Robyn Grady - Australia - Wicked Mistresses

“This’ll have to do for now,” came the voice, so near and rich the vibrations shot a fiery dart directly at her core. “Can’t help in the underwear department,” he added as she took the shirt and the hand withdrew. “When you’re dressed we’ll bandage those cuts. I want to know they’re clean.”

She finished drying, then slipped the oversized laundered shirt over her head. Bath, shirt, bandages. Do this, do that. He might have saved her life, but did he ever give over being such a boss?

Shirt-tails brushing her knees, she straightened the collar, then drew back the curtain and said, “You love being in charge, don’t you?”

He was crouched by a kitchen cupboard. He seemed to deliberate on his answer and then, hitching back one shoulder, pushed to his bare feet. “It’s what I do.”

Right. Like Alexander had led armies. Only Alexander hadn’t been a bean-counter—

And he hadn’t worn jeans like this man could.

But even as she unconsciously wet her lips at the heart-pumping sight standing tall before her, another vision sprang to mind and she couldn’t smother a laugh.

A wry glint in his eye, he sauntered over. “What’s the joke?”

“It’s just commanding and accountant don’t seem to go. I can’t help picturing a masked crusader, with a big A on his chest and a turbo-blasting calculator cocked in one hand.”

Faint lines branching from the corners of his eyes deepened. “Never underestimate the power of a turbo-blasting calculator.” His gaze fixed on hers, he moved closer still, the low band of his jeans riding and sliding with each deliberate step.

“What about you?”

“Me?” Her attention shot up from the dark hair trailing down from his navel. “What about me?”

“We’re done with the guessing game. Spill.” His pale eyes twinkled. “Who are you?”

Very good question.

“I’m … er … in hospitality.”

His eyes darkened. “Here to check out the opposition?”

“I’m a hands-on type.”

He nodded as if he understood. “How long are you staying?”

“That’s up in the air.”

Seemingly not surprised, he undid the first aid kit she now realised he held. “I’m here for a wedding on Saturday.”

“The Wilson wedding?”

His gaze sharpened. “You’re a friend of April’s?”

“Not exactly.”

“A friend of the groom’s, then? I’m Gabriel Steele, by the way. April’s boss. Or should I say former boss.”

“The bride-to-be resigned?” she asked, and he nodded. “And you’re not happy about it.”

A muscle in his jaw jumped twice before he crossed to the fireplace. He placed the first aid kit on the mantel and, with kindling prepared, struck a match. “April’s a great PA.”

“Guess her fiancé thinks she’ll make a great wife.” And he didn’t want to share with macho man here. Understandable. She’d bet Gabriel had a harem of Girl Fridays back at the office, all eager to rip their veils off.

He retrieved a poker and, with one perfectly sculptured arm bracing the mantel, stirred the embers while virgin flames licked around the logs. “These days I didn’t think marriage meant a woman had to give up her career.” He sniffed. “But good luck to them.”

A vote for feminism? Nina thought not. Did he disapprove of his PA’s fiancé? Or were his reasons more personal? Perhaps he had a thing for this April himself? Or was it more a classic case of “eligible male against marriage” syndrome? Those guys ought to form a club.

But then her mind scuttled back to his name.

She’d known a Gabriel once. Of course she hadn’t seen or heard from him in years. Not since the funeral.

Her stomach double-clutched at the thought of that day and she studied her host’s face again, this time in the wavering firelight. The hawkish nose, the cleft in his shadowed chin, the sharp widow’s peak dead centre of his forehead as he set the poker aside.

The Gabriel she’d known—Gabe Turner—had been a friend of her brother’s, and they’d made an unlikely pair. While Anthony had been sporty, charming, and much sought after by the girls, Geeky Gabe had sat on the chess squad, had worn his hair parted way over on one side, and had owned glasses with super-thick lenses that darkened when hit by the light. Sadder still, Gabe had been poor … or poor by Petrelle standards.

One day she’d let Gabe into their house—more like a three-storey mansion—and when he’d taken off his shoes at the front door, the fourteen-year-old Nina had been appalled. A hole in both sets of toes. She’d whispered across, asking whether they could perhaps buy him a new pair, but Gabe had pressed his lips together and, hands clenched, strode off to Anthony’s room.

She’d only been trying to help, but, thinking back, of course she’d hurt his pride. He’d made a point of avoiding her after that, and heaven knew back then she hadn’t been used to being ignored. Consequently, whenever she’d had the opportunity, she’d pestered him to get a reaction. Any reaction. Give the guy his due, he had never once lashed out.

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

The rich timbre of his voice swept her back to the present. He’d moved into the kitchen.

“I’m Nina,” she said, and as he flicked a faucet to wash his hands she caught the smirk. Her senses sharpened. “Something wrong with my name?”

“Just the last Nina I knew was as thin as two sticks and went around with a perpetual scowl on her face.”

An ex? It didn’t sound as if they’d blasted too far off the launching pad. Still, a man with his attributes wouldn’t have pined for long.

Sauntering back, Gabriel swept the first aid kit off the ledge. Moving past, he took a seat at the foot of the bed and began to sort through bandages and lotions.

“So, Nina, how do you know the groom? You’re not an old flame here to cause trouble?” He looked up, almost hopeful. “Are you?”

“We’ve never met.”

The square angle of his jaw shifted. “You’re not a friend of the bride or the groom, yet you’re attending their wedding?”

She cleared her throat, formed words in her mind to explain her situation, but those words would not leave her mouth. She wanted to tell him. She needed to. She certainly couldn’t lie about who she was.

He dabbed a cotton ball with antiseptic, and indicated with a tip of his chin that she should sit too.

“I’ve got it,” he said. “You’re a wedding planner. One of the experts people hire to make sure everything’s perfect on the day.”

Smothering a sigh, she shook her head and joined him.

The line between his brows furrowed again. “You really don’t want me to dig any more, do you?”

“It’s not that exactly …”

“Look, if you’re more comfortable sticking with Nina the Mysterious for now, I’ll back off. Privacy can be a huge issue, I know.”

She opened her mouth to fess up, but something held her back.

The thing was … she wasn’t sure who she was any more. With each passing day she wondered more. Being here with this delectable man only seemed to confuse the matter. She was a waitress, yet he was treating her like a princess. Once she had been a princess, of sorts, but then her family had lost everything and, not long after, she’d lost her position. Much of her identity had been lost with it.

The truth was she would rather remain Nina the Mysterious for now. Lately she’d felt so exposed and raw and vulnerable … She wasn’t certain she could stand to peel off one more layer—even to the man who’d saved her life.

Not that she was embarrassed that she’d taken a waitressing job. She would rather step up any day than lie around fanning herself and hoping for some miracle to materialise and get her out of this jam. If she was embarrassed about anything it was that her performance here could have been better. If she was going to stay—and for now she had to—the other staff were right: she needed to take it up a gear.