Dreaming Of You: Bachelor Dad on Her Doorstep / Outback Bachelor / The Hometown Hero Returns

‘It needs work,’ she said with a grin.

He returned her grin. ‘So do my slippery dips.’

‘Yep, they do.’

The laughter in her voice lifted him.

‘But look at how you’ve captured the way the light shines through the trees here. It’s beautiful.’

She turned her face to meet his gaze fully and light trembled in her eyes. ‘You can draw again, Connor.’

Her exultation reached out and wrapped around him. He could draw again.

He couldn’t help himself. He cupped one hand around the back of her head, threaded his fingers through her hair and drew her lips down to his and kissed her—warm, firm…brief. Then he released her because he knew he couldn’t take too much of that. ‘Thank you. If you hadn’t badgered me…’ He gestured to the sketch pad.

She drew back, her eyes wide and dazed. ‘You’re welcome, but—’ she moistened her lips ‘—I didn’t do much.’

Didn’t do much.

‘You had it in you all the time. You just had to let it out, that’s all.’ She reached up, touched her fingers to her lips. She pulled them away again when she realised he watched her. Her breathing had quickened, grown shallow. She lifted her chin and glared at him. ‘If you ever turn your back on your gift again, it will desert you. For ever!’

He knew she was right.

He knew he wanted to kiss her again.

As if she’d read that thought in his face, Jaz drew back. ‘It’s getting late. We’d better start thinking about making tracks.’

She didn’t want him to kiss her.

He remembered all the reasons why he shouldn’t kiss her.

‘You’re right.’

He tried to tell himself it was for the best.

Jaz found Connor sitting on the sales counter munching what looked like a Danish pastry when she let herself into the bookshop at eight o’clock on Monday morning.

‘Hey, Jaz.’

She blinked. ‘Hello.’

What was he doing here? Shouldn’t he be upstairs working on her flat? The absence of hammering and sawing suddenly registered. Her heart gave a funny little leap. ‘Is my flat ready?’

‘We’re completing the final touches today and tomorrow, and then it’ll be ready for the painters and carpet layers.’

She’d already decided to paint it herself. It’d give her something to do. Funnily enough, though, considering how she’d expected her time in Clara Falls to drag, this last week had flown.

She’d have the carpet laid in double-quick time. She wasn’t spending winter in the mountains on bare floorboards. Once her furniture was delivered from Connor’s, she could paint and decorate the flat in her own good time.

She edged around behind the counter to place her handbag in one of the drawers and tried to keep Connor’s scent from addling her brain. Handbag taken care of, she edged back out again—his scent too evocative, too tempting. It reminded her of that kiss. That brief thank you of a kiss that had seared her senses.

Forget about the kiss.

‘Did you want me for something?’

His eyes darkened at her words and her mouth went dry. He slid off the counter and moved towards her—a hunter stalking its prey. He wore such a look of naked intensity that… Good Lord! He didn’t mean to kiss her again, did he? She wanted to turn and flee but her legs wouldn’t work. He reached out…took her hand…and…

And plonked a paper bag into it.

‘I thought you might like one.’

Like one…? She glanced into the bag. A pastry— he’d given her a pastry. In fact, he’d handed her a whole bag full of them. ‘There’s at least a dozen pastries in here.’

‘Couldn’t remember what filling you preferred.’

She almost called him a liar. Then remembered her manners. And her common sense. Who knew how much he’d forgotten in eight years?

But once upon a time he’d teased her about her apple pie tastes.

She wished she could forget.

Her hand inched into the bag for an apple Danish. She pulled it back at the last moment. ‘I don’t want a pastry!’

She wanted Connor and his disturbing presence and soul-aching scent out of her shop. She tossed the bag of Danishes onto the counter with an insouciance that would’ve made Mr Sears blanch. ‘Why are you here, Connor? What do you want?’

‘I want to thank you.’

‘For?’

‘For your advice to me about Melly. For making me draw again.’

He’d already thanked her for that—with a kiss!

She didn’t want that kind of thanks, thank you very much. Her heart thud-thudded at the thought of a repeat performance, calling her a liar.

‘I think I’ve made a start on winning back Mel’s trust.’

‘If Saturday’s evidence is anything to go by, I think you’re right.’ And she was glad for him.

Glad for Melly, she amended.

Okay—she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, slid her hands into the pockets of her trousers—she was glad for both of them, but she was gladder for Melly.

‘Look, Jaz, I’ve been thinking…’

Her mouth went dry. Something in his tone… ‘About?’

‘What if you didn’t leave Clara Falls at the end of this twelve months?’

Her jaw dropped.

He raised both hands. ‘Now hear me out before you start arguing.’

She supposed she’d have to because she appeared to have lost all power of speech.

‘What if you opened your art gallery in the mountains? It has two advantages over the city. One— lower rents. And two—you’d get the passing tourist trade.’ He spread his arms in that way. ‘Surely that has to be good.’

Of course it was good, but—

‘There’s an even bigger tourist trade in Sydney,’ she pointed out.

‘And you’ll only attract them if you find premises on or around the harbour.’

She could never afford that.

‘What’s more, if you settle around here you’ll be close to the bookshop if you’re needed, and it’s an easy commute to the city on the days you’re needed in at the tattoo parlour.’

He spread his arms again. ‘If you think about it, it makes perfect sense.’

‘No, it doesn’t!’

He didn’t look the least fazed by her outburst. ‘Sure it does. And, Jaz, Clara Falls needs people like you.’

She gaped at him then. ‘It’s official—Connor Reed has rocks in his head.’ She stalked through the shop to the kitchenette. ‘People like me?’ She snorted. ‘Get real!’

‘People who aren’t afraid of hard work,’ Connor said right behind her. ‘People who care.’

‘You’re pinning the wrong traits on the wrong girl.’ She seized the jug and filled it.

He leant his hip against the sink. ‘I don’t think so. In fact, I know I’m not.’

She would not look into those autumn-tinted eyes. After a moment’s hesitation, she lifted a mug in his direction in a silent question. Common courtesy demanded she at least offer him coffee. After all, he had supplied the pastries.

‘Love one,’ he said with that infuriating cheerfulness that set her teeth on edge.

He didn’t speak while she made the coffees. She handed him one and made the mistake of glancing into those eyes. Things inside her heated up and melted down, turned to mush.

No mush, she ordered.

That didn’t work so she dragged her gaze away to stare out of the window.

‘Clara Falls needs you, Jaz.’

‘But I don’t need Clara Falls.’

He remained silent for so long that she finally turned and met his gaze. The gentleness in his eyes made her swallow.

‘That’s where I think you’re wrong. I think you need Clara Falls as much as you ever did. I think you’re still searching for the same security, the same acceptance now as you did when you were a teenager.’

Very carefully, she set her coffee down because throwing it all over Connor would be very poor form…and dangerous. The coffee was hot. Very hot. ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘You might not want to admit it, but you know I’m right.’

‘Garbage! You’re the guy with rocks in his head, remember?’

‘Frieda knew it too. It’s why she wanted you to come back.’

Her mother’s name was like a punch to the solar plexus. She wanted to swing away but there wasn’t much swinging room in the kitchenette, and to leave meant walking—squeezing—past Connor. If he tried to prevent her from leaving, it would bring them slam-bang up against each other—chest-to-chest, thigh-to-thigh. She wasn’t risking that.

She tossed her head. ‘How do you know what my mother thought?’

He glanced down into his coffee and it hit her then. ‘You…the pair of you talked about me… behind my back?’

‘We’d have been happy to do it to your face, Jaz, if you’d ever bothered to come back.’

Guilt swamped her. And regret. How could she have put her mother through so much? Frieda had only ever wanted Jaz’s happiness. Jaz had returned that love by refusing to set foot back in Clara Falls. She’d returned that love by breaking her mother’s heart.

Connor swore at whatever he saw in her face. He set his mug down and took a step towards her. Jaz seized her coffee, held it in a gesture that warned him he’d wear it if he took another step. ‘Don’t even think about it!’ If he touched her, she’d cry. She would not cry in front of him.

He settled back against the sink.

‘I know I am responsible for my mother’s death, Connor. Rubbing my nose in that fact, though, hardly seems the friendly thing to do.’

Frown lines dug furrows into his forehead, drew his eyebrows down low over his eyes. ‘What the hell…! You are not responsible for Frieda’s suicide.’

He believed that, she could tell. She lifted her chin. He could believe what he liked. She knew the truth.

He straightened. ‘Jaz, I—’

‘I don’t particularly want to talk about this, Connor. And, frankly, no offence intended, but nothing you say will make the slightest scrap of difference.’

‘How big are you going to let that chip on your shoulder grow before you let it bury you?’

‘Chip?’ Her mouth opened and closed but no other words would emerge.

‘Fine, we won’t talk about your mother, but we will talk about Clara Falls and the possibility of you staying on.’

‘There is no possibility. It’s not going to happen so just give it a rest.’

‘You’re not giving yourself or the town the slightest chance on this, Jaz. How fair is that?’

Fair? This had nothing to do with fair. This had to do with putting the past behind her.

‘Have you come back to save your mother’s shop? Or to damn it?’

How could he even ask her that?

‘You need to start getting involved in the local community if you mean to save it. Even if you are only here for twelve months.’

She didn’t have to do any such thing.

‘The book fair is a start.’

He knew about—?

‘You’ve done a great job on the posters.’

Oh, yes.

‘But you need to let the local people see that you’re not still the rebel Goth girl.’

Darn it! He had a point. She didn’t want to admit it but he did have a point.

‘You need to show people that you’re all grown up, that you’re a confident and capable businesswoman now.’

Was that how he saw her?

She dragged her hands back through her hair to help her think, but as Connor followed that action she wished she’d left her hands exactly where they were. Memories pounded at her. She remembered the way he used to run his fingers through her hair, the way he’d massaged her scalp, how it had soothed and seduced at the same time. And being a confident and capable businesswoman didn’t seem any defence at all.

‘The annual Harvest Ball is next Saturday night. I dare you to come as my date.’

He folded his arms. His eyes twinkled. He looked good enough to eat. She tried to focus her mind on what he’d said rather than…other things. ‘Why?’ Why did he want to take her to the ball?

‘It’ll reintroduce you to the local community, for a start, but also…it occurred to me that while it’s all well and good for me to preach to you about staying here in Clara Falls and making it a better place, I should be doing that too. I think it’s time Mr Sears had some competition for that councillor’s spot, don’t you?’

She stared at him. ‘You’re going to run for town councillor?’

‘Yep.’

Being seen with her, taking her to the ball, would make a definite statement about what he believed in, about the kind of town he wanted Clara Falls to be. Going to the ball would help her quash nasty rumours about drugs and whatnot too.

‘Our going to the ball…’ she moistened her lips ‘…that would be business, right?’

She’d made her position clear on Saturday during the picnic. He’d agreed—history didn’t repeat. For some reason, though, she needed to double-check.

‘That’s right.’ He frowned. ‘What else would it be?’

‘N…nothing.’

The picture of Frieda she’d started on the bookshop’s wall grew large in her mind. The darn picture she couldn’t seem to finish. Have you come back to save your mother’s shop? Or to damn it?

She wanted to save it. She had to save it.

She shot out her hand. ‘I’ll take you up on that dare.’

He clasped her hand in warm work-roughened fingers. Then he bent down and kissed her cheek, drenched her in his scent and his heat. ‘Good,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven next Saturday evening.’

‘Well—’ she reclaimed her hand, smoothed down the front of her trousers ‘—I guess that’s settled, then. Oh! Except I’m going to need more of my things.’ Something formal to wear for a start and her strappy heels.

‘Why don’t I run you around to my place after work this afternoon and you can pick out what you need?’

‘Are you sure?’ She wasn’t a hundred per cent certain what she meant by that only…she remembered the way he hadn’t wanted her at his home last week. She added a quick, ‘You’re not busy?’

‘No. And I’ve arranged for Carmen to mind Mel for a couple of hours this afternoon.’

Had he been so certain she’d say yes?

You did say yes.

She moistened her lips again. ‘Thank you, I’d appreciate that.’

She didn’t bother trying to stifle the curiosity that balled inside her. She just hoped it didn’t show. It didn’t make any sense, but she was dying to know where Connor lived now. Not that it had anything to do with her, of course.

Of course it didn’t.

‘I’ll pick you up about five-fifteen this afternoon.’

Then he was gone.

Jaz reached up and touched her cheek. The imprint of his lips still burned there. A business arrangement, she told herself. That was all this was— a business arrangement.

Jaz slipped into the car the moment Connor pulled it to a halt outside the bookshop. At precisely five-fifteen.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’

That was the sum total of their conversation.

Until he swung the car into the drive of Rose Cottage approximately three minutes later and turned off the ignition. ‘Here we are,’ he finally said.

She gaped at him. She turned back to stare at the house. ‘You bought Rose Cottage?’

Most old towns had a Rose Cottage, and as a teenager Jaz had coveted this one. Single-storey sandstone, wide verandas, established gardens, roses lining the drive, picket fence—it had been her ideal of the perfect family home.

It still was.

And now it belonged to Connor? A low whistle left her. Business must be booming if he could afford this. ‘You bought Rose Cottage,’ she repeated. He’d known how she’d felt about it.

‘That’s right.’ His face had shuttered, closed.

Had he bought it because of her or in spite of her?

‘Your things are in there.’

She dragged her gaze from the house to follow the line of his finger to an enormous garage.

He wasn’t going to invite her inside the house?

She glanced into his face and her anticipation faded. He had no intention of inviting her inside, of giving her the grand tour. She swallowed back a lump of disappointment…and a bigger lump of hurt. The disappointment she could explain. She did what she could to ignore the hurt.

‘Shall we go find what you need?’

‘Yes, thank you, that would be lovely.’

She followed him into the garage, blinked when he flicked a switch and flooded the cavernous space with stark white light. Her things stood on the left and hardly took up any space at all. ‘All I need is—’

She stopped short. Then veered off in the opposite direction.

‘Jaz, your stuff is over here!’

She heard him, but she couldn’t heed his unspoken command. She couldn’t stop.

Her feet did slow, though, as she moved along the aisle of handmade wood-turned furniture that stood there—writing desks, coffee tables, chests. She marvelled at their craftsmanship, at the attention paid to detail, at the absolute perfection of each piece.

‘You made these?’

‘Yes.’

The word left him, clipped and short.

He didn’t need to explain. Jaz understood immediately. This was what he’d thrown himself into when he’d given up his drawing and painting.

‘Connor, you didn’t give up your art. You just… redirected it.’

He didn’t say anything.

‘These pieces are amazing, beautiful.’ She knelt down in front of a wine rack, reached out and trailed her fingers across the wood. ‘You’ve been selling some of these pieces to boutiques in Sydney, haven’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I came across a piece similar to this a couple of years back.’ She forced herself upright. If she’d known then that Connor had made it she’d have moved heaven and earth to buy it.

‘I went into that shop in my lunch hour every day for a week just to look at it.’

His face lost some of its hardness. ‘Did you buy it?’

‘No.’ It had been beyond her budget. ‘I couldn’t justify the expense at the time.’

She sensed his disappointment, though she couldn’t say how—the set of his shoulders or his lips, perhaps?

‘Mind you,’ she started conversationally, ‘it did take a whole week of lecturing myself to be sensible…and if it had been that gorgeous bookcase—’ she motioned across to the next piece ‘—I’d have been lost…and horrendously in debt. Which is why I’m going to back away from it now, nice and slow.’

Finally he smiled back at her.

‘My things!’ She suddenly remembered why they were here. ‘I’ll just grab them and get out of your hair.’

He didn’t urge her to take her time. He didn’t offer to show her any of the other marvels lined up in the garage. She told herself she was a fool for hoping that he would.

CHAPTER EIGHT

WHEN Jaz opened the door to him on Saturday evening, Connor’s jaw nearly hit the ground. She stood there in a floor-length purple dress and he swore he’d never seen anything more perfect in his life. The dress draped the lines of her body in Grecian style folds to fasten between her breasts with a diamanté brooch. It oozed elegance and sex appeal. It suited the confident, capable businesswoman she’d become.

Ha! No, it didn’t. Not in this lifetime. That dress did not scream professional businesswoman. The material flowed and ran over her body in a way that had his hands itching and his skin growing too tight for the rest of his body. It definitely wasn’t businesslike. What he wanted to do to Jaz in that dress definitely wasn’t businesslike.

He had to remind himself that the only kind of relationship Jaz wanted with him these days was businesslike.

He had to remind himself that that was what he wanted too.

‘Hi, Connor.’

Gwen waved to him from the end of the hallway. It made him realise that he and Jaz hadn’t spoken a word to each other yet. He took in Jaz’s heightened colour, noted how her eyes glittered with an awareness that matched his own, and desire fire-balled in his groin. If they were alone, he’d back her up against a wall, mould each one of her delectable curves to the angles of his body and slake his hunger in the wet shine of her lips.

No, he wouldn’t!

Bloody hell. Get a grip, man. This is a business arrangement. He tried to spell out the word in his head—B-U-S… It was a sort of business arrangement, he amended. He wanted to help Jaz the way she’d helped him. He wanted to prove to her that Clara Falls was more than Mr Sears and his pointed conservatism. He wanted her to see the good here— the way Frieda had. Instinct told him Jaz needed to do at least that much. If she wanted to leave at the end of twelve months after that, then all power to her.

He glanced down into her face and tried to harden himself against the soft promise of her lips…and the lush promise of her body.

Gwen strode down the hallway. ‘Are you okay, Connor?’

He realised he still hadn’t uttered a word. ‘Uh…’ He cleared his throat, ran a finger around the inside collar of his dress shirt. ‘These things cut a man’s windpipe in two. I feel as trussed up as a Sunday roast.’

‘You look damn fine in it, though.’

‘You’re looking pretty stunning yourself,’ manners made him shoot back at her. In truth, with Jaz in the same room he barely saw Gwen. He had a vague impression of red and that was about it.

Jaz folded her arms and glared at him. Man, what had he done now? He turned back to Gwen. ‘Who’s your date tonight, then?’

Gwen shook her head. ‘I’m going stag this year. I don’t want to be shackled to any man. Not when there’ll be so many eligible males to choose from this evening.’

Fair enough. ‘Need a lift?’

‘No, thank you. I mean to be fashionably late.’

‘Do you expect me to be shackled to you all evening?’ Jaz demanded.

He stiffened. Yes, dammit!

He rolled his shoulders. No, dammit.

So much for relaxation. ‘We arrive together. We leave together. We eat together. First dance and last dance.’ He rattled each item off. They were non-negotiable as far as he was concerned. ‘Fair enough?’ he barked at her. They’d settle this before they left.

She didn’t bat an eye. ‘Fair enough,’ she agreed.

The pulse at the base of his throat started to slow. He found he could breathe again. He meant to negotiate more than two dances out of her, come hell or high water. He meant to hold her in his arms, enjoy the feel of her, safe in the knowledge that nothing could happen in such a public place.

He turned to find Gwen staring at him with narrowed eyes. He gulped. ‘I…er…want her to schmooze,’ he tried to explain.

‘I just bet you do,’ she returned with evil knowingness.

‘I…’ He couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.

Jaz jumped in. ‘Did you know that Connor is planning to challenge Gordon Sears for the town councillor position at the next election?’

Gwen’s jaw dropped. ‘Are you serious? But you’re not some power-hungry nob.’

‘No, he’s not.’ Satisfaction threaded through Jaz’s voice. ‘Which should make him the perfect candidate, don’t you think?’

He stood a little straighter at her praise, pushed his shoulders back.

‘It at least makes him better than Gordon Sears, but enough of that.’ Gwen dismissed the subject with a wave of her hand. ‘Make Jaz’s day and tell her the move is complete.’

‘It’s all done.’ His men had moved Jaz’s things out of his garage and into her flat today. He hadn’t helped move those things. Whenever he’d driven into the garage, walked through the garage, walked past the garage, and saw her things there, he’d had an insane urge to go through them to try and discover a clue as to how she’d spent the last eight years. He hadn’t. He wouldn’t. But he’d put himself out of temptation’s way today and had taken Mel for a hot chocolate and another skyway ride instead. ‘You can move in and start unpacking as early as tomorrow if you want.’

When he’d driven the van into the garage this afternoon and found all her things gone, it had left a hole inside him as big as the Jamison Valley. Why?

Because you’re an idiot, that’s why. Because you still want her.