need you to move your car,’ Ava said, tapping her fingers on her arm, obviously waiting as long as she was going to despite Charlie still yakking in his ear. ‘I’m expecting a photographer from a magazine and your beat-up piece of junk spoils the ambience a little.’
Blake blinked at Ava’s request. She’d never seemed more frivolous or more diva-ish to him and he was exceptionally pleased this was the last time he’d ever have to see her.
Yes, she was sexy, and in a parallel universe where she wasn’t an elite supermodel and he wasn’t a glorified construction worker he might have even gone there—given it a shot.
But skin-deep beauty left him cold.
He quirked a you-have-to-be-kidding-me eyebrow but didn’t say a word to her as he spoke to Charlie. ‘I’ve got to go and shift my piece of junk car.’ He kept his gaze fixed to her face. ‘We’ll think of something for Joanna. I’ll call you when I’ve finished tonight.’
‘Who’s Joanna?’ Ava asked as Charlie hit the end button.
Blake stiffened. He didn’t want to tell Little-Miss-I’ve-got-a-photographer-coming Ava anything about his private life. But mind your own business probably wasn’t the best response either. ‘Our sister,’ he said, his lips tight.
‘Is she okay?’
Blake recoiled in surprise. Not just that she’d enquired about somebody else’s welfare but at the genuine note of concern in her voice. ‘She’s fine,’ he said. ‘The charity she runs has hit a bit of a snag, that’s all. She’ll bounce back.’
And he went and shifted his car so he wouldn’t besmirch her Hampstead Village ambience, the paparazzi blinding him with their flashes for the thousandth time.
* * *
It was close to nine that night when Blake—and the diva—were satisfied that the job was finally complete. The evening was still and warm. Tangerine fingers of daylight could be seen streaking the sky through the open glass panels over the courtyard. Blake was heartened that the long-range weather forecast for September was largely for more of the same.
Perfect boating weather.
Dougy and the other two workers had gone home; the photographer had departed, as had the paparazzi. It was just him and Ava signing off on the reno. Dotting all the i’s and crossing all the t’s.
They were, once again, at the kitchen island bench—him on one side, her on the other. Ava was sipping a glass of white wine while something delicious cooked on the state-of-the-art cooktop behind him. She’d offered him a beer but he’d declined. She’d offered to feed him but he’d declined that also.
No way was he spending a second longer with Ava than he absolutely had to.
Although the aromas of garlic and basil swirling around him were making him very aware of his empty stomach and his even more empty fridge.
He was also very aware of her. She’d pulled on some raggedy-arsed shorts and a thin, short-sleeved, zip-up hoodie thing over her bikini. The zip was low enough to catch a glimpse of cleavage and a hint of red material as she leaned slightly forward when she asked a question. But that wasn’t what was making him aware of her.
God knew she’d swanned around the house in varying states of undress for the last three months.
No. It was the way she was caressing the bench-top that drew his eye. As he walked her through the paperwork the palm of her hand absently stroked back and forth along the glassy maple-wood. He’d learned she was a tactile person and, despite his animosity towards her, he liked that.
She’d handed the décor decisions over to a high-priced consultant who had gone for the typical home-and-garden, money-to-burn classy minimalist. But it was the accessories that Ava had chosen that showed her hedonistic bent. Shaggy rugs, chunky art, the softest mohair throws in vibrant greens and reds and purples for the lounges, beaded wall hangings, a collection of art deco lamps, layers and layers of colourful gauzy fabric falling from the ceiling in her bedroom to form a dazzling canopy over her girly four-poster bed.
Even the fact that she’d chosen a wooden kitchen amidst all the glass and metal told him something about her. He’d have thought for sure she’d have chosen black marble and acres of stainless steel. But clearly, from the smell of dinner, Ava loved to cook and spent a lot of time in the kitchen.
Blake wasn’t much of a cook but he loved wood. The family business, until recent times, had been a saw mill and his earliest memories revolved around the fresh earthy smell of cut timber. His grandfather, who had founded the mill fifty year prior, had taught both him and Charlie how to use a lathe from a very early age and Blake had been hooked. He’d worked in the mill weekends and every school holidays until he’d joined up.
He’d personally designed, built and installed the kitchen where they were sitting and something grabbed at his gut to see her hand caressing his creation as she might caress a lover.
‘So,’ he said as their business concluded, and he got his head back in the game, ‘if you’re happy that everything has been done to your satisfaction, just sign here and here.’
Blake held out a pen and indicated the lines requiring her signature. Then held his breath. Tactile or not, Ava Kelly had also been demanding, difficult and fickle.
He wasn’t counting his chickens until she’d signed on the dotted lines!
* * *
Ava glanced at the enigmatic Blake Walker through her fringe. She’d never met a man who wasn’t at least a little in awe of her. Who didn’t flirt a little or at least try it on.
But not Blake.
He’d been polite and unflappable even when she’d been at her most unreasonable. And she knew she’d been unreasonable on more than one occasion. Just a little. Just to see if he’d react like a human being for once instead of the face of the business—composed, courteous, respectful.
She’d almost got her reaction this afternoon when he’d been on the phone and she’d asked him to shift his car. The tightening of his mouth, that eyebrow raise had spoken volumes. But he’d retreated from the flash of fire she’d seen in his indigo eyes and a part of her had been supremely disappointed.
Something told her that Blake Walker would be quite magnificent all riled up.
Charlie, the more easy-going of the brothers, had said that Blake had been in the army so maybe he was used to following orders, sucking things up?
Ava reluctantly withdrew her hand from the cool smoothness of the bench-top to take the pen. She loved the seductive feel of the beautiful wood and, with Blake’s deep voice washing over her and the pasta sauce bubbling away in the background, a feeling of contentment descended. It would be so nice to drop her guard for once, to surrender to the cosy domesticity.
To the intimacy.
Did he feel it too or was it just her overactive imagination after months of building little fantasies about him? Fantasies that had been getting a lot more complex as he had steadily ignored her.
Like doing him on this magnificent bench-top. A bench-top she’d watched him hone day after day. Sanding, lacquering. Sanding, lacquering. Sanding,
