One Night Before Marriage. Anne OliverЧитать онлайн книгу.
had no objections he might put his energy to productive use and fix the place up a bit, bring the garden back to life.
As he set his laptop and paperwork on the tiny desk in his room he noticed the homey touches. The dish of pot-pourri, a handmade candle that smelled of vanilla, the embroidered pillowslip and tissue-box cover.
Twenty-four hours ago he’d never met Carissa Grace; now he was living in her house. He stared at the ad still on the table. What twist of fate had led him to that notice-board yesterday? Was this one of those mystical signs Carissa believed in? He sure as eggs didn’t believe in that mumbo jumbo.
So why did he have this odd niggly feeling in his gut?
To distract himself, he wandered to the kitchen, found a vase for the roses he’d brought from the hotel, put them on the table. Next he picked up the tools Carissa had left and inspected the sink. So she was a plumber too. He wasn’t, but he was prepared to give it a try.
Half an hour, a bruised elbow and a few curses later he had the drain flowing freely—he hoped. He let himself out the back door and hunted up a hose on top of a pile of cracked pots in an old garden shed. She obviously didn’t find time for gardening, which was a crying shame. The garden could be quite spectacular with a little time and effort.
He’d never had a backyard of his own. The simple pleasure of pottering around in your own garden, watching it grow, was not something he’d ever given much thought to. He connected the hose and soon had the water playing over what he imagined had once been lawn. He wasn’t sure it could be revived, but he’d give it his best shot.
The activity reminded him of his mother. Her garden had been her pride and joy. His gut tightened at the memory. Even then she’d been lost. At sixteen he’d been too focused on himself to look at what was going on around him—he’d just known he wanted out of there.
He’d come back four years later and been shocked at what he’d discovered his drunken father had been doing. But she’d refused to go to the women’s shelter he’d arranged, refused to return with him to the outback pub he’d been working in at the time. Still, the guilt that he’d had to leave her with the bastard remained like a wound that never healed.
‘What are you doing?’ The steel in Carissa’s voice had a red-hot edge to it.
He turned to see her marching across the yard towards him, hat in hand, eyes blazing. ‘Giving the lawn a helping hand,’ he said. ‘Looks like it needs it.’
‘And who appointed you gardener?’
He couldn’t resist. He adjusted the nozzle to a fine spray and grinned. ‘You look a little hot and bothered. Let’s cool you off.’
‘Don’t—’ She gasped as the fine mist enveloped her.
Her hat sailed into the dust. Water sparkled on her shoulders, in her hair. She didn’t look cooled off at all. He wondered that the water didn’t turn to steam, she looked so darn angry.
‘Turn it off. Now.’
When he just stood watching in fascination, she renewed her march, this time towards the tap. He moved to intercept her.
Her fingers closed over his as she struggled for the hose, drenching them. ‘Stop it!’
Mud spattered their feet. The smell of wet earth rose around them as her breasts rubbed against his chest. She pulled back, her T-shirt plastered to her body, her pebbled nipples jutting up at him.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ she muttered, swiping her face.
Oh, yeah. He was looking.
Then for just a moment laughter bubbled up, bright and sunny and uninhibited. ‘This’ll cost you, Mr Jamieson.’
The hose slipped to the ground, spraying water over their feet. ‘Tack it onto the rent.’
‘I was thinking along the line of no showers for a week. Teach you a lesson in water conservation.’
‘Then I’d be forced to share yours.’
Her eyes shot laser-bright blue sparks as he hauled her up against him. He felt the exasperation sing through her arm as she pushed at his chest, relished it as he tugged her back against him. It had been a while since he’d enjoyed a tussle with a woman, even if he’d have preferred somewhere more horizontal.
‘What’s the problem, Miz Grace, afraid of a little water?’ Silky legs rubbed against his and he shifted to take advantage. Something about this woman called to him. Her vitality, her innocence? It was more than physical, although his physical needs took precedence at this moment.
Everywhere her body touched him came alive. He knew she felt his erection when she tensed and went very still. That knowledge and the taut, unspoken silence hummed in his ears, beat through his blood. He lowered his mouth until it was an intimate suggestion away from hers. ‘Or are you afraid of something else?’
Her eyes snapped shut. ‘I’m afraid the water’s wasting. I’m afraid when the water bill comes I won’t be able to pay. So now you know, turn off the tap.’
It cost her to admit that, and he eased back. ‘Is that why you let the garden go?’ he asked softly.
Diamond drops clung to her lashes, her pretty mouth was a thin line. ‘You think I like a baked yard?’ She shook her head, scattering droplets.
‘I apologise.’ Reluctantly he disentangled his body from hers and stepped away to shut off the tap. He wanted to help, but knew her pride wouldn’t allow her to accept cash. He’d have to find another way.
He didn’t expect her to be right behind him picking up her hat when he turned. His foot slipped as he tried to compensate and they slid to the ground in a slow-motion pinwheel of thrashing limbs and hot skin. He heard her strangled cry, felt the cool sensation of damp earth rise up to meet them as he frantically twisted his body to take the brunt of the fall.
He ended up on his back, Carissa’s legs around his waist, her breasts fragrant pillows against his nose.
Her moan—or was it his?—sounded through his muffled senses as his hands reached up and clamped on firm buttocks. She squirmed, one nipple brushing his face, his mouth. He acted on instinct, turning his cheek and closing his lips around the hard little bud beneath the cotton.
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