Wakefield College 01 - Where It May Lead (29 page)

“Hey,” he said in an easy baritone. “I'm Oliver Garrett. I
moved in next door.” He gestured toward the house on the other side of the
fence. “Wanted to give you a heads-up in case you saw me moving around and
thought I was a burglar or something.”

He smiled, so warm and vibrant and alive it was almost
offensive. His gaze slid down her face, scanning her body in a polite but
thoroughly male assessment. She tightened her grip on the towel, glad it was
draped over her shoulders and arms. Managing a stranger's shock then polite
sympathy once he got an eyeful of the impressive scars on her left arm was not
part of her plan for her morning.

“Mackenzie Williams,” she said briskly, offering him her
hand.

They shook briefly, his much bigger hand dwarfing hers. She
made a point of keeping her grip firm and looking him in the eye, a habit she'd
acquired early in her career and one that had always alerted her about what kind
of man she was dealing with.

Oliver Garrett held her eye and didn't seem surprised by the
firmness of her grip. More importantly, he didn't try to grind her hand into
dust with his superior strength. Both marks in his favor.

“I was hoping you could give me some guidance on where the best
place is to grab supplies and whatnot,” he said.

He hadn't shaved for a few days and his whiskers glinted in the
sunlight, a mixture of dark brown, bronze and gold.

She tore her gaze away and concentrated on his question. “There
aren't many shops to choose from in town. One of everything, pretty much, which
takes out the guesswork.”

Her legs were starting to tremble. She needed a protein drink
and a shower and half an hour on her bed. She took a step backward to signal
that she didn't intend to stand on the doorstep chitchatting with him, golden
stubble or no golden stubble.

“Figured that would be the case. It's been years since I was
here. But it doesn't look as though much has changed.”

Nausea rolled through her, tightening her stomach and making
her mouth water. She gripped the door frame. Any second now she was going to
either throw up or wind up on her ass, and she wasn't about to do either in
front of a complete stranger.

“Listen, I have to go.” It came out more tersely than she'd
intended, but there wasn't much she could do about that.

He looked a little shocked, but before he could say anything, a
long, furry body rushed past her and onto the porch. For the first time she
registered that he had a dog, too—a miniature schnauzer by the look of her. A
miniature schnauzer that Mr. Smith was very pleased to meet, judging by all the
tail-wagging and bottom-sniffing that was going on.

“Smitty. Inside,” she said sharply.

“It's okay. He's just saying hello, aren't you, mate?” Oliver
smiled indulgently and bent to scratch Mr. Smith between the shoulder
blades.

Her stomach rolled again. She swallowed and leaned forward to
grab her dog's collar. He was so involved with his new friend that she had to
use considerable strength to yank him into the house, the effort only increasing
the nausea burning at the back of her throat.

“I don't have time for this.”

She wasn't sure who she was talking to—her new neighbor, her
shaking body, her overeager dog. It didn't matter. The most important thing was
that she was about to throw up.

One hand restraining Mr. Smith, she took a step backward and
shut the door. In the split second before it cut her new neighbor from view, she
saw his eyebrows shoot toward his hairline with surprise. One hand pressed to
her mouth, she raced to the bathroom. She almost made it, the spasms hitting as
she stepped over the threshold. Bracing her hands on her knees, her stomach
released its contents all over the tiled floor.

For long moments afterward, she remained where she was, knees
weak, a sour taste in her mouth. An emphatic reminder that her injured body had
its limits. Finally she got down on her hands and knees and cleaned up.

At least she hadn't thrown up on Mr. Sunshine. There was that
small mercy to be grateful for. No doubt he thought she was incredibly rude all
but slamming the door in his face.

She shrugged. There wasn't much she could do about that, and it
wasn't the end of the world. They were hardly going to become bosom buddies,
after all. She'd moved to the beach house for one reason and one reason only—to
recover. She didn't care who moved in next door or what he looked like or what
he thought of her.

She only wanted her life back. And she would bloody well do her
damnedest to get it.

* * *

O
LIVER
HAD
TO
THINK
about it, but he was pretty
sure that no one had ever slammed a door in his face before. Not even an angry
ex-girlfriend. So much for easing the concerns of his elderly neighbor.

Not that there was anything elderly about Mackenzie Williams.
If he had to guess, he'd say she was around the same age as him—thirty-nine—and
judging by her firm, lean body, there was nothing remotely doddery about her.
Nothing soft or warm or welcoming about her, either, from the cool, clear blue
of her eyes and small, straight nose to her very short brown hair.

From the second she'd opened the door she'd wanted him
gone—he'd felt the force of her will like a hand shoving him away. More fool him
for trying to do the right thing in the first place. He wouldn't make that
mistake again, not where she was concerned.

He'd met a lot of women like Mackenzie over the years. Edie had
gravitated to that type of woman—aspirational middle-class, with European luxury
cars in their driveways, addresses in the “right” part of town, foreheads
injected with Botox, fashionably skinny bodies and husbands who earned the big
money in banking or law. The only wonder was that Mackenzie had taken time out
from her no-doubt hectic social schedule to rusticate in the wilds of the
Mornington Peninsula. Hardly the kind of place he'd expect to find an upwardly
mobile, hard-edged woman like her.

He paused climbing the steps to his porch, aware that there was
a considerable degree of vitriol in his thoughts. Perhaps a disproportionately
large degree, given the length of his acquaintance with Mackenzie Williams. They
had been talking for all of two minutes before she'd slammed the door, after
all. Hardly enough time to drum up a high level of ire.

Before his life had turned out to be about as substantial as an
empty cereal packet, he'd considered himself a pretty easygoing kind of guy. Not
particularly prone to temper tantrums, reasonably long fuse, pretty quick with a
laugh when something tickled his funny bone.

Lately, though... Lately he'd noticed a tendency to see only
the darkness, the ugliness in people and the world. And his fuse had shortened
considerably. Six months ago, Mackenzie's little stunt would have made him laugh
and worry about her blood pressure. Today, it filled him with the urge to do
something childish like put Led Zeppelin on the stereo and turn up the volume to
bleeding-eardrum level so that it rattled her windows.

He released his breath on an exasperated exhalation. It didn't
take a psychologists' convention to work out where the impulse stemmed from and
who his anger was really directed at.

Edie.

Except she was a thousand miles away and he hadn't spoken to
her for more than three months.

Because he didn't know what to do with all the anger Mackenzie
had inadvertently triggered in him, he strode through the house and into the
yard, aiming for the shed in the far corner. Nothing like a distraction to avoid
dealing with his feelings.

Strudel kept pace with him, her whiskered face bright with
doggy anticipation. At least one of them was getting something out of this.

He was struggling with the rusty latch on the shed when his
phone rang. He glanced at the screen before deciding to take the call. It was
Brent, his brother.

“You there yet or still on the road?” Brent asked.

“Got here a couple of hours ago.”

“How's the place looking?”

“Old.”

“Coat of paint will fix that. I've been doing some research.
Looks like the big-gun real-estate agent in the area is Dixon and Lane.”

Oliver gave the latch a thump with his fist. “It'll be a while
before I can call the agents in, mate.” The latch finally gave and he pulled the
door open. “Bloody hell.”

“What?”

“The garden shed is stuffed with furniture.” His gaze ran over
chairs, a sideboard, a dresser, a bed frame, all of it crammed cheek by jowl and
covered with dust.

“Any good stuff?”

“I have no idea.” It all looked old-fashioned and heavy to him,
but what did he know?

“We should get an evaluator in. One of those guys who
specializes in estates,” Brent said.

“I guess.”

“You sound tired.”

“Lot of road between here and Sydney.”

“That's kind of the point, though, right?”

Oliver shut the shed door and used his shoulder to hold it in
place while he forced the rusty bolt home. “Yeah.”

“I'll let you go. Speak again tomorrow, okay?” Brent said.

Oliver suppressed a sigh. Ever since he'd told his brother
about Edie and Nick, Brent had been checking in with him daily. As though Oliver
would “do something stupid” if he didn't have his hand held.

“You don't have to keep up the suicide watch, you know. I'm
pissed off, but I'm hardly going to end it all,” he said drily.

For a moment there was nothing but the sound of the wind in the
trees and the distant thunder of surf.

“You're not on suicide watch,” Brent said stiffly.

“Whatever you want to call it. I don't need my hand held.”

“Excuse me for caring.”

Brent sounded pissed now. Oliver ran his hand through his
hair.

“I appreciate the sentiment, okay? But you don't need to
babysit me.”

“Sure. I'll speak to you later.” Brent hung up.

Oliver congratulated himself on being a dick. Brent was a good
guy. A little fussy sometimes, but maybe that came with the territory when you
were the older brother. Rewarding his concern with smart-assery was a kid's way
of dealing with an uncomfortable situation.

Jamming his hands into his coat pockets, Oliver promised
himself he'd call Brent tomorrow. He surveyed the garden, looking for Strudel
before he headed into the house. He frowned when he saw her doing the doggy
meet-and-greet routine with the neighbor's dachshund.

“How did you get over here?” He glanced at the fence that
separated the two properties. It was silver with age, but it looked solid
enough. Obviously there must be a hole somewhere.

“Strudel. Come here, girl. Come here.”

His normally obedient schnauzer didn't so much as glance in his
general direction. She was too busy canoodling with her new best friend,
sniffing and dancing around and generally being coy.

Oliver went after her, scanning the fence line as he walked.
Sure enough, he found a half-rotted board and a hole that was sufficiently large
for a determined dachshund to gain entrance.

“Party's over, buddy.” He reached down to scoop up the
dachshund. The dog wriggled desperately, but Oliver kept a tight grip, only
releasing him when he'd arrived at the fence. He squatted, pointed the dog at
the hole and stood guard until the sausage dog had wiggled into his own yard.
There were a few loose bricks in the garden bed nearby and Oliver used them to
build a blockade. He'd patch the hole properly later, but the makeshift barrier
should keep Romeo out in the interim.

He returned to the house and did a thorough tour of each room,
making notes on the work that needed to be done. He'd reached the kitchen when
he realized Strudel had disappeared. He checked the living room, sure he'd find
her making herself at home on the overstuffed couch. She wasn't there,
however.

He glanced outside as he returned to the kitchen. He stopped in
his tracks when he saw the dachshund planted at the bottom of the exterior
steps.

Bloody hell. Houdini had done it again.

He found Strudel sitting at the door, gaze fixed longingly on
the handle, almost as though she was willing it to turn. He had no idea how she
knew that her furry friend had come calling, but clearly she did.

“You can do much better, girl,” he said. “He's way too short
for you.”

He went outside, Strudel hard on his heels. He watched in
bemusement as the two dogs greeted each other with what he could only describe
as the canine equivalent of a twenty-one-gun salute. Didn't seem to matter that
they'd seen each other less than an hour ago.

“Okay. Hate to break it up, but Houdini has to go home.”

He picked up the dachshund and carried him to the hole in the
fence. To his surprise, the barricade was still intact. He followed the fence
farther into the garden, squirming hound under his arm

By the time he'd reached the rear of the property he'd found
another three holes, which made the dachshund more of an opportunist than an
escape artist. Oliver considered the problem for a few seconds, but he really
couldn't see any alternative to biting the bullet and paying his
not-very-neighborly neighbor another visit. She needed to be made aware of the
issues with their shared boundary. As tempting as it was to simply attach a note
to her dog's collar and send him through one of the many holes in the fence,
Oliver figured the news would probably be better received in person.

He ushered the interloper inside and clipped Strudel's lead
onto his collar. He had to practically drag the dachshund out the door, however,
and he could hear Strudel whining beseechingly as he crossed to Mackenzie's
driveway. He knocked on her door, then looked down. The dog was staring up at
him with sad eyes, the picture of abject misery.