Rita didn’t hear the apartment door open, but she did hear Ivan’s steps as he roamed around it and finally tracked her to the tiny laundry room.
“I told you to relax.” He stood in the doorway, large and exasperated.
She finished transferring her new clothes from the washing machine to the dryer. She’d never owned a dryer. She’d always pegged her washing to the line in the back yard, near the old lemon tree. She hesitated a moment, checking the simple options for drying clothes, then pressed ‘start’. “I don’t like wearing new clothes till they’ve been washed.”
“I guess I should be grateful you used my machine and didn’t go to a Laundromat.”
She concentrated on straightening the laundry basket. She had actually considered a Laundromat before realising the ridiculousness of such an action of independence.
“I need a beer.” He stalked off to the kitchen, opened the fridge door and stopped.
“I hope you don’t mind.” She darted around him to stir the sauce simmering on the stove. Tomato and basil. She’d found both at the supermarket. So much better than bottled sauces. “I thought I’d make dinner, as a kind of thank you. I hope you like ravioli? It’s spinach and ricotta.”
“Fine.”
“I bought a Greek salad and there’s chocolate gelato and strawberries for dessert.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“Yes. It took me ages to find some clothes. I didn’t want to buy things that I’d never wear again. So now I have enough to get me through a few days. I can buy more in my lunch hours.”
The frown that had been lifting from his face, descended again. “You can have as much time off as you need.”
“I’ll manage.”
He looked like he’d like to argue, but instead turned back to the fridge. When he straightened, he held a bottle of champagne. “Since I’m getting a home-cooked meal, this is better than beer.” He nudged her out of the way with a hip as he reached for glasses.
The champagne cork popped and he poured the bubbly generously.
She decided bleakly that he undoubtedly had lots of practice. The women he brought back to the apartment were definitely the champagne type.
“I bought the champers for my cousin Joe’s engagement party, then the Karim case erupted at work. I never made it to the party.”
He couldn’t be reading her mind, she assured herself. But she kept her gaze fastened on his throat rather than meet those clever eyes, as she accepted a glass. She sipped and savoured the tingle of bubbles on her tongue. “It’s lovely.”
“Definitely better than a solo dinner and a beer. Can I help with anything?”
“All that needs doing is to boil the pasta, and that’ll be whenever you want to eat.”
“How about we enjoy the glass of champagne, then think about eating?”
She nodded and followed him out onto the balcony. At evening, the view across the river was breath-taking. She sat on a comfortably cushioned chair and watched the stream of traffic trailing home to the suburbs.
Ivan slouched back and lifted his feet onto the balcony’s railing.
She grinned at the long length of leg. “How tall are you?”
“Six three. You’re not so short yourself.”
“Five nine.” She drank some champagne. It was better to delude herself that it was the alcohol and not Ivan, quiet and reliable beside her, that was responsible for her sudden sense of relaxation.
They sat in silence as the sun went down and the traffic eased. Rita glanced at her new watch and blinked. Her clothes would be dry by now and both their glasses were empty.
“I’ll put the water on for the pasta.” She filled the pot, added salt and placed it on the stove before rescuing her clothes from the dryer. By the time they were folded and stowed in her new suitcase, the water was boiling.
Ivan had set the table. He leaned against the island bench. “I had them put up fencing around your house.”
“Thanks.”
After their easy silence on the balcony, her sudden self-consciousness surprised her. Perhaps it was the domesticity. “Why did you call me last night? What was the emergency?”
“Kai’s son, Aaron.”
“What’s he done now?”
Gordon Kai was a multimillionaire. His son Aaron was a troublemaker.
“He got mixed up with one of the bikie gangs on the Gold Coast.”
During her year with Tamerlane Security Rita had learned a lot. The bikies were not people to mess with.
“Have you gotten him out of it?”
“Caleb’s negotiating.”
“It’s that bad?” She paused before draining the cooked pasta.
“It’s that bad,” Ivan confirmed. “Plus, Caleb’s sick of us cleaning up after the kid. He convinced me Aaron needs a lesson. He convinced Gordon, too.”
“Poor Aaron.”
“Only you’d feel sorry for him.” He followed her to the table and refilled their champagne glasses. “The kid’s a mess.”
“He’s twenty three, not really a kid.”
“That makes it worse.”
She waited till they both started eating. “I think Aaron knows he’ll never measure up to the memory of his brother James.”
The relaxed lines of Ivan’s face shifted into the flat ‘warrior’ mask he assumed too readily. “Half brother, and Aaron doesn’t even try.”
James had been in Ivan’s army unit, and had died in the Middle East.
“It’s sad.” She hesitated. “Your brothers didn’t join the army, did they? And they’re both younger than you.”
“Ryan is a high school maths teacher and Steve is a helicopter pilot flying cattle musters in Queensland.”
“Do they envy you your success?”
“Why would they?” He stabbed an olive from the Greek salad. “Ryan is married with a daughter and Steve’s engaged to his girlfriend from university days. They’re both doing jobs they love.” He paused. “I’m the one Mum worries about.”
“Why?” But she’d pushed too far.
He shrugged. “Worrying is what mums do.”
She let the conversation lapse.
Silence never seemed to bother Ivan. He served himself a second helping of pasta—’good sauce’—and ate it, then insisted he’d clear the table. While he stacked the dishwasher, she spooned gelato into two bowls and added the strawberries she’d had soaking in sugar. Their flavour would be intense, brought out by the tiniest dash of balsamic vinegar. She contemplated the bowls for a moment, wondering if Ivan would think she’d gone too far.
“Chocolate ice cream is my favourite.” He stretched out on the sofa in front of the television, his feet on a big matching ottoman, almost a seat in itself.
She curled up in an armchair.
“Do you mind if I watch the news?”
It was something all women complained about, their men hogging the television remote control. For Rita, it was unique. She had to remind herself that this relaxed sense of closeness was false. Tomorrow, when she left the apartment, she’d lose it, too. “Go ahead.”
He poured the last of the champagne into their glasses and lounged back.
She finished her dessert and quietly took her champagne with her onto the balcony.
“Are you okay?” The television still burbled, but Ivan stood behind her.
“Yeah.” She turned and faced him, leaning back against the high railing. “I was just thinking about my house. I think I’ll rent a flat while I think what to do with it. I stayed there because it was the family home, but now that it’s gone, I don’t know if I can go back and rebuild. The memories are gone.”
She ducked her head as tears stung her eyes. He took the glass from her hand and pulled her into his arms. She hid her face against his throat.
“Memories never disappear,” he said. “Sometimes I wish they did. Wherever you go, they’ll be part of you.”
“No. Memories fade. They vanish. That’s why we need photos and mementos, souvenirs. They’re all gone. All that was left of my family is gone.”
“Ssshh.” His arms tightened.
“My granddads died before I was born and my grans when I was a kid. I never had aunts or uncles, and then, Mum and Dad were hit by a drunk driver when I was nineteen. Mum died instantly. Dad died in hospital. He never regained consciousness.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“And now I have nothing of them. Not even the house. And I just have to keep going forward because there’s nothing else I can do. I’m scared and I’m tired.” She pushed at his chest, like a jumper-punch in football. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”
“You can tell me anything.” Her jumper-punch didn’t move him.
“Why should I tell you anything? You don’t share your problems with me. What are the memories that you can’t get rid of?”
“Men dying. Friends dying,” he said.
She jerked her head back and looked up at him.
“I hear screams and moans. I see the bodies of dead children.”
She shuddered and wrapped her arms around him.
“My memories are nightmares and they’ll be with me forever. You don’t need to share them.”
“You’re a macho idiot,” she told him bluntly. “You need to share them with someone. They’re part of you.”
“But they don’t fit in civilian life. Look at my hands.” He released her suddenly. “I’ve killed a man with these hands.”
She flinched at the raw note in his voice.
“See,” he said, fiercely satisfied. “You can’t bear for me to touch you.”
She caught his left hand and carried it to her mouth, kissing the palm. Her mouth lingered.
He made a sound as if she’d stabbed him, then grabbed her roughly and his mouth replaced his palm.
Their kiss was hot and harsh and howling with hunger. She pressed into him, all the emotion of her loss and grief transformed into stark need. She had wanted him for so long—ever since she saw him standing by his desk, waiting to interview her. Commonsense had insisted she suppress the need, but now it burned out of control. She could regret everything later.
She scraped her nails down his back, feeling his skin shiver beneath the fine cotton shirt. She moaned and rose on tiptoe as his tongue invaded her mouth. She sucked and his hands moved down her back to dig into her butt, pulling her in. They both liked that sensation, shuddering in unison. He swung her round, backed her into the glass door of the balcony and thrust against her.
“Yes. Ivan.” Her voice was slurred and aching as he dragged his mouth down her arched throat. She curled her foot around his calf, then gasped approval as he lifted her and she could wrap both legs around him.
His strength held her against the glass, freeing his hands to slide under her t shirt, warmly over her belly and up to close over her breasts.
“Kiss me. Kiss me.” She was frantic for his mouth which was tantalising her with nips and licks along the line of her jaw. She framed his face and held him steady so she could greedily claim his mouth.
He growled approval and pushed his hands inside her bra. The straps cut into her shoulders and the pain was spice to the heated pleasure of his calloused palms playing over her nipples.
It was good, so good.
“Hold tight.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck as he stepped back from the door. He carried her inside, his body shifting between her thighs with every step.
“Freakin’ torture.” He kissed her hard.
Whether punishment or incitement, she didn’t care. She responded recklessly.
“I could take you on the kitchen bench.”
She wouldn’t stop him.
They made it through the kitchen, but he halted shockingly just opposite the open door to the guest room.
“Ivan.” She kissed him, pleading, not wanting to recognise the stillness in him.
His mouth set stern and he looked at her.
She took a shaky breath, not knowing how or why the mood had changed; not wanting to believe it had.
“You bought a suitcase.”
“For my new clothes.”
“Hell damn.” He set her on the floor, a full arms length from him, holding her till she was steady.
“Ivan?” Her voice was small and broken. It shamed her.
“I can’t take advantage of you, Rita. You’re here because you lost everything yesterday. You’re vulnerable.” He reached out to touch her face, but she flinched away.
His hand dropped. “I’m sorry.”
She slipped by him, into the room, and hugged her arms around herself. “Me, too.”
Emotion flickered across his face, and was banished. “You need a safe place. Not me being a Neanderthal.”
“You know what I need, Ivan? My own place.” She shut the door on him.