The Last Guy She Should Call

He’d been blindsided when he’d raised the issue of marriage contracts and his fiancée Bronwyn wouldn’t consider signing a pre-nup. Like most things he did, he’d approached the problem of the marriage contracts intellectually, rationally. He had the company and the house and the cash, and pretty much everything of monetary value, so he’d be the one to hand over half of everything if they divorced.

Bronwyn had not seen his point of view. If he loved her, she’d screamed, he’d share everything with her. He had loved Bronwyn—sorta...kinda—but not enough to risk sharing his company with her or paying her out for half the value of the house that had been in his family for four generations in the event of a divorce.

They’d both dug their heels in and the break-up had been bruising.

It had taken him a couple of years, many hours with a whisky bottle and a shattered heart until he’d—mostly—worked it all out. He believed in thinking through problems—including personal failures—in order to come to a better understanding of the cause and effect.

It was highly probable that he’d fallen for Bronwyn because she was, on the surface, similar in behaviour and personality to his mother. A hippy child who flitted from job to job, town to town. A supposed free spirit whom he’d wanted—no, needed to tame. Since his mother had left some time around his twelfth birthday to go backpacking round the world, and had yet to come home, he’d given up hope that he’d ever get her love or approval, that she’d return and stay put. He’d thought that if he could get Bronwyn to settle down, to commit to him, then maybe it would fill the hole his mother had left.

Yeah, right.

But he’d learnt a couple of lessons from his FUBAR engagement. Unlike his jobs—internet security expert and overseeing the Hollis Property Group—he couldn’t analyse, measure or categorise relationships and emotions, and he sure didn’t understand women. As a result he now preferred to conduct his relationships at an emotional distance. An at-a-distance relationship—sex and little conversation—held no risk of confusion and pain and didn’t demand much from him. He’d forged his emotional armour when his mum had left so very long ago and strengthened it after his experience with Bronwyn. He liked it that way. There was no chance of his heart being tossed into a liquidiser.

His father, Peter Pan that he was, just kept it simple: blonde, long-legged and big boobs. Mattress skills were a prerequisite; intelligence wasn’t.

‘So, can I move back in until she moves out?’ Patch asked.

‘Dad, Awelfor is a Hollis house; legally it’s still yours. But I should warn you that Yasmeen is on holiday; she’s been gone for nearly a week and I’ve already eaten the good stuff she left.’

Patch looked wounded. ‘So no blueberry muffins for breakfast?’

‘Best you’re going to get is coffee. No laundry or bed-making service either,’ Seb replied.

Patch looked bereft and Seb knew that it had nothing to do with his level of comfort and everything to do with the absence of their elderly family confidant, their moral compass and their staunchest supporter. Yasmeen was more than their housekeeper, she was Awelfor.

‘Yas being gone sucks.’ Patch yawned. ‘I’m going back to bed, Miranda has a voice like a foghorn and I was up all night being blasted by it.’

Seb turned his head at the sound of his ringing landline. ‘Crazy morning. Father rocking up at the crack of dawn, phone ringing before six...and all I want is a cup of coffee.’

Patch grinned up at him. ‘I just want my house back.’

Seb returned his smile. ‘Then kick her whiny ass out of yours.’

Patch shuddered. ‘I’ll just move in here until she calms down.’

His father, Seb thought as he turned away to walk back into the house, was totally allergic to confrontation.

* * *

‘Seb, it’s Rowan...Rowan Dunn.’

He’d recognised her voice the moment he’d heard her speak his name, but because his synapses had stopped firing he’d lost the ability to formulate any words. Rowan? What the...?

‘Seb? Sorry, did I wake you?’

‘Rowan, this is a surprise.’ And by surprise I mean...wow.

‘I’m in Johannesburg—at the airport.’

Since this was Rowan, he passed curious and went straight to resigned. ‘What’s happened?’

He would have had to be intellectually challenged to miss the bite in the words that followed.

‘Why do you automatically assume the worst?’

‘Because something major must have happened to bring you back to the country you hate, where the family you’ve hardly interacted with in years lives and for you to call me, who you once described as a boil on the ass of humanity.’

He waited through the tense silence.

‘I’m temporarily broke and homeless. And I’ve just been deported from Oz,’ she finally—very reluctantly—admitted.

And there it was.

‘Are you in trouble?’ He kept his voice neutral and hoped that she was now adult enough to realise that it was a fair question. For a long time before she’d left trouble had been Rowan’s middle name. Heck, her first name.

‘No, I’m good. They just picked up that I overstayed on my visa years and years ago and they kicked me out.’

Compared to some of the things she’d done, this was a minor infringement. Seb walked to his walk-in closet, took a pair of jeans from a hanger and yanked them on. He placed his fist on his forehead and stared down at the old wood flooring.

‘Seb, are you there?’

‘Yep.’

‘Do you know where my parents are? I did try them but they aren’t answering their phone.’

‘They went to London and rented out the house while they were gone to some visiting researchers from Beijing. They are due back in...’ Seb tried to remember. ‘Two—three—weeks’ time.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding me! My parents went overseas and the world didn’t stop turning? How is that possible?’

‘That surprised me, too,’ Seb admitted.

‘And is Callie still on that buying trip?’

‘Yep.’

Another long silence. ‘In that case...tag—you’re it. I need a favour.’

From him? He looked at his watch and was surprised to find that it was still ticking. Why hadn’t time stood still? He’d presumed it would—along with nuns being found ice skating in hell—since Rowan was asking for his help.

‘I thought you’d rather drip hot wax in your eye than ever ask me for anything again.’

‘Can you blame me? You could’ve just bailed me out of jail, jerk-face.’

And...hello, there it was: the tone of voice that had irritated him throughout his youth and into his twenties. Cool, mocking...nails-on-a-chalkboard irritating.

‘Your parents didn’t want me to—they were trying to teach you a lesson. And might I point out that calling me names is not a good way to induce me to do anything for you, Rowan?’

Seb heard her mutter a swear word and he grinned. Oh, he did like having her at his mercy.

‘What do you want, Brat?’

Brat—his childhood name for her. Callie, so blonde, had called her Black Beauty, or BB for short, on account of her jet-black hair and eyes teamed with creamy white skin. She’d been a knockout, looks-wise, since the day she’d been born. Pity she had the personality of a rabid honey badger.

Brat suited her a lot better, and had the added bonus of annoying the hell out of her.

‘When is Callie due back?’

He knew why she was asking: she’d rather eat nails than accept help from him. Since his sister travelled extensively as a buyer for a fashion store, her being in the country was not always guaranteed. ‘End of the month.’

Another curse.

‘And Peter—your brother—is still in Bahrain,’ Seb added, his tone super pointed as he reached for a shirt and pulled it off its hanger.

‘I know that. I’m not completely estranged from my family!’ Rowan rose to take the bait. ‘But I didn’t know that my folks were planning a trip. They never go anywhere.’

‘They made the decision to go quite quickly.’ Seb walked back into his bedroom and stared at the black and white sketches of desert scenes above his rumpled bed. ‘So, now that you definitely know that I’m all you’ve got, do you want to tell me what the problem is?’

She sucked in a deep breath. ‘I need to get back to London and I was wondering whether you’d loan...’

When pigs flew!

‘No. I’m not lending you money.’

‘Then buy me a ticket...’

‘Ah, let me think about that for a sec? Mmm...no, I won’t buy you a ticket to London either.’

‘You are such a sadistic jerk.’

‘But I will pay for a ticket for you to get your bony butt back home to Cape Town.’

Frustration cracked over the line as he listened to the background noise of the airport. ‘Seb, I can’t.’

Hello? Rowan sounding contrite and beaten...? He’d thought he’d never live to see the day. He didn’t attempt to snap the top button of his jeans; it required too much processing power. Rowan was home and calling him. And sounding reasonable. Good God.

He knew it wouldn’t last—knew that within ten minutes of being in each other’s company they’d want to kill each other. They were oil and water, sun and snow, fire and ice.

Seb instinctively looked towards the window and saw his calm, ordered, structured life mischievously flipping him off before waving goodbye and belting out of the window.

Free spirits...why was he plagued with them?

‘Make a decision, B.’

She ignored his shortening of the name he’d called her growing up. A sure sign that she was running out of energy to argue.

‘My mobile is dead, I have about a hundred pounds to my name and I don’t know anyone in Johannesburg. Guess I’m going to get my butt on a plane ho... to Cape Town.’

‘Good. Hang on a sec.’ Seb walked over to the laptop that stood on a desk in the corner of his room and tapped the keyboard, pulling up flights. He scanned the screen.

‘First flight I can get you on comes in at six tonight. Your ticket will be at the SAA counter. I’ll meet you in the airport bar,’ Seb told her.

‘Seb?’

‘Yeah?’

‘That last fight we had about Bronwyn...’

It took him a moment to work out what she was talking about, to remember her stupid, childish gesture from nearly a decade ago.

‘The one where you presumed to tell me how and what to do with my life?’

‘Well, I was going to apologise—’

‘That would be a first.’

‘But you can shove it! And you, as you well know, have told me what to do my entire life! I might have voiced some comments about your girlfriend, but I didn’t leave a mate to rot in jail,’ Rowan countered, her voice heating again.

‘We were never mates, and it was a weekend—not a lifetime! And you bloody well deserved it.’

‘It was still mean and...’

Seb rolled his eyes and made a noise that he hoped sounded like a bad connection. ‘Sorry, you’re breaking up...’

‘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 devastatingly 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.