Mr. Imperfect(10)

"Come up here," Christian demanded. "I have to kiss you."

"I prefer to be worshipped from afar."

"You're an angel, a goddess, words can't describe your beauty … ."

"That's odd," Kezia mused. "Someone told me I was an uptight, orderly, obsessive chocoholic who wasn't getting any."

"Only because mortal men aren't worthy of you."

"You're good," she said admiringly. "Now go shower."

Fifteen minutes later she was in her ancient station wagon driving  Christian, cool and composed in a summer-weight Italian suit and Ray•Ban  sunglasses, to the airfield. He released a faint scent of expensive  cologne every time he moved to accommodate the rough ride.

"This car," he said less-than-politely, "how old is it?"

"Too old to ask," she replied shortly, hot and bothered by his  proximity. "Unlike you, I'd rather put my money into something that  appreciates in value."

"Like land," he said, adding astutely, "I'm sure one day you'll be able to buy it back."

Not with prices rising the way they were. Kezia graunched the gears. "Let's talk about something else."

"Our meeting at the bank in Everton tomorrow?"

Apprehension tightened Kezia's throat. "Something else else."

The car forded a pothole, Christian moving easily with the swaying  vehicle. "Okay. You know why you're being so helpful to me, don't you?  You figure you owe me a favor for all this and want to cross me off your  list."

"I'm not that bad," she protested.

"I've seen you noting every volunteer's name in your little black book."

"It's blue. And you're starting to get on my nerves."

"So how does the debt stand between us? Does this make us even?"

"It puts me way ahead. I doubt you could ever catch up."

He laughed and she kept her eyes on the road because he got too damn  handsome when he did that. It was his laugh that had made her like him  all those years ago. The freedom from care it promised. And at the time  she'd had a lot of cares, convalescing from a serious illness and living  with a grandmother-and in a country-she barely remembered.

As if reading her thoughts, Christian asked casually, "How are your parents? I expected to see them at the funeral."

She tried to keep the defensiveness out of her voice. "They're stationed  in a remote part of Indonesia and couldn't get back in time."

"Your father didn't inherit."

"No. Nana was afraid Dad would sell up and give away the money."

"And charity begins at home," Christian said, quoting Muriel's favorite adage. "When did you last see them?"

The road forked and Kezia took the left. "Two years ago when they came  home between assignments. I'd visit but they always seem to be working  in countries with dengue fever and I can't risk another hemorrhagic  attack."

"So they left you to deal with this alone?"

"They're aid workers, Christian. They have more important priorities."

"You always did make excuses for them."

"And you've always criticized them. Well, don't. They're all I have  left." When he said nothing to that, she insisted, "I had a very happy  childhood."

"Sure you did," he said affably. "Almost as good as mine."

Ahead, a hawk feasted on roadkill. Kezia tooted her horn, and it lifted  into the air with two slow, insolent flaps. "Why did you never tell me  how bad your home situation was?"

There was a brief silence. "What could you have done, Kez?"

"Given you sympathy at least."

"I was happy with the other things you were giving me, babe," he drawled.

But she was on to him now; knew he was deflecting her. "We went to your  father's funeral," she said as though he hadn't spoken. "Muriel and I  and Bernice May."

Her tone told Christian that she knew about what he'd once gone to such  pains to hide from her-his father's drunkenness and neglect. "Did he … did  he ever hit you?"

He opted to lie. "No." Yet someone had been telling tales if both Kezia  and Bob Harvey knew details of his childhood. "Who told you? I know it  wasn't Muriel." Surely Don hasn't broken faith after all these years?

"Bernice May, until Nana hushed her up. I'd asked why you weren't there."

"I paid for the funeral," he said, "for my mother's sake. That was all I could bring myself to do."                       
       
           



       

"You used to talk even less about your mother than your father." Kezia kept her eyes on the road.

"And you've been wondering since that episode in the kitchen."

"Yes," she said simply. "So some of your childhood was happy?"

"Yes. Your turn to change the subject."

Kezia retreated into farmer's talk-bemoaning the lack of decent rainfall  and, when that subject was exhausted, moving on to the merits of Rhode  Island Reds versus bantams.

By the time she pulled into the paddock that passed as an airfield, she  was sick of the sound of her own voice. The Cessna's engines were  already whining through their warm-up.

Christian could exchange one drone for another, she thought wryly. She turned to see his mouth twisted in a half smile.

"What?"

"I didn't think you and I could ever be friends." His voice was deep and  husky and sexy as hell. "But damn, if you don't make me like you  sometimes, Kezia Rose."

Oh, no … Don't do this to me. Not again.

"I see that scares you."

"It horrifies me. Let's get this straight, Christian, once and for all."  She made her tone deliberately brutal. "You and I could never be  friends."

"Hell, you're right." He leaned forward and lightly nipped her lower lip  with the intimacy of someone who'd done it many times before. "You and I  weren't made to be friends." Then he got out and strode toward the  plane.

Only when the Cessna taxied down the runway and lifted into the blue haze did Kezia realize she should have slapped his face.



"HELLO?"

Telephone to his ear, Joe hesitated. He hadn't expected his son to answer. It wasn't in the script.

"Hello?" There was silence as the kid waited for a response. "You need to talk back, you know," the boy suggested helpfully.

Joe's throat seized up. His baby sounded so grown-up … so confident.  They'd only been apart three months and already Joe had missed a  transition. It hurt, hurt like hell.

"Who is it, honey?" Her voice.

"There's someone there. But they're not talking, just breathing sort of fast."

"Give me the phone. Hello? Who is this?"

Joe opened his mouth. But, trapped in some kind of guilt-stricken limbo, he couldn't say a word.

"Joe?" Her voice was hesitant now. "Is that you?"

Panicked, he hung up.

He turned and banged his head against the wall beside the pay phone.  Damn, cowardly, stupid dickhead! But the waver in her voice had killed  him. A waver that might have been fear.

Last time he'd seen her, she'd been sprawled on the floor, staring up at  him in shock and disbelief. She screamed at him to get out and never  come back.

Because last time he'd seen her, he'd hit her.





CHAPTER FIVE




CHRISTIAN HATED William J. Rankin the Third after ten minutes.

The bank manager was well mannered in that in-offensive style adopted by  funeral directors. His robust frame carried a little extra weight,  which Christian soon attributed to William J.'s inflated idea of his own  importance. He seemed to be in his late thirties and, by his manner,  had been most of his life.

The first real indication of trouble had been the vicelike handshake  that told him William J. had competition issues, which Christian didn't  help by grinning when he saw William J. Rankin III in gold-embossed  letters on the door.

"A gift from my mother," William J. said shortly.

To which Christian replied politely, "Very thoughtful of her."

When the banker swung back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his  head as he listened to Kezia outline her proposal, Christian wished to  God he'd let Kezia come alone. His presence here was doing her no good.

Certain men reacted to his wealth this way, adopting a studied  nonchalance while their body language screamed alpha male marking  territory. He generally cut the negotiations short-he was too old for  pissing contests. Unfortunately this man held the loan on the hotel.

So he adopted a deferential pose, his shoulders slightly slumped and his expression respectful. How's that, you bastard?

"So what I'm asking for, Bill," said Kezia, looking damn fine in that  white linen suit that accentuated her curves, "is for the bank to  transfer the outstanding loan to me. This new business plan-" she forced  William J. to drop his gorilla pose and take it "-will kick-start the  business and enable regular repayments."

"Your grandmother took out the original loan on a similar basis five  years ago." William J. opened another file on his desk. "Her business  plan included substantial refurbishment-reroofing, repainting and  modernizing the accommodation to attract out-of-towners. Five years down  the track the property is still in desperate need of an upgrade  and-forgive me for being blunt-you're broke."