Awakened by His Touch (3 page)

Realising
was his life’s work, but did he love it? Did his face light up like hers when he talked about his latest conquest? Or did he just value it because he had a talent for it, and he liked being good at things. A lot. Getting from his boss the validation he’d never had as a kid.

Laney gave the bees a farewell puff of smoke from the mini bellows sitting off to one side and then slid the frame back into its housing, her fingertips guiding its way. They spidered across to the middle frame and he grew fixated on their elegant length. Their neat, trim, unvarnished nails.

She lifted another frame. ‘This feels heavy. A good yield.’

It was thick with neatly packed honeycomb, waxed over to seal it all in. He mentioned that.

‘The frames closest to the centre are often the fullest,’ she explained. ‘Because they focus their effort around the brood frame, where the Queen and all her young are.’

It occurred to him that he should probably be taking notes—that was what a professional would have been doing. A professional who wasn’t being dazzled by a pretty woman, that was.

‘Seriously? The most valuable members of the community in one spot, together? That seems like bad planning on their part.’

‘It’s not like a corporation, where the members of the board aren’t allowed to take the same flight.’ She laughed. ‘There’s no safer place than the middle of a heavily fortified hive. Surrounded by your family.’

‘In theory...’

In his world, things hadn’t operated quite that way.

‘If something does happen to the Queen or the young they just work double-time making a new queen or repopulating. Colonies bounce back quickly.’

Not all that different from Ashmore Coolidge. As critical as their senior staff were, if someone defected the company recovered very quickly and all sign of that person sank without a trace. A fact all the staff were graphically reminded of from time to time to keep them in line.

‘So the bees work themselves to death, supporting the royal family?’

‘Supporting
their
family. They’re all of royal descent.’ She clicked the frame back into position. ‘Isn’t that what we all do, ultimately? Even humans?’

‘Not everyone. I support myself.’

She turned and faced him and he felt as pinned as if she could see him. ‘Are you rich?’

She wasn’t asking to be snoopy, so he couldn’t be offended. ‘I’m comfortable.’

‘Do you keep all the money you make for Ashmore Coolidge?’

No.
But she knew that, so he didn’t bother answering.

‘Your firm gets the bulk of the money you generate for them and that goes to...who? The partners?’

In simple terms. ‘They work hard, too.’

‘But they already get a salary, right? So they get their own reward for their work, and also most of yours?’

‘We have shareholders, too.’

Why the hell was he so defensive around her? And about this. Ashmore Coolidge’s corporate structure was the same as every other glass and chrome tower in the city.

‘A bunch of strangers who’ve done
none
of the work?’ She held up a hand and dozens of bees skittled over it. ‘You’re working yourself into the ground supporting other people’s families, Mr Garvey. How is that smarter than what these guys do?’

He stared at the busy colony in the hive. Utterly lost for words at the simple truth of her observation.

‘Everything they do, they do for the betterment of their own family.’ Her murmurs soothed the insects below her fingers. ‘And their lives may be short, but they’re comfortable. And simply focussed. Every bee has a job, and as long as they fulfil their potential then the hive thrives.’ She stopped and turned to him. ‘They’re
realisers
—just like you.’

Off in the distance Wilbur lurched from side to side on his back in the long grass, enjoying the king of all butt-scratches. Utterly without dignity, but completely happy. As simple as the world she’d just described.

Elliott frowned. He got a lot of validation from being in Ashmore Coolidge’s top five. Success in their business was measured in dollars, yet he’d never stopped to consider exactly how that money flowed. Always away from him, even if he got to keep a pretty generous part of it. Which was just a clue as to how much more went to their shareholders. Nameless, faceless rich people.

‘I send money to my mother—’

The moment the words were out he wanted to drag them back in, bound and gagged. Could he be any more ridiculous? Laney Morgan wasn’t interested in his dysfunctional family.

He
was barely interested in it.

A woman with a Waltons family lifestyle would never understand what it had been like growing up with no money, no prospects and no one to tell him it was perfectly okay to crave more. Leaving him feeling ashamed when he did.

But a smile broke across her face, radiant and golden, and a fist clenched somewhere deep in his chest.

‘That’s a good start. We’ll make a bee of you yet.’

He fell to silence and watched Laney beetle-busting. Fast, methodical. Deadly. Inexplicably, he found it utterly arresting.

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured eventually.

‘For what?’

‘For generating that silence. I didn’t mean to be dismissive of your work.’

Think fast, Garvey. It’s what you’re paid for.
‘I was thinking about a world in which people only acted for family benefit and whether it could work in real terms.’ Better than admitting he was transfixed by her.

‘You think not?’

‘I question whether that kind of limited focus is sustainable. Outside of an apiary.’

She gave the bees one last puff of smoke and then refitted the lid with her fingers. ‘Limited?’

‘You’ve grown Morgan’s significantly over the past ten years. Why?’

‘To make better use of the winter months. To exploit more of the by-products that were going to waste. To discover more.’

‘Yet you’re not interested in continuing that growth?’

Time he stopped being hypnotised by this woman and her extraordinary talents and got back in the game, here.

Her sigh said she was aware of it too. ‘We don’t need to. We’re doing really well as is.’

‘You’re doing really well for a family of four and a smallish staff.’ Or so the Morgan’s file said. Then again, that same file had totally neglected to mention Laney’s blindness.

‘That’s all we are.’

‘So your growth is limited by your ambition. And your ambition—’
or perhaps lack of it
‘—is determined by your needs.’

Those long fingers that had done such a fine job of soothing the bees fisted down by her sides. ‘Morgan’s would never have come to your attention if we lacked ambition, Mr Garvey.’

Elliott.
But he wasn’t going to ask her again. He wasn’t much on begging.

‘Yet it is limited. You’ve expanded as much as you want to.’

‘You say that like it’s a bad thing. This is our business—surely how hard or otherwise we pursue it is also up to us?’

‘But you have so much more potential.’

‘Why would we fight for a market share we don’t need or want? Surely that’s the very definition of sustainable? Not just taking for taking’s sake.’

He stared. She was as alien to him as her bees. ‘It’s not
taking
, Laney, it’s
earning
.’

‘I earn the good sleep I have every night. I earn the pleasure my job brings to me and to the people we work with. I earn the feeling of the sun on my face and the little surge of endorphins that hearing Happy Bees gives me. I am already quite rewarded enough for my work.’

‘But you could have so much more.’

Her shoulders rose and fell a few times in silence. ‘You mean I could
be
so much more?’

It was the frostiest she’d been with him since walking into the living room earlier. ‘Look, you are extraordinary. What you’ve achieved in the past decade despite your—’

She lifted one eyebrow.

Crap.

‘Disability? It’s okay to say it.’

Which meant it absolutely wasn’t.

‘Despite the
added complexities
of your vision loss,’ he amended carefully. ‘I can only imagine what you’d be capable of on the world stage with Ashmore Coolidge’s resources behind you.’

‘I have no interest in being on stage, Mr Garvey. I like my life exactly as it is.’

‘That’s because you have no experience outside of it.’

‘So I lack ambition and now I’m also naïve? Is this how you generally win clients over to your point of view?’

‘Okay. I’m getting off track. What I’m asking for is an open mind. Let me discover all the aspects of your business and pitch you some of the ideas I have for its growth. Let’s at least hash it out so that we can both say that we’ve listened.’

‘And you think one overnight stay and a tour of our operation is going to achieve that?’

‘No, I absolutely don’t. This is going to be a work in progress. I’d like to make multiple visits and do some more research in between. I’d like the opportunity to change your mind.’

She shrugged, but a hint of colour flamed up around the collar of her shirt. Had the thought of him returning angered her or—his stomach tightened a hint—had it interested her?

‘It’s your time to waste.’

‘Is that a yes?’

‘It’s not my decision to make. I’ll talk to my parents tonight. We’ll let you know tomorrow.’

CHAPTER THREE

W
HY
WAS
IT
that everyone thought they knew what she wanted better than she did?

Bad enough fielding her mother’s constant thoughts on why she should get out more and meet people and her father’s endless determination that not a single opportunity in life be denied her. Only her brother treated her with the loving disdain of someone you’d shared a womb with.

Now even total strangers were offering their heavily loaded opinions.

She’d met Elliott Garvey’s type before. Motivated by money. She couldn’t quite bring herself to suggest it was
greed
, because she’d seen no evidence of excess on his part, but then again she’d only known him for an hour or two.

Though it definitely felt longer.

Particularly the time out by the hives. She’d been distracted the whole time, feeling his heat reaching out to her, deciding he was standing too close to both her and the hives but then having his voice position proving her wrong. Unless he occupied more space than the average person? Maybe he was a large man?

He hadn’t sounded particularly puffed after his hike up the hill. Or while they’d power-walked to the carriage. There was no way of knowing without touching him. Or asking outright.

Excuse me, Mr Garvey, are you overweight?

He’d been just as direct with her, asking about her vision, so maybe he was the kind of man you
could
ask that of? Except she wasn’t the kind of woman who could ever ask it. Not without it sounding—and feeling—judgemental. And, as a lifelong recipient of the judgement of others, she was the last person to intentionally do it to another.

Nope. Elliott Garvey was a puzzle she would have to piece together incrementally. Subtly, or her mother would start pressing the paper for wedding invitations. But she couldn’t take too long or he’d be gone back to his corporate world, because she felt certain that her father wouldn’t agree to a series of visits. He’d only agreed to this one to be compliant with their financial management requirements.

Which didn’t mean she wouldn’t enjoy the next twenty-four hours. As much as she hated to admit it, he smelled really good. Most men in their district let the surf provide their hygiene and they either wore Eau de Farm or they bathed in fifty-per-cent-off cologne before driving into town to try and pick up. Elliott Garvey just had a tangy hint of...something...coming off him. And he was smart, too, which made his deep tones all the easier to listen to. Nothing worse than a phone sex voice on a man who had nothing of interest to say.

Not that she necessarily agreed with what he had to say, but he was astute and respectful, and he’d been about as tactful questioning her about her sight as anyone she’d ever met. Those first awkward moments notwithstanding.

‘So you’d be happy to show him around, Laney?’ her father repeated as they laid the table in their timber and glass home for dinner that evening.

Spending a bit more time in Elliott Garvey’s company wasn’t going to be an excruciating hardship. He was offering her his commercial expertise for free and she’d be happy to see the Morgan’s
range reflected through the filter of that expertise. Maybe there’d be a quiet thing or two she could implement here on the farm. Without taking them global. There was still plenty of scope for improvement without worrying about world domination.

And then there was the whole enjoying the sound and smell of him...

‘Sure.’

She reached over one of the timber chairs and flattened her palm on the table, then placed the fork at her thumb and the knife at her widespread little finger. ‘It’s only one more day.’

‘Actually, I was thinking of agreeing to his request,’ her father said.

The chair-leg grunted on the timber floor as she stumbled against it. ‘To let him come back again?’

‘I’d like to hear the man out.’

‘Surely it couldn’t take more than a day to give him a courtesy listen?’

‘Not if he’s to see the full range of our operations first hand. Too much of it is seasonal.’

Spring and summer were all about honey-harvesting, but the remaining six months of the year they concentrated on other areas of their operation. They lived and worked through winter on the back of the honey harvest. Just like the bees did.

‘How many times?’

‘That’s up to him,’ her father suggested. ‘It’s business as usual for us.’

‘Easy for you to say—you’re not tasked with babysitting.’

‘You’re the best one to talk turkey with the man, Laney. Most of what we now do are your initiatives.’

‘They’re
our
initiatives, Dad. The whole family discussed and agreed.’

Well, she’d discussed and her parents had agreed. Owen had just shrugged.

‘But you created them.’

‘Someone else created them. I just suggested we adopt them.’

‘Stop playing down your strengths,’ he grumbled. As usual.

‘Would you rather I took credit for the work of others?’ she battled. As usual.

Frustration oozed from his tone. ‘I’d rather you took some credit for yourself from time to time. Who knows? If you impress him enough there might be a job in it for you.’

‘I have a job here.’

‘A better job.’

The presumption that her job wasn’t already about the best occupation a person could hope for really rankled. ‘Why would they hire me, Dad? Not a lot of call for apiarists in the city.’

‘Why
wouldn’t
they hire you? You’re as smart and capable as anyone else. More so.’

‘How about because I know nothing about their industry?’

‘He’s trained to recognise raw talent. He’d be crazy not to take you on.’

Laney got the tiniest thrill at the thought of being
taken on
in any way by Elliott Garvey, but she fought it. ‘You don’t just hire someone because they seem generally capable, Dad.’

‘You’re as worthy as anyone of your chance.’

Dread pooled thick and low.
Oh, here we go...
‘Dad, promise me you won’t do the whole Laney-sell job.’

As he was so very wont to do. Over and over during her childhood, much to her dismay. But the thought of him humiliating her like that with Elliott Garvey...
Ugh
.

‘I’ll promise no such thing. I’m proud of my daughter and her achievements and not too shy to admit it.’

‘He’s here to study our operations, not—’

‘I liked him,’ her mother piped up, apropos of pretty much nothing, as she placed a heavy dish on the table with a punctuating clunk. Chicken stew, from the delicious aroma. All organic, like the rest of their farm. ‘He’s handsome.’

Her father grunted. ‘Don’t change the subject, Ellen.’

‘You think everyone’s handsome, Mum.’ Laney lowered her voice instinctively as she and her father helped ferry clean plates to the table, even though she’d heard Elliott Garvey’s expensive tyres on the driveway gravel about twenty minutes earlier. ‘Besides, what do looks have to do with a person’s integrity or goodness?’

‘I can’t comment on those until I’ve shared a meal with the man. So can we please just do that before setting our minds in any particular direction?’

‘You’ll have to invite him first, and he goes home tomorrow afternoon.’ So there went the dinner plan. Conveniently.

‘I
have
invited him. That’s his setting you just laid.’

She straightened immediately. No. She’d only set the table for the usual four. ‘Where’s Owen?’

‘Chasing some surfer tourist,’ his father muttered.

At twenty-five she might still be a work in progress, but her twin had pretty much stopped emotional development at eighteen.
Whatever
was Owen’s perpetual outlook. If he was around to give one and not off surfing the latest hot break.

‘He’s taking her for a pizza, Robert. He had his Saturday night shirt on.’

Oh, well...look out, Surfer Girl, then. If her brother had bothered with a clean shirt he was definitely on the make. Girls and surfing were about the only things Owen took seriously.

‘And you didn’t think to just let us enjoy a quiet dinner without him?’ Laney muttered.

‘Elliott has nothing in that chalet, Helena.’

Uh-oh—
Helena.
Reason had always been her friend in the face of
mother voice
. ‘The chalets are practically five-star, and I’m sure he has a full wallet.’
And an expense account.
‘He could have easily taken himself for a restaurant meal.’

‘When we can offer a home-cooked one instead?’

‘He went out anyway. He might as well have eaten in Mitchell’s Cliff.’ In fact she’d been sure that was what he was doing as the crunch of his tyres on the driveway had diminished.

‘I’m less concerned with what he does than with what
we
do. Extending Morgan courtesy to our guest.’

Laney opened her mouth to protest further but then snapped it shut again as feet sounded on the mat outside. An uncontrollable dismay that she hadn’t so much as combed her windswept hair washed over her.

But too late now.

‘He’s coming,’ her father announced moments later.

Elliott had clearly paused in the doorway and was greeting a dozing Wilbur, which meant his disturbed
man scent
had time to waft ahead. Wow, he smelled amazing. The same base tones as before, yet different somehow. Spicier. Cleaner.

Tastier.

Heat burbled up under her shirt at the thought, but it was true. Whatever he was wearing was tickling the same senses as the stew still simmering in its own heat on the table.

‘Thank you for the invitation, Mr and Mrs Morgan—’

‘Ellen and Robert, please, Elliott.’

He stepped up right next to her. ‘I nicked out to pick this up. Couldn’t come empty-handed.’

Another waft of deliciousness hit her as a bottle clacked against the timber at the centre of the big table.

‘Oh, lovely. That’s a terrific local winery—Helena’s favourite.’

‘Really? I didn’t know.’

His voice was one-tenth croak, subtle enough that maybe she only heard it because he was standing so close. But he wasn’t looking at her, she could tell. Plus, she wouldn’t be looking at him if their situations were reversed. On pain of death.

Her mother laughed. ‘How could you know?’

Was he worried that she might read something into that? Laney spoke immediately to put the ridiculous idea out of the question. ‘You’re either a man of excellent taste or Natty Marshall did a real sell-job on you at the cellar.’

‘She was pretty slick,’ he admitted.

‘Sit down, Elliott.’ Her mother mothered. ‘You look very nice.’

The reassuring way she volunteered that opinion made Laney wonder whether he was worrying at the edges of his shirt or something.

‘He’s changed into a light blue Saturday night shirt, Laney.’

Oh, no...

‘Mum likes to scene-set for me,’ she explained, mortified, and then mumbled, ‘sorry.’

‘Blue shirt, jeans, and I combed my hair,’ he added, amusement rich in his low voice.

Was that a statement about
her
wild locks? Her hand went immediately to them.

Her mother continued to be oblivious. ‘Sit, too, Laney.’

She did, moving to the left of her chair just as he moved to the right of his. They collided in the middle. She jerked back, scalded.

‘Sorry,’ he murmured. ‘Ladies first.’

‘We’ll be standing all night if we wait for one of those,’ she quipped, still recovering from the jolt of whatever the heck that was coming off him, and then she slid into her seat, buying a moment of recovery time as he moved in next to her.

So that was her question answered. She’d felt the strength of his torso against hers. He was solid, but definitely not overweight. Not as youthfully hard as her twin, but not soft either. Just right.

Which pretty much made her Goldilocks, snuggling down into the sensation.

The necessity to converse was forestalled by the business of filling plates with stew and side plates with thickly sliced bread and butter.

‘Home-made bread?’ Elliott asked. Such a charmer. So incredibly transparent.

‘Organically grown and milled locally and fresh out of my oven.’

‘It’s still warm.’

The reverence in his voice surprised a chuckle out of Laney. ‘Are ovens not hot in the city?’

An awkward silence fell over the whole table. She didn’t need to see her mother’s face to know it would be laden with disapproval.

But chivalry was clearly alive and well. ‘Bread starts out hot, yes,’ he admitted. ‘But it’s not usually hot by the time it gets to the consumer. This is my first truly home-made loaf.’

The fact that he needed to compensate for her bluntness at all made her twitchy. And just a little bit ashamed. Plus it made her wonder what kind of city upbringing he’d had never to have had fresh-baked bread before. ‘Well, wait until you taste the butter, then. Mum churns it herself.’

And bless her if her mother didn’t join her daughter in the age-old act of making good. ‘Well, I push the button on the machine and then refrigerate the results.’

‘You guys seem pretty self-sufficient here...’

And off they went. Comfortably reclining in a topic she knew her parents could talk about underwater—organic farming and self-sustainability. Long enough to give her time to compose herself against the heat still coming off the man to her left as they all tucked into the chicken.

Okay, so he was a radiator. She could live with that. And enough of a city boy to never have had home-baked bread. That just meant they came from different worlds. Different upbringings. She’d met people from outside of the Leeuwin Peninsula before. There was no reason to be wound up quite this tight.

She slid her hand along the tablecloth until her fingertips felt the ring of cool that was the base of the glass of wine her father had poured from the bottle Elliott had contributed. She took a healthy swallow and sighed inwardly at the kiss of gentle Merlot against her tongue.

‘Still as good as you remember?’ Elliott murmured near her left ear. Swirling more man scent her way.