weather-worn semi-circle of red bricks that created the arch above her, drawing his attention to the creamy curve of her neck. His own neck prickled beneath his cashmere scarf as a surge of heat engulfed him and he wondered how it would feel to trace a finger down that smooth column to the soft spot at the base of her throat—
‘This the place?’
The removalist’s gruff voice caught Cam’s attention. He nodded at the two men who’d appeared beside him, digging out the building’s keys as he climbed the steps. ‘Apartment six.’
At his approach, Didi’s gaze darted to his. Wariness changed to recognition, then her brow puckered and her pretty lips twisted into something resembling a sneer. ‘Well, if it isn’t the man himself.’ She pushed up, scattering crumbs. ‘What the hell is going on?’
He stopped a few steps away. ‘My sentiments exactly, Miss O’Flanagan. I’ve been trying to contact you for the past two weeks.’
‘Why?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘I had a personal emergency to take care of.’
‘And now you have another. I’ve been forced to call in the removalists.’ He kept his tone civil, firm. ‘If you can’t give me an alternative address you leave me no choice but to have your belongings placed in storage.’
She blinked. ‘Storage? I’ve got another week.’
‘No, Miss O’Flanagan, you do not. Which you’d know if you’d bothered to answer your phone.’
Her chin came up. ‘The phone I didn’t give you the number for.’
‘There’s always a way.’
She stiffened. ‘Yes, I’m sure there is for someone like you. As it happens I don’t have my phone at the moment.’ The derision in her gaze fled as it shifted to the two men beside him, then to the truck parked at the kerb. ‘I need more time. I have no job, thanks to that night—how am I going to rent an apartment?’
He shook his head. ‘Reconstruction starts tomorrow morning.’
‘Tomorrow morning? Well, that’s just peachy.’ Her mouth pouted in a way that made him want to lick the fruity word right off her lips.
He quashed the urge and resultant heat immediately. Damn. Rather than her own lack of action, she made it sound as if he were the party responsible for her situation. Guilt niggled at him. She had shielded him from personal embarrassment, at least initially, by removing that poster. And he was her landlord after all.
‘You can’t put my things in storage,’ she stated, a hint of nerves behind the grit. ‘I need them.’
‘So, you’ll give me an address.’
‘I told you, I don’t have one.’
‘You don’t have a friend you can stay with?’
‘I’ve only been in Melbourne a couple of months, so no.’
‘You’ve obviously been staying with someone the past couple of weeks.’ He didn’t care for the image that unfurled in his mind—her compact body entwined with—
‘Not in Melbourne—not that it’s any of your business. And as I’ve already told you, I had another week!’ Her blade-sharp voice sliced the exhaust-heavy air.
‘No. You didn’t.’
‘I rang the agent last month about a week’s extension and was told it was okay. As the landlord you’re accountable for this mess.’
‘Obviously there’s been some sort of miscommunication.’ He frowned as he stepped past her, unlocked the door and motioned to the waiting removalists. ‘No extension would have been granted.’
‘But it was.’
Grabbing her bag and box, she squeezed ahead of him into the narrow passage. He allowed her the dignity of opening her own front door with her key and followed her inside. She’d made some attempt at packing, he noted, glancing at the boxes stacked in the centre of the tiny living space. The odour of sour milk wafted from a carton on the kitchen sink. Perhaps she really had had an emergency.
She set the stuff she carried on the floor and marched to the fridge. ‘There.’ She gestured to the calendar, silver eyes sharp as knives, aimed at him. She’d written Eviction Day in bold red letters that dripped blood beneath it. On the wrong date.
Did she get things wrong on a regular basis? he wondered. She certainly had a knack for getting herself into trouble of one kind or another. But she was right about one thing; no matter whom she’d spoken to at the rental agency, as her landlord, Cam was ultimately accountable.
‘Look, why don’t we have a coffee and let the guys do their job?’ he suggested, hoping to smooth things along. ‘Perhaps we can work something out.’
‘I’m not letting them out of my sight.’ She glared at the removalists loitering uncertainly in the doorway.
‘Start with the furniture,’ Cam suggested to the men. ‘We’ll sort out the rest in a while.’ Then to Didi, ‘Pack what you need for now. Why don’t you try your workmates? Perhaps they can put you up for a couple of days while we look for something suitable.’
She flashed him a look that damn near froze him to the spot, then grabbed her bag and box, disappeared into the bedroom and shut the door. He watched the men take the dilapidated furniture—what little there was of it—while he made a call delaying his planned dinner meeting.
Five minutes later she reappeared. ‘I’ve tried my workmates. One’s quit and gone interstate, one’s living with an aunt in a one-bedroom apartment, the other lives in a hostel. I’ve got stuff here I can’t—won’t—put in storage. It’s simply too precious.’ She bit her lip, looking perilously close to tears.
‘Okay. Put it aside. I’ll have it delivered to my apartment, it’ll be safe there.’
She stared grimly at him. ‘Not a chance.’
‘For God’s sake, be reasonable.’ He could tell she was fiercely independent. Judging by the fact that she’d torn down the poster and spoken out for her fellow evictees he also knew she was a woman with scruples. ‘We’ll find you a place for the night. Leave it to me.’
She blew out a breath. ‘Okay. But I’ll be looking for you if any of my stuff goes missing.’
It took forty minutes longer to clear out the apartment but finally the van was gone, the items to be delivered to Cam’s apartment clearly labelled. He waited until she’d exited, then locked up the building.
He turned at the bottom of the steps when he realised she wasn’t following. She stood beneath the awning with her cardboard box and carry bag beside her. Her shoulders drooped and her body seemed to shrink inside the worn coat she wore, which may have been a fashion statement in the eighties but now looked sadly outdated.
He fought the ridiculous urge to bound up the steps and gather her into his arms. The same urge he used to get when his little sister came home at dawn high on whatever her drug
