directly behind her, those dark blue eyes cool. His lower jaw was covered in golden stubble and his mouth was knife-blade-thin.

  That hadn’t changed.

  A lot else had. She squinted... Tall, blond, built. Broad shoulders, slim hips and long, long legs. He was a big slab of muscled male flesh. When his mouth pulled up ever so slightly at the corners she felt a slow, seductive throb deep in her womb... Oh, dear. Was that lust? It couldn’t be lust. That was crazy. It had just been a long trip, and she hadn’t eaten much, and she was feeling a little light-headed... It was life catching up with her.

  Mr Good-looking was quickly forgotten as she looked at Seb. She’d known a lot of good-looking men, and some devastatin
gly handsome men, but pure lust had never affected her before... Was that why her blood was chasing her heart around her body? Where had the saliva in her mouth disappeared to? And—oh, dear—why was her heart now between her legs and pulsing madly?

  Rowan pushed a long curl out of her eyes and, unable to meet his eyes just yet, stared at his broad chest. Her gaze travelled down his faded jeans to his expensive trainers. Pathetic creature to get hot and flustered over someone she’d never even liked.

  Hoo, boy. Was that a hint of ink she saw on the bicep of his right arm under his T-shirt? No way! Conservative Seb? Geeky Seb?

  Except that geeky Seb had been replaced by hunky Seb, who made her think of cool sheets and hot male skin under her hands... This Seb made her think of passion-filled nights and naughty afternoon sex. Of lust, heat and attraction.

  Thoughts at the speed of light dashed through her head as she looked for an explanation for her extreme reaction. She was obviously orgasm-deprived, she decided. She hadn’t had sex for....oh, way too long. Right! If that was the problem—and she was sure it was—there was, she remembered, a very discreet little shop close to home that could take care of it.

  Except that she was broke... Rowan scowled at her shoes. Broke and horny...what a miserable combination. Yet it was the only explanation that made a smidgeon of sense.

  Seb stopped in front of her and jammed his hands into the pockets of very nicely fitting jeans.

  ‘Brat.’

  His voice rumbled over her, prickling her skin.

  Yep, there was the snotty devil she remembered. Under that luscious masculine body that looked and—oh, my—smelled so good. It was in those deep eyes, in the vibration of his voice. The shallow dimple in his right cheek. The grown-up version of the studious, serious boy who had either tolerated, tormented or loathed her at different stages of her life. Always irritating.

  ‘I have a name, Seb.’

  He had the audacity to grin at her. ‘Yeah, but you know I prefer mine.’ He looked over at Mr Good-looking and his smile was shark-sharp. ‘Lucky escape for you, bro’. She’s trouble written in six-foot neon.’

  * * *

  As rugby-boy turned away with a disappointed sigh, inside his head Seb placed his hands on his thighs and pulled in deep, cleansing, calming breaths of pure oxygen. He felt as if his heart wanted to bungee-jump from his chest without a cord. His stomach and spleen were going along for the ride.

  Well, wasn’t this a kick in the head?

  This was Rowan? What had happened to the skinny kid with a silver ring through her brow and a stud in her nose? The clothes that she had called ‘boho chic’ but which had looked as if she’d been shopping in Tramp’s Alley? Skirts that had been little more than strips of cloth around her hips, knee-high combat boots, Goth make-up...

  Now leather boots peeked out from under the hem of nicely fitting blue jeans. She wore a plain white button-down shirt with the bottom buttons open to show a broad leather belt, and a funky leather and blue bead necklace lay between the wilted collar of the shirt. Her hair was still the blue-black of a starling’s wing, tumbling in natural curls down her back, and her eyes, black as the deepest African night, were faintly shadowed in blue. Her face was free of make-up and those incredible eyes—framed by dark lashes and brows—brimmed with an emotion he couldn’t immediately identify.

  Resignation? Trepidation and fear? Then she tossed her head and he saw pride flash in her eyes.

  And there was the Rowan he remembered. He dismissed the feeling that his life was about to be impacted by this tiny dark-haired sprite with amazing eyes and a wide, mobile mouth that begged to be kissed.

  He’d said goodbye to a kid, but this Rowan was all woman. A woman, if she were anyone but Rowan, he would be thinking about getting into bed. Immediately. As in grabbing her hand, finding the closest room and throwing her onto the bed, chair, floor...whatever was closer.

  His inner cave man was thumping his chest. Look here, honey! I’m a sex god! He felt embarrassed on his own behalf. Get a grip, dude!

  He hoped his face was devoid of all expression, but in his mind Seb tipped his head back and directed a stream of silent curses at the universe. When I asked what else could go wrong, I meant it as a figure of speech—not as a challenge to hit me with your best shot.

  Rowan broke the uncomfortable silence. ‘So...it’s been a long time. You look...good.’

  ‘You too.’

  Good? Try sensational!

  ‘Where did you fly in from?’ he asked. Politeness? Good grief, they’d never been civil and he wondered how long it would last.

  ‘Sydney. Nightmare flight, I had a screaming baby behind me and an ADD toddler in front of me. And the man in the seat next to me sniffed the entire time.’

  ‘Two words. Business class.’

  Rowan grimaced. ‘One word. Broke.’

  She shoved a hand into her hair, lifted and pushed a couple of loose curls off her face.

  ‘Would you consider changing your mind about loaning me the money to get back to London?’

  Rowan threw her demand into the silence between them.

  Thirty seconds from polite to miffed. It had to be a record.

  ‘Well? Will you?’

  Sure—after I’ve sorted out climate change and negotiated world peace. ‘Not a chance.’

  Rowan tapped an irritated finger on the table and tried to stare him down. Seb folded his arms and kept his face blank.

  Eventually her shoulders dropped in defeat. ‘My mobile battery is dead, I have less than two hundred pounds to my name, my best friend is out of the country, my parents are away and their house is occupied. I’m in your hands.’

  In his hands? He wished... Their eyes met and sexual attraction arced between them. Hot, hard... Man! Where was this coming from?

  Pink stained Rowan’s cheekbones. ‘I mean, I’m at your mercy...’

  That sounded even better.

  ‘What is the matter with me?’

  Or at least that was what he thought he heard her say, but since she was muttering to the floor he couldn’t be sure.

  What was cranking their sexual buzzers to a howl? Dial it down, dude; time to start acting as an adult. He dashed the rest of what was left in the tiny bottle of wine into her glass and tossed it back.

  Think with your big head. It didn’t matter that she looked hot, or that he wanted to taste that very sexy mouth, this was Rowan. AKA trouble.

  Seb put his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. ‘You ready to go?’

  ‘Where to? Where am I sleeping tonight?’

  ‘Awelfor.’

  Awelfor... It meant sea breeze in Welsh, and was one of the few small holdings situated between the seaside villages of Scarborough and Misty Cliffs, practically on the doorstep of Table Mountain National Park. Her second home, Rowan thought.

  The house had originally been an old school building, added to over the generations. The oldest part was made from timber and redbrick, and she could still feel the cool warmth of the Oregon pine floors beneath her bare feet. Nearly every room had a fireplace and a view of the Atlantic, with its huge rolling waves and its white beaches peppered by black-backed gulls.

  She’d been raised next door, in the house that had been built by a Hollis forefather for—rumour had it—a favourite mistress. It had been sold off in the forties to her grandfather and separated from the Hollis house by a huge oak and a high, thick Eugenia hedge.

  She knew Awelfor as well as she knew her own home: which floorboard creaked if you stood on it the middle of the night, that the drainpipe that ran past Callie’s window was strong enough to hold their combined weight, that Yasmeen the housekeeper hid her cigarettes in the flour canister at the back of the pantry. For most of her life she’d had two homes and then she’d had none; now she bounced from be
d to bed in different accommodation establishments, depending on her cash flow. Once or twice she’d slept on beaches and on benches in railway stations, she remembered, even standing up.

  Dots appeared behind her eyes.

  Tired...so tired.

  Rowan blinked furiously as the dots grew bigger and brighter and her vision started to blur. She reached out in Seb’s direction and cool and firm fingers clasped her clammy hand.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Seb demanded as she abruptly sat down again.

  ‘Dizzy,’ Rowan muttered as she shoved her head between her knees. ‘Stood up too fast.’

  Rowan opened her eyes and the floor rose and fell, so she closed them again.

  ‘Easy, Ro.’

  Seb bent down in front of her and held up three fingers. ‘How many?’

  ‘Six thousand and fifty-two.’

  Seb narrowed his eyes and Rowan gnawed the inside of her lip, ignored the squirming sensation down below and tried to act like a mature adult.

  ‘Sorry, I’m fine. Tired. I haven’t really eaten properly. Shouldn’t have had that wine.’ Rowan rubbed her eyes. ‘It’s just been a horrible couple of days.’

  Seb let go of the hand he’d been holding and stood up, looking away from those slim thighs in old jeans, that mad hair and those deep, deep eyes. She had always been gorgeous—hadn’t all his friends told him that?—but for the first time in his life he saw her as something other than his sister’s friend.

  That felt uncomfortable and...weird.

  His eyes dropped lower. Full breasts under that white cotton shirt, long fingers that were made to stroke a man’s skin, long legs that could wrap around a man’s hips...

  This was Rowan, he reminded himself harshly. She was not somebody he should find attractive. He’d known her for far too long and far too well. Seb frowned, irritated that he couldn’t break their eye contact. Her eyes had the impact of a fist slamming into his stomach. Those eyes—the marvellous deep dark of midnight—had amused, irritated and enthralled him. When he’d first met her he’d been a young, typical boy, and babies were deeply uncool but her eyes had captivated him. He remembered thinking they were the only redeeming feature of a demanding, squawking sprat.