His Christmas Angel
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‘Nonsense,’ he chuckled, suddenly smug. ‘Sol Adams can look after them. It serves him right.’
For what? Why didn’t Jack like Sol? She bit back a sigh. Maybe it was another reminder that a person from his son’s generation was alive when his son was not.
‘Can you set me up with him?’ Tracey suddenly demanded.
Cassie choked on fried chicken. ‘What?’
‘Could you arrange a blind date for us or…better yet…have a dinner to welcome him back to town?’
Gee, she could just see Sol jumping at that.
‘How about Saturday night?’
No! It was a terrible idea. It was—
‘For Pete’s sake, Tracey, leave Cassandra in peace.’ Jack’s smugness had fled. His jaw clenched and his eyes flashed fire. ‘Let her finish her dinner.’
Tracey subsided, but Cassie could tell by the stubborn light in her eyes that it was only a momentary reprieve. As soon as Tracey got her alone she’d renew her appeal. Cassie glanced around the table and her heart sank. Since when had she been able to deny any member of this family anything?
Sol knocked, then shifted from one foot to the other. He glanced down at his watch. Hell. It was still early. He hoped Cassie was up.
One thing. She’d asked him to do one thing and he couldn’t even manage that. He’d been a fool to come back.
He knocked again. Under his breath he started to count. ‘One, two…’ He’d knock again when he got to ten. ‘Three, four…’ Would she go ballistic? Every other woman he knew would throw a hissy fit. ‘Five, six…’A reluctant grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. He couldn’t see Cassie throwing a hissy fit. ‘Seven, eight…’ The grin disappeared. She loved those kittens. She’d told him so. ‘Nine—’
The door cracked open a fraction. One velvet eye peered through the gap, then the door flew open. ‘Sol! What are you doing here?’
He stared at her, and for the life of him he couldn’t remember. The thin terry-towelling robe she wore would’ve been more than respectable in ordinary circumstances, but not now—not when she was so wet. He must’ve hauled her out of the shower. He gulped. Her wet hair dripped down the front of the robe, outlining a shape that had his tongue fastening to the roof of his mouth. He dragged in a breath. Keep breathing, Adams. You can do it. It’s easy.
No, it wasn’t. It was damn hard. Cassie’s curves were as lush and gorgeous as the woman herself. Need pierced through him. His knees almost buckled. He wanted to haul her into his arms and—
He tried to extinguish the pictures that rose in his mind. He could see Cassie’s lips moving, but no sound reached his ears. He rubbed a hand over his face.
‘Sol?’ Her forehead creased in concern. ‘Are you okay?’
He was a lot of things, but okay wasn’t one of them. And he had no intention of telling her that. ‘I, er, didn’t sleep too well last night.’ At least that was the truth.
‘What are you doing here?’
Aw, hell—that’s right. The kittens. Remember? Ballistic hissy fits and stuff? Ballistic he could cope with. He eyed her warily. As long as she didn’t cry. ‘I, er…’ He scuffed the toe of his sneaker against the top step.
‘Yes?’ She drew the word out as if tempted to shake him.
‘I seem to have lost one of your kittens.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Sol.’
She was sorry? She was sorry!
‘You’d better come in.’ She grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. She tossed a quick glance outside before she slammed the door, then led him into the living room.
He looked around and his jaw dropped.
‘I lied to you, you know?’
He forced himself to focus on her words, her face, rather than the surroundings. If he didn’t he’d explode. Or implode. Or he’d fall into an abyss he’d never get out of again. ‘Lied?’ He latched onto the word.
‘I told you the kittens wouldn’t be any trouble.’
She started to dry her hair vigorously, as if suddenly aware of how it dripped down the front of her robe. The action made bits of her jiggle. Bits he shouldn’t be staring at if he didn’t want himself called a male chauvinist pig.
He stared at the wall behind her. An enormous photo of Brian holding up a trophy and surrounded by his Australian team-mates dominated the space. His gut clenched at the triumphant grin on Brian’s face. He glanced to his left. An enormous trophy cabinet stood there. He swung away to his right and another wall of photographs rose out at him—Brian scoring the winning try in some grand final, Brian awarded the sportsman’s medal of the year, Brian on the shoulders of his team-mates.
Brian. Brian. Brian.
‘What is this?’ he suddenly burst out. ‘A mausoleum?’
He immediately wished he’d kept his fat trap shut when Cassie stepped back from him, her eyes dark.
‘I’m sorry.’ He took a step towards her and she took another step back. He stayed put and held up his hands. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘I, uh, the kitchen is through there if you want to grab a coffee. I’ll go get dressed.’ And then she was gone.
Sol tossed another glance around, then left the room with a grimace. His gut clenched again when he entered the kitchen. Evidence Cassie had shared this house with Brian was everywhere. His eyes rested on a coffee mug on the sideboard. It read: ‘Old rugby players never die they just…’He didn’t have the heart to turn it over and read the punchline. Brian had been a rugby player, a good one, but he hadn’t been old. And he shouldn’t be dead.
He pushed through the back door, needing air. An enormous dog lifted his head from a kennel, his ears pricked forward. Sol sat on the lowest step, rested his elbows on his knees and stared back. ‘Are you Cassie’s dog or Brian’s?’
The dog sat up, stretched and shook his head.
‘Fair enough,’ Sol said, and patted his knee. The dog trotted over. Sol scratched his ears then reached for the tag around the dog’s neck. ‘Rufus.’ The dog’s tail thumped harder. ‘Ah, the eater of kittens. Well, Rufus, were you sad when Brian died?’ The tail kept thumping. ‘I wasn’t. Not really.’ He hadn’t been happy either, but it hadn’t been till now that the tragedy had hit him—that someone as young as Brian, as full of life as Brian, was dead.