This Time Forever (Australis Island) Read online

  “Talk of the town.”

  “They should learn to mind their own business.” Meg toyed with her glass of wine. “Anyhow, you could be my brother.”

  “Hardly.” He swallowed a long swig of rum and coke. “How do you manage to get along around here?”

  “Let’s order a meal.” She rose and stood in front of the menu board. He stood behind her, almost touching her. His body hummed, and the urge to lean back into him was powerful.

  She placed her order. “Rare fillet steak, please. No sauce.”

  The waiter nodded. “And for you, mate?”

  “Same, thanks.”

  They each paid for their own meal. Jarrad went to the bar and ordered another round of drinks.

  Meg—note to self: no swilling or there’s danger of losing one’s knickers tonight...

  “So, how do you get on here?” he repeated.

  “I have a very interesting job and meet a lot of very interesting people. It’s not just life in sleepy old Murphy. That just happens to be where the house is situated. We could be anywhere.”

  He looked around the dining room. A few people nodded at him, smiled at Meg, clearly a question in their minds. “Would you like to ask someone else to join us?”

  Meg looked him squarely in the eye. “No, I wouldn’t, thanks all the same. I don’t care if they gossip their heads off. It really doesn’t matter.”

  He settled back in his chair. “Donovan’s not your married name.”

  “It’s my name, full stop,” she said.

  “A raging feminist.”

  “Perhaps not raging.”

  He grinned. “How is it you’ve found yourself in a place like this?”

  “You mean a little town with one hundred people in it and not much else, surrounded by a half a million sheep?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “We wanted a place where we could set up a new business and this was the only place on the island without competition at the time.”

  “Bit isolated for you.”

  “I like it like that.”

  “Do you? I’d have thought you’d find it lonely.”

  The challenge in his voice was unmistakable. How could he pinpoint her so easily?

  “You can be lonely in a city,” she fenced. “It’s all right here.”

  He half smiled at her, paused as the waiter thumped their meals on the table in front of them and marched away. “Looks good,” he said, studying his plate.

  “Fingers crossed. Go ahead, tuck in.”

  His conversation was natural, open. She liked listening to him and his easy laugh. Liked watching the way his eyes danced over her face, twinkling with mischief and cheek.

  She’d have to be very careful. This was not just a pretty face to take her eye. A picture of Evan hazily wafted past her vision. Evan had been nice, still was, but the one night stand had killed any sweet affection she may have previously felt for him, and she presumed it was the same for him. Evan had been shocked to learn she was married, so her venturing into that foray had been doomed from the start.

  But Jarrad Scott was different. And suddenly she didn’t want to be anywhere but close to him. Suddenly it meant a great deal to be beside him, to be seen with him, to listen to every word he said and to revel in their conversation.

  By ten-thirty, there was no sign of Martin Wellard. Dennis, the publican, hinting that he was closing the bar, bellowed, “Last drinks!”

  “Shall we head back?” Jarrad asked. “There’s nowhere else to go, is there?”

  “No clubs, if that’s what you mean,” she said and laughed, knowing full well that’s not what he meant.

  He chuckled. “Perhaps a couple of ports at home, then.”

  Home. “All right.”

  They laughed and joked, fenced and jousted until the wee small hours. Martin had come in somewhat under the weather and had gone straight to bed.

  By three in the morning, Meg had mellowed out considerably. There were no warning bells going off, just a hazy contentment talking to a lovely man in the middle of the night.

  “I think I’d better head off to bed,” he said softly and leaned towards her over the coffee table.

  “Mmh,” she agreed and put her glass down carefully. What a disappointment. She hadn’t wanted their talking to end. She stood up.

  So did he, hands dug deep into his pockets. “Goodnight,” he said and smiled into her eyes.

  “Goodnight.” She took a swift couple of steps to his side. “Thank you for being so sociable, for being so kind to me.” She kissed his cheek briefly.

  “My pleasure, Meg, not kindness,” he said and caught her face in his hands, firmly pressing his lips to hers. “I’ll see you tomorrow for that early breakfast.” Without a backward glance he entered his room and shut the door gently behind him.

  Meg stood in the middle of the room, her mind blank for stunned moments.

  A thought crept in about following him, but it wafted past her. That would be just plain foolish.

  But still, to sleep curled up beside him, his arm holding her body to his, her head on his chest... The sound of his strong, good heart beating...

  She shook her head, switched off the lamp and headed for her own room, her own bed and her husband. She decided that it wasn’t as good as the other prospect, but it was probably the smarter option at present.

  “You’re up late enough with that bloke.”

  Meg undressed in the dark and climbed into bed. “Yes. Very pleasant conversation.” She felt peculiar, as if she were cheating.

  Not on Martin. On Jarrad.

  Martin grumbled something unintelligible and rolled over.

  Meg settled under the thick doona. Sleep eluded her.

  Jarrad Scott. His kiss on her mouth was not tentative. It was firm and confident and bold. Her heart was hammering away under the doona and she hoped Martin wouldn’t be able to feel the reverberations.

  What would it be like to slink into Jarrad’s bed and roll back the covers, to feast on the sight underneath? Did he wear boxer shorts to bed or did he sleep in the nude? Nude, she decided. Naked. Bare. Smooth. Strong. Lusty.

  She loved that word all of a sudden ... Lusty. Hot.

  Wanting. Ready.

  Her breath caught.

  In a few short hours I’ll see him again ... Sleep...

  But her thoughts were anything but sleepy. She tried not to think about the outline of his thighs encased in faded jeans, or the big booted feet which touched hers oh-so-casually under the coffee table. She tried not to make anything of the way he stared at her when she was talking, how his hazel gaze never left her face, his eyes flickering from eye to eye as he concentrated.

  And then it was morning. Six thirty. She felt vibrant and alive …wondered why she wasn’t groaning with so little sleep.

  Meg slipped out of bed and dived under the shower. Oh, what a lovely few days it would be.

  Jarrad appeared just as the coffee finished brewing. He breathed in deeply. “Wow, does that smell good. And am I ever glad I have an easy day today. Good morning, Meg Donovan,” he said.

  “Good morning.” She watched that twinkle in his eye. “Sleep well?”

  “Never better,” he returned. “Once I got to sleep.”

  “Must have been the ports keeping you awake,” she commented. “Would you like a cup?”

  “Thanks. And I don’t think it was the port, I think it was the stimulating conversation.” He pulled out a chair at the table.

  She poured a steaming mug of coffee for him. “The conversation, then,” she agreed.

  “You’re as bad as I am,” he said and settled in front of a large bowl of cereal and some toast. “What are your plans for today?”

  “Lots of paperwork. Have to get the lunches ready for the tours. We also have a few other guests in for dinner tonight. They’re coming in off today’s tour.”

  “So I get to sample your cooking after all?”

  “If you like.”

  He l
ooked up from the diminishing bowl of cereal. “I’d be delighted to eat here with you.”

  “Good. I’m sure you’ll meet some great people. That’s the only kind we have.”

  “Dinner it is. I look forward to it.”

  He was gone by seven.

  Martin appeared at eight, showered and dressed. He ate breakfast with yesterday’s paper in front of him. “I have to get those drawings to the builder today,” he commented idly over page four.

  Meg looked up from the kitchen. “Oh, yes.”

  “I’ll be gone all day. Will most probably have dinner in town with the client.”

  Martin did this often, leaving her to entertain guests by herself. Would she mind so much this time? Did she ever?

  “Whatever,” she said and went back to chopping vegetables.

  He left without kissing her, which was also usual. It used to make her feel less worthy not to be kissed goodbye, but when she realised today she hardly noticed, just let it go. She was recently aware that by letting it slide, so had her affection for Martin. Each little piece he took from her, or didn’t let her have, edged her further away from him. He had no idea. How was that so?

  His ‘forgetting’ to introduce her to new people they met. His ignoring her when they were out together. His total lack of affection, sometimes failing to acknowledge that he even had a wife, and that she was his wife.

  She’d thought earlier in their relationship that he did it because he didn’t know any better, and then later that he was embarrassed by her. It caused some fights. He refused to take responsibility for the grievances she had, claiming she was over-sensitive. Some people did call her sensitive. Perhaps she was.

  Now she was barely sensitive to it at all. And he blamed her for that, too.

  Meg shook herself out of her reverie. She had loads of work to do today and it wasn’t Martin who was on her mind.

  Jarrad Scott and his lazy smile dominated her thoughts for hours, almost preventing a good solid day’s work. Meg pushed on through her growing infatuation, watching the clock as it neared five in the afternoon. He’d be home soon.

  How she’d love to feel that way about a man again. To look forward to his coming home to her.

  She momentarily hung her head. So many wasted years. Why had she let it all go on?

  “Deep in thought, Meg?” Anne poked her nose in the door.

  “Just flat out busy, that’s all. Up to my ears in potato peels as usual.”

  She gave her friend a rueful grin.

  “Speaking of which, how busy are you for the coming season?”

  Meg threw her hands in the air in mock exasperation. “I’ll be so busy I won’t have time to scratch myself.”

  Anne stepped inside and closed the door. “Well, I have a proposition.”

  “Yes?”

  “Jeff and I were discussing things. I need a part-time job, Meg. Things are not so good out on the farm, and even though we’re doing okay, I need a little bit extra. You know, food on the table and all that sort of thing.”

  “Sit down. Let’s talk about it.”

  Anne and Jeff had always seemed financially comfortable. Two farms, a holiday house they let to visitors, their own home, and the house Meg and Martin occupied to operate their business. “Are you sure you want to work here?”

  “Rather here than anywhere else. Besides, it’s close. No travelling.”

  Meg laughed. That was true, Anne was right next door. “But it’d be cleaning, and scrubbing dunnies, cooking ...”

  “Sounds lovely.”

  “Glad to have you on board,” Meg said. “And if it were after four, I’d have a drink on it.”

  “It’s getting close,” Anne said.

  “Can’t afford the time right now.”

  The front door opened.

  “Hi, honey, I’m ho-ome,” a deep male voiced sing-songed from the foyer.

  Meg looked at Anne who looked back. “He’s gorgeous,” she mimed to Anne as Jarrad Scott came into view.

  “Oh, hello. Didn’t realise we had company.” He laughed at Meg’s expression. “Hi. Jarrad Scott,” he said and shook Anne’s hand.

  Meg’s knees felt funny, like they wouldn’t hold her up.

  Jarrad was filthy. He smelled of something not even the cat would drag in. His feet were bare but for socks, he’d left his boots outside.

  Anne stood up, her nose crinkling. “Nice to meet you. I think. Where have you been working?”

  “I stink, do I? I was testing at Jim Bonnings place and he asked me to give him a hand in the sheep yards. Sorry.”

  “Testing what?”

  “Soil. But I volunteered for the sheep yards, too.”

  “Ah.” Anne glanced at Meg. “Well, I’m off to put tea on for the old boy. Perhaps I’ll catch up with you later,” she said to Jarrad.

  “Absolutely.”

  Meg turned to Jarrad who stood in the middle of the lounge. “It’s not exactly the done thing to tell a paying guest that he really is on the nose, but—”

  “Okay, I get the message. I’ll peel off this lot, have a hot shower and be out to entertain quick as look at you.” He smiled and the dirt on his face crinkled into his laughter lines. “By the way, it’s good to see you.” He turned before she could react and closed the bedroom door behind him. “Care to scrub my back?” he yelled from within.

  “In your dreams,” she called back. Oh, what a thought.

  She could hear his shower running as she prepared homemade vegetable soup, first course of the evening meal.

  She could see the shampoo lathering in his hair, hot sudsy water teeming over that compact body, his strong soaped-up hands massaging toned limbs and stretching down to scrub at legs and feet...

  The chopped onions were watering her eyes. She brushed away the tears and scraped the onions into the pot.

  ... Back up again to work at the suds clinging to sleek dark hair under his arms, water and bubbles cascading down over the wiry soft spring at...

  She closed her eyes, inhaling an elusive scent, enjoying an illicit moment right there in her kitchen, paring knife clutched in her right hand.

  Soup. Soup. Get on with the soup.

  A car door slammed and she jolted back. Her tour had arrived back twenty minutes early, the big four-wheel drive releasing six weary, happy travelers all staying at her establishment. Introductions were loud as the driver-guide, Garry, joked and played around as usual at the end of the day.

  As Garry went to unload the vehicle of its lunch and picnic gear, Jarrad emerged from his room, hair damp, clean clothes wrinkled but fresh. Meg caught a tantalising whiff of some man cologne and smiled to herself as warmth unfurled inside her.

  Georges, a middle-aged, balding man from France, became very excited. “Ah,”he began, thrusting his outstretched hand to Jarrad. “You must be ze ‘usband of zis woman—she who is ze very good cooker,” he said, pumping Jarrad’s hand vigorously.

  Meg stifled a smile. One, because Georges had said ‘cooker’ like ‘kook-er,’ and the other, because Jarrad hadn’t batted an eyelid.

  “Well, hello Georges. Nice to meet you. I’m not Martin, I’m Jarrad, but I’d sure like to be this woman’s husband.”

  Meg burned crimson to the roots of her hair.

  Georges’s confusion was apparent. “Oh, sorry, sorry. A mistake.”

  “No, don’t be. Delightful compliment.” Jarrad threw a glance at Meg, then introduced himself to everyone. He even helped with bags to rooms and directions to tea and coffee.

  “Hey, I could do a job like this. There’s nothing to it, is there?” he asked as Meg concentrated in the kitchen, fearing her thoughts were plastered all over her face. He came up beside her. “It’s great. You just have to be friendly and be able to kook.”

  Meg cracked. “Don’t,” she whispered between laughs as he stood close. “I won’t be able to keep a straight face.”

  “Good. You should laugh more often.” He sniffed appreciatively. “What’s kooking?”
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  Meg laughed again. “Stop,” she commanded. “Why don’t you open some wine?”

  “Oh, is that the husband’s job?”

  “Dream on, Mr Scott.”

  “I do. I do, I do, Meg Donovan, and I did all day today.” He opened first one fridge and then the next and found a crisp sauvignon blanc. “Where’s the red?”

  She directed him around the house and he fell into his new role as if born to it. One by one, as the couples came out of their rooms for dinner, he applied himself to his task beautifully. He may as well be the host, she mused. He certainly overshadowed Martin.

  At one stage during the meal she felt Georges’ eye on her. He said something to his wife in French and they both nodded. Meg had a little French and Georges had said something like ‘perhaps they have a special friendship’. Jarrad’s flirting with her had not gone unnoticed.

  Guests made their way to bed early. It was ten o’clock, and though all her work was done and she felt weary, Meg didn’t want to go to bed. She carried the last of the coffee cups to the kitchen, rinsed them and switched off the light, knowing Jarrad’s eyes followed her.

  Jarrad stood in the doorway. “One thing about me,” he began, “is that I’m not an idiot. And I like honesty.”

  Meg looked into those deep hazel eyes. They were serious eyes and she tried to meet his stare openly. “No one said you were an idiot. And honesty works best, always. Do you have a problem?” She reddened at her familiarity. It felt like they were having some kind of lover’s tiff.

  He stood with his arms folded, blocking her exit from the kitchen. “A woman who goes to the pub with a guy and then sits up with the same guy until all hours of the morning while her husband sleeps in bed is not the sort of woman I’d call happy.”

  “How observant,” she bridled. “I didn’t see you backing off with the flirting all night tonight. Hardly discouraging.”

  “I said I was honest. Are you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Can you put into words what you want or are you just going to beat around the bush the whole time I’m here?”

  He was so close; a powerful aphrodisiac. So close but still just out of reach. She wasn’t ready to take it right at this moment. Her throat felt dry. “Presumptuous.”

  “I’d rather be a realist,” he said and bent to her face. His lips on hers were firm. “And I seriously risk my good reputation by doing that too often.”