problem,’ she tossed at him, taking secret satisfaction in the tightening of his jaw.
Though her pulse did skip a little as she passed him by. Nic Moretti had the kind of aggressive masculinity that would threaten any woman’s peace of mind. Serena tried telling herself he was probably gay. Many artistic men were. In fact, he had the mean, moody and magnificent look projected by the pin-up models in the gay calendars her former employer had lusted over in his hairdressing salon.
Mentally she could hear Ty raving on, ‘Great pecs, washboard stomach, thighs to die for…’
The old patter dried up as the view in front of her claimed her interest. The foyer was like the apron of a stage, polished boards underfoot, fabulous urns dressing its wings. Two steps led down to a huge open living area where practically every piece of furniture was an ultra-modern objet d’art. Mind-boggling stuff.
Beyond it all was a wall of glass which led her gaze outside to a vast patio shaded by sails, and a luxurious spa from which a water slide—the infamous slippery dip—led to a glorious swimming pool on a lower level. She didn’t see a kennel anywhere, nor the dog she’d come to collect.
She threw an inquiring glance back over her shoulder to the man in charge, only to find his gaze fastened on her derrière. Her heart skipped several beats. Nic Moretti couldn’t be gay. Only heterosexual men were fascinated by the jutting contours of the well-rounded backside that had frequently embarrassed Serena by drawing wolf-whistles.
It wasn’t really voluptuous. Her muscle tone was good, no dimple of cellulite anywhere. She simply had a bottom that stuck out more than most, or was more emphasised by the pit in her back. Of course, wearing shorts probably did draw more attention to it, but she saw no reason to hide the shape of her body anyway. At least the denim didn’t invite the pinching she had sometimes been subjected to in the streets of Sydney while waiting for a pedestrian traffic light to change to green.
It was just her bad luck that Lyall Duncan was a bottom man, finding that particular piece of female equipment sexier than big breasts or long legs or whatever else men fancied in a woman. More to the point, he’d told Nic Moretti so, the memory of which instantly turned up Serena’s heat level. Was he recognising this feature of her?
‘Where might I find Cleo?’ she rapped out, snapping his attention back to the business in hand.
His gaze lifted but the dark frown returned, as though he was pulling his wandering mind back from a place he found particularly vexatious. ‘I don’t know,’ he said testily. ‘I’ve only just rolled out of bed…’
‘What do we have here?’ another voice inquired, a female voice lifted in a supercilious upper class drawl.
Serena’s hackles rose again. Her head whipped around. The newcomer on the scene was drifting into the open living area from what had to be a bedroom wing. She was wearing a slinky thigh-length silk and lace negligee in an oyster shade, one arm up, lazily ruffling long tawny hair. An amused little smile sat on a face that could have graced the cover of a fashion magazine, as could the rest of her, the tall slender figure being of model proportions.
‘Ah…Justine…’ Nic Moretti said in deep relief.
Perfect name for her, Serena thought caustically.
‘…have you seen Cleo? This…uh…lady…has come to collect her for some grooming.’
He’d forgotten her name. Typical! Not important enough on his social scale to remember. Which was just as well, given other memories he might be nursing.
‘Grooming!’ Justine rolled her eyes. Green eyes. ‘Pity she hasn’t come to put the monster down. You should have let the wretched little beast drown yesterday, Nic.’
‘Angelina would never forgive me if I let any harm come to her pet, Justine,’ he reproved in a tight tone.
‘It’s obviously spoiled rotten,’ came the sneering response.
‘Nevertheless…’
‘You’ll find it shut up in the laundry,’ she informed with towering distaste. ‘I don’t know how you could have slept through all its yap-yap-yapping outside the bedroom door last night. It was driving me mad. And the little bitch was so rabid, I had to pick it up by its collar and carry it away from me.’
Half choking it to death, Serena thought venomously.
‘You should have woken me. Let me deal with it,’ Nic grated out, undoubtedly aware of the cruelty to animals tag which was fast gathering more momentum.
Great company he kept! Hot body, cold mean heart. Serena viewed Justine from a mountain of contempt as she carried on like a spoiled rich bitch who expected to always be the centre of attention.
‘Leaving me alone while you nurse-maided a dog? No thanks.’ Her eyelids lowered in flirtatious play. ‘Much better to have no distractions, wasn’t it, darling?’
A clearing of throat behind Serena suggested some embarrassment. ‘The laundry,’ Nic Moretti growled, stepping up to her side and gesturing her to follow him. ‘It’s this way.’
‘Watch the mess!’ Justine warned. ‘There’s bound to be some. I threw in a leftover chicken leg to stop the yapping.’
‘A chicken leg!’ Serena stopped and glared at the self-serving woman. ‘Cooked chicken bones splinter. They could stick in the dog’s throat.’
‘Let’s go!’ Nic muttered urgently.
He was right. This was no time to be instructing anyone. Besides which, Justine would probably rejoice if Cleo was dead. At least Nic Moretti had an anxious air about him as he led the way through a space age stainless steel kitchen.
‘Cleo!’ he called commandingly, striding across a mud room area containing boot racks and rows of hooks for hats, coats and umbrellas. Any thought of his own injury from Cleo’s claws was apparently obliterated by the fear of injury to his sister’s pet.
A shrill barking instantly started up, relieving his obvious body tension before he reached the door behind which the dog was imprisoned. He flung it open and the little silky terrier charged out between his legs, flying past Serena before she could react, shooting through the kitchen like a missile, clearly intent on escaping from any form of captivity.
‘Bloody hell!’ Nic breathed, glancing inside the laundry.
A determined dog was capable of creating a lot of damage. Serena didn’t feel the need to comment on this. It was her job to catch Cleo who was now in the living room, barking hysterically, probably at the sight of the woman who had so callously mistreated her.
‘Oh, you horrible little monster!’ Justine shrieked.
Serena pelted through the kitchen just in time to see a vicious kick aimed at the silky terrier who was darting away from it. ‘Cleo,’ she called in a singsong tone, dropping to her knees to give herself less threatening height and tossing a piece of crispy bacon onto the floor between her and the dog.
Cleo stopped the frenetic activity, sniffed, came forward cautiously and snaffled the bacon. Serena tossed out another piece closer to herself. Then another and another as the dog responded warily to the trail being laid. Finally she snatched a piece held in Serena’s fingers and paused long enough
