mumbled.
‘Thank you, Gemma,’ he replied with a studied politeness that annoyed her.
In silence they worked, Max gathering up the plates and cutlery, Gemma collecting the cups, place mats and serviettes. Together they walked into the kitchen and set their things down at the sink. They both reached for the tap at the same time. Their hands connected.
As if she’d been burnt, Gemma snatched her hand away from the contact, but Max’s reaction was just as quick and he caught her fingers in his strong grasp.
His thumb stroked her skin once, twice…and she felt her blood stirring in response. Her hand trembled.
She wanted to pull away, but she was too fascinated by her body’s astonishing reaction. Never had she felt so unsettled, so fired up by a man’s simple touch. She didn’t dare look at Max. She stood by the sink, mesmerised by the sight of her slim white hand in his large, suntanned grip. She could see little hairs on the back of his hand, bleached to gold by the sun. A faint trace of the fresh, lemon-scented soap he’d used in the shower still clung to his skin and his work-roughened thumb continued to move slowly over her hand, making her feel shivery and breathless.
‘Gem.’ His gruff voice barely reached her over the savage drumbeat in her ears.
She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.
‘Gemma,’ he said again, and his other hand reached under her chin, forcing her head up until their eyes met. Max was looking as startled as she felt. His breathing sounded just as hectic.
When his fingers began to trace ever so gently the outline of her face, she could feel her skin flame at his touch.
‘Gemma Brown,’ he whispered, ‘whether you like it or not, I’m going to keep watching you…just like I always have.’
And the moment was spoiled. Gemma was embarrassingly disappointed.
‘For Pete’s sake!’ she exclaimed, wrenching her hand out of his grasp and pulling right away from him. She was fearfully angry with him and she wasn’t quite sure why. ‘You are not my brother, my bodyguard or my guardian angel!’ For a dreadful moment she thought she might burst into tears. ‘Go paint some more walls. Get a life, Max, and leave me to get on with mine!’
This time she didn’t care about good manners. Gemma rushed out of the kitchen and left him with the dirty dishes.
CHAPTER THREE
THE grimy dishes were still sitting on the counter top waiting to be washed when Gemma walked into the kitchen the next morning. Added to last night’s pile were an extra-greasy frying pan, a mug and more plates—things Max must have used for his breakfast before he headed off at sunrise.
‘Who does he think he is?’ she asked Mollie as she surveyed the dreary mess. Mollie merely whimpered and rubbed her face against Gemma’s shoulder. She’d been restless during the night and still seemed rather fragile this morning. Having slept very fitfully, Gemma wasn’t feeling too chipper either. In their own separate ways, both Max and Mollie Jardine had kept her tossing and turning for hours.
She set Mollie down on the floor while she hunted through Max’s cupboards for a saucepan to boil their eggs, but Mollie began to cry almost as soon as Gemma walked away from her.
‘Aren’t you going to let me do anything this morning?’ Gemma sighed. She tried to cheer the baby up with clucking noises while she set about making their breakfast.
After popping two eggs into a pot of water, she slid bread into the toaster and boiled the kettle for a mug of tea for herself. The phone rang. Gemma glanced at Mollie, who was still making miserable little whimpers and she deliberated whether she should let the answering machine deal with the call. Then, having second thoughts, she handed the baby a saucepan lid, hoping it would keep her happy while she dashed to the phone.
The call was from Brisbane—the printers were wanting to clarify some final details about the pamphlet—so Gemma was glad she’d answered. But when she returned to the kitchen, her heart sank.
Max stood in the middle of the room, with his hands on his hips, staring in dismay at Mollie, who was howling loudly and banging the saucepan lid on the floor in time to her wails.
She dashed into the room and swept the baby into her arms. ‘Why didn’t you pick her up?’ she challenged Max, deciding to attack him before he could begin to accuse her of neglect.
But he clearly didn’t react well to being scolded. His eyes narrowed. ‘Where were you?’ he asked.
‘Where was I?’ She knew she sounded shrewish, but was too frazzled to care. ‘After pacing the floorboards all night, trying to calm your niece, I was answering an important business call. Where were you?’
‘I’ve had one or two things to attend to,’ he snapped. ‘I need to talk to my men—delegate more jobs now that I have other responsibilities.’
‘Who are you trying to kid?’ Gemma cut in. ‘You wouldn’t recognise a responsibility if it was formally introduced to you. Who rocked Mollie back to sleep when she wouldn’t settle last night? Me! Who waltzed off this morning without a care in the world and left the kitchen covered in grease? You did!’
‘I’m sorry you had a bad night,’ he replied with annoying composure, ‘but calm down, Gemma.’ He reached over and lifted the miserable Mollie from her arms. ‘I had every intention of doing the dishes—same as I always do them—at lunchtime.’
‘Lunchtime?’
Gemma might have launched into another tirade, but she noticed that Max’s nose had begun to twitch. Was he feeling angry or just very guilty? Neither of the above, she realised with dismay as the acrid smell of smoke reached her.
‘It seems you’ve burnt the toast,’ he said quietly.
Black smoke billowed from the corner of the kitchen and Max, with Mollie on one hip, lunged across the room, switched the toaster off and flung its doors open.
Wasn’t it just typical of this man? Gemma thought as she watched him. He could buy himself a smart little plane, a satellite dish and a fancy computer and still not have progressed to a pop-up toaster.
On the stove, the eggs were boiling so rapidly they rattled against the saucepan. ‘Oh, blast! They’ll be hardboiled!’ she wailed. This was definitely not her morning.
She snatched the saucepan from the stove, thumped it into the sink, then whirled around to glare at Max. He was nuzzling Mollie’s tummy with his nose and making her laugh.
Laugh! Out loud!
Proper chuckles!
Gemma could feel her bottom lip drooping into a pout. How dared Mollie be so sweet and responsive to Max when she was the one who’d lost all the sleep? She sagged against the kitchen bench and, with a self-pitying sigh, folded her arms across her chest.
Max glanced at her. ‘I’ll take her out to see the puppies and give you some space to have another go at cooking breakfast,’ he suggested.
She drew in a deep breath and nodded. Some peace and quiet, some space…that was what she needed…
And yet she felt strangely abandoned watching Max take Mollie outside—as if they belonged together and she was the outsider. He carried her so easily, without any sense of awkwardness. He would make a good father…She found herself wondering how many of Max’s breakfast companions had been hoping to marry him, to have him father their children.
Groaning at the stupid direction of her thoughts, Gemma picked up the blackened pieces of toast and, with grimly compressed lips, tossed them into the bin before setting out to remake breakfast.
By the time Max and Mollie returned, she had set the little table on the verandah and her breakfast and Mollie’s were ready. She had decided against eggs after all and had made Mollie some porridge, settling