‘You can’t fix everything that needs to be fixed. You can’t solve every case that needs to be solved.’
Gemma fiddled with the stem of her wineglass. ‘So why Jingilly Creek?’ she asked. ‘Why not some resort town on the coast or somewhere more densely populated?’
His chocolate-brown eyes met hers, but apart from a tiny tensing movement in his jaw his expression remained unreadable. ‘I felt like I needed a complete change,’ he said. ‘It seemed as good a place as any.’
‘Did you throw a dart at a map?’ she asked.
That brought a flicker of a smile to his mouth, softening his features for a moment. ‘Just about.’
Gemma wondered if there was much more to his move out here than he was letting on. He had an air of mystery about him; an aloofness she suspected went much further than him simply being a cop. ‘So you’ll be the one in charge now at the station?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Constable Grant can now resume his regular duties.’
Gemma wondered how the new broom was going to fit in the broom cupboard down at the small station. In remote areas more junior officers often had to take on more senior positions due to the chronic shortage of staff. There would most certainly be an adjustment period. Jack Chugg had been strict but fair with the locals before he’d retired. Ray Grant had a much more laid-back approach, especially when dealing with other local indigenous people with whom he had blood ties. It would be interesting to see if Marc Di Angelo adopted the same live-and-let-live approach that Ray did. ‘You might have to feel your way a bit,’ she said. ‘Ray’s been used to handling things his way.’
‘I’m here to do a job,’ Marc said. ‘Not win a popularity contest.’
Gemma studied his expression for a moment. ‘It would be nice to do both, though, don’t you think?’
He gave her a cynical look as he leaned back in his chair. ‘Maybe I should take some lessons from you, Dr Kendall, on how to charm the locals,’ he said. ‘Who knows what bonuses might be out here for me to collect?’
Gemma set her mouth and began to rise to gather up their plates. Marc’s hand came down over her wrist and held it to the table. The smile fell away from her mouth, her heart picking up its pace until she could hear it instead of the ticking clock. She felt the slow burn of his touch in his long strong fingers, so dark and masculine against the soft creamy texture of her skin.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Let me clear away. You cooked. It’s only fair that I get to do the dishes.’
She slipped her hand out from under his, her face so hot she felt like she had stuck it in the oven on full fan-forced heat. ‘Th-thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ll make some coffee. I don’t have any dessert. I mean, nothing I’ve made especially. I have fruit and yogurt, if you’d like?’
‘Coffee is fine,’ he said.
Gemma let out the breath she was holding as she opened the fridge to get out the ground coffee. The kitchen suddenly seemed far too small with Marc Di Angelo standing at the sink with his wrists submerged in hot, soapy water.
The domestic scene made her feel as if she had stepped over a boundary way too soon. It was intimate and yet he was a perfect stranger. She was sharing this big old house with a man she didn’t know and yet for some reason she didn’t feel frightened, or at least not in a physically threatened sense. She did feel on edge but that had more to do with her reaction to him: his touch, for instance. What was that all about? Why had her heart started to race like a greyhound when his fingers had pressed down over her wrist? His dark brown gaze had locked her just as firmly in place, those bottomless eyes that saw so much and gave away so little.
She made a business of preparing the coffee when in reality she would normally had settled for a teaspoon of instant. But Italians loved their coffee, right? She breathed in the fragrant aroma as the percolator did its job, her mind wandering as she thought about how long the sexy sergeant would be in town.
In her house.
Sharing the kitchen, the living spaces, the cutlery and crockery, his lips resting on the rim of the same cup she might have used the day before, his lips closing over a fork she had put in her mouth previously. It had never felt like this when Gladys had had guests staying before. The middle-aged couple from Toowoomba, for instance. They had stayed for two weeks and not once had Gemma thought about the towels that had wrapped around their bodies in the bathroom, or the water that had cascaded over them in the shower, or the sheets that had covered them while they’d slept.
The mere thought of Marc Di Angelo in the shower had sent her pulses soaring and this was only the first day. What would it be like in the morning? Would she hear him shaving, or perhaps singing or humming to himself, or was he one of those grumpy types who didn’t properly wake up until ten in the morning or until a double shot of caffeine hit his system?
‘Where do you want these put?’ Marc asked, jolting her out of her reverie.
‘Oh …’ Gemma said, flustered again and unable to disguise it in time. ‘Um … the cutlery goes in that top drawer over there and those plates in the cupboard above.’
She watched as he reached up and stacked the plates, his arms so tanned, so strong, so arrantly male. She swallowed when he turned his head and locked gazes with her. ‘Is something wrong?’ he asked with a quizzical look.
She shook her head, running her tongue out over her lips. ‘Um, no, not at all,’ she said. ‘I was just thinking how I have to stand on tiptoe to get into that cupboard.’
His hand closed the cupboard while his gaze remained centred on hers. ‘You seem a little uptight, Dr Kendall.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ she said, folding her arms across her middle but just as quickly unfolding them as she realised how her body language was contradicting her denial. ‘Why would I be uptight? This is a guest house. You are a guest.’
‘Maybe you should call me Marc as we’re going to be living together,’ he said.
Gemma felt her cheeks heat up again. Did he have to make it sound so intimate? Had he done that deliberately, knowing it would unsettle her? It worried her that he was seeing so much more than she wanted him to see. Those eyes of his were so penetrating and dark, his expression so level and composed, while she was sure she was giving off all sorts of clues to her discomfiture. ‘Marc, then,’ she said, forcing a stiff smile to her lips.
‘Am I your first house guest since you inherited the property?’ he asked leaning his hip against the counter.
Gemma reached for the coffee cups, embarrassed at how she betrayed herself yet again by allowing them to rattle against each other as she put them on the bench. ‘Yes, the first since Gladys died, that is. We had a run of guests a few weeks before she went downhill. The rains we had in the spring brought a few extra tourists our way to see the wildflowers.’
‘Do you mind if I call you Gemma?’
Hearing her name on his lips sent a shower of sparks down her spine. It was like a rolling runaway firecracker bumping against each and every vertebra. ‘Um … of course not,’ she said. ‘No one stands on ceremony in Jingilly Creek.’ She picked up the tray she had put the coffee and cups on. ‘Would you like to have this outside on the veranda? It’s probably nice and cool out there now, or at least cooler than inside.’
