his arms, Jake leaned a hip against the desk, inhaling the fresh, unfamiliar fragrance that had swirled in with her. She was an energising sight for tired eyes. What he could see of her.
Tall and slim as a blue-eyed poppy. Even angry she looked amazing, with that ice-cold sapphire gaze and that way she had of pouting her lips. All glossy and plump and …
He fought a sudden mad impulse to walk over and taste them. Probably shouldn’t have made that wisecrack about a job here. But he’d not been able to resist getting a rise out of her. On the few occasions she’d been persuaded to join them she’d always been so damn serious. Obviously that hadn’t changed.
The muffled thump from downstairs vibrated through the floor. He rasped his hands over his stubbled jaw. ‘If I’d known you were coming I’d’ve arranged for you to drop the suit at my office. My other office.’
She drilled him some more with that icy stare. And he felt oddly bruised, as if she’d punched him in the gut with her … gloved hand.
‘I have to go,’ she said stiffly.
He pushed off the desk. ‘I’ll walk you down.’
‘No. I’d really rather you didn’t.’
The tone. He knew well enough not to mess with it and crossed his arms. ‘Okay. Thanks again for dropping the suit by. Appreciate it.’
‘Glad to hear that, because it’s a one-off.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow night at the wedding dinner.’
‘Seven-thirty.’ She hitched her bag higher. ‘Don’t be late.’
‘Emma …’ She glanced back and he thought once again of poppies. About lying in a field of them on a summer’s day. With Emma. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
She didn’t reply, but she did hesitate, staring at him with those fabulous eyes and allowing him to indulge in the cheerful poppy fantasy a few seconds longer. And he could have sworn he felt a … zap. Then she nodded once and her head snapped back to the doorway.
He watched her leave, admiring the way she moved, all straight and sexy and classy. He wondered for a moment why he’d never pursued anything with her back in the day. He’d seen her look his way more than once when she’d thought he wasn’t watching.
His lingering smile dropped away. He knew why. Emma Byrne didn’t know the meaning of fun, and she certainly didn’t know how to chill out. She wore serious the way other women wore designer jeans.
Jake, on the other hand, didn’t do serious. He didn’t do commitment. He enjoyed women—on his terms. Women who knew the score. And when it was over it was over, no misunderstandings. No looking back. But, hoo-yeah … He couldn’t deny this lovely, more mature, more womanly Emma turned him on. Big time.
The door closed and he listened to her footsteps fade, stretching his arms over his head, imagining her walking downstairs. In that neck-to-ankle armour—which only added to the sexual intrigue. Did she even realise that? He should have escorted her down, he thought again. But the lady, and everything about her body language, had said a very definite no.
Shaking off the lusty thoughts, he rolled down his shirtsleeves. Damn Earl, the SOB who’d fathered him, for dying and leaving him this mess to sort out. No one knew of Jake’s connection to this club, with the exception of Ry and his parents and more recently his PA.
And now Emma Byrne.
‘Hell.’ He checked the time, then shoved his phone in his pocket. He didn’t have time for that particular complication right now—he had an important business meeting to attend. Grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair, he headed downstairs.
CHAPTER TWO
AND she’d told him not to turn up late.
‘She’d better have a good excuse,’ Jake muttered the following evening as he swung a left in his BMW and headed for Sydney’s seaside suburb of Coogee Beach, where Emma lived with her mother and Stella. As Ryan’s best man he’d had no choice but to elect himself to conduct the search party.
Or maybe she’d decided she didn’t want to run into Jake Carmody again so soon.
She’d always been big on responsibility, he recalled, and tonight was her sister’s night, so he figured she wouldn’t opt out without a valid reason. But she hadn’t answered her mobile and concern gnawed at his impatience. He tapped the steering wheel while he waited at a red light. A trio of teenagers skimpily dressed for a night on the town crossed in front of him, their feminine voices shrill and excited.
Maybe Emma wasn’t the same girl these days. Maybe she had decided to swap those self-imposed obligations for some fun at last. After all, apart from those few minutes yesterday, when neither of them had actually been themselves, how long had it been since he’d seen her?
His gut tensed an instant at the memory. He knew exactly when he’d last seen her. Seven months ago at Stella and Ryan’s engagement party. He knew exactly what she’d been wearing too—a long, slinky strapless thing the colour of moon-drenched sea at midnight.
Or some such garment. He forced his hands to loosen on the wheel. Unclenched his jaw. So what if he’d noticed every detail, down to the last shimmering toenail? A guy could look.
He’d arrived in time to see her leave hand in hand with some muscled blond surfie type. Wayne something or other, Stella had told him. Apparently Emma and Wayne were a hot item.
Maybe Surfer Boy was the reason she’d lost track of time …
Frowning at the thought, he pulled into the Byrnes’ driveway overlooking the darkening ocean. The gates were open and he came to a stop beside an old red hatchback parked at the top of a flight of stone steps.
Perched halfway down the sloping family property was the old music studio, where he remembered spending afternoons in the latter days of high school. Early-evening shadows shrouded the brick walls but muted amber light shone through the window. Emma lived there now, he’d been informed, and she was obviously still at home. In the absence of any other car on the grounds, it seemed she was also alone.
Swinging his car door open, he pulled out his phone. ‘Ry? Looks like she hasn’t even left yet.’ He strode to the steps, flicking impatient fingers against his thigh. ‘We’ll be there soon.’
Pocketing the phone, he continued down the stairs. If he could make it on time to this wedding dinner after the hellish day he’d had, trying to stay on top of two businesses, so could Emma. She was the bridesmaid, after all.
Some sort of relaxation music drifted from the window, accompanying the muted shoosh-boom of the breakers on the beach. He slowed his steps, breathing in the calming fragrant salt air and honeysuckle, and ordered himself to simmer down.
The peal of the door chime accompanied by a sharp rapping on her front door jerked Emma from her work. She refocused, feeling as if she was coming out of a deep-sleep cave. She checked her watch. Blinked. Oh, no. She’d assured Stella she’d be right along when the family had left nearly half an hour ago.
Which officially made her the World’s Worst Bridesmaid.
