Executive: Expecting Tiny Twins Page 2

  Back in the truck, they trundled on till they reached the front steps, and Jack retrieved Lizzie’s luggage with the same easy economy of movement that she found so unsettling. This time she tried very hard not to watch.

  At the top of the steps he turned to her. ‘I guess you’d like to see your room first.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It opens off this veranda.’

  His blue cattle dog curled in a pool of sunlight on the veranda, while Lizzie followed its master, carrying her laptop, and shamelessly watching the man from behind, noting the way his broad shoulders stretched the seams of his blue cotton shirt, and his faded jeans rode low on his lean hips.

  Good grief, Lizzie. Give it a miss.

  Jack turned through French doors into a large, airy room and set Lizzie’s bags on the beige carpeted floor beside the big bed with old-fashioned brass ends and a soft floral spread. He watched Lizzie look about her, inspecting the pale pink walls and fine, white spotted curtains.

  ‘This is the room Kate uses when she visits Savannah,’ he told her.

  Lizzie nodded. ‘I could well believe that. It’s just like Kate—comfortable, relaxing and no-nonsense.’

  And you’re damn lucky to have it, he thought. It’s the best room in the house.

  Lizzie looked at the painting above the bed, a water-colour of a flock of birds taking off against a soft pink dawn.

  ‘Kate thought you’d like it in here,’ he said.

  ‘It’s very kind of her to let me use her room. I do like it. Very much.’

  OK. One hurdle over, Jack thought.

  But then two vertical lines creased Lizzie’s forehead. ‘Is there an en suite?’

  He shook his head, and took perverse glee in saying, ‘The bathroom’s down the hall.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Lizzie lifted her limp shirt collar away from her neck. ‘I don’t suppose there’s air-conditioning?’

  ‘The ceiling fans are adequate. It’s not summer. You’ll be OK.’ He pointed to the large, silky oak table next to the window with a view across the paddocks. ‘Kate said you needed a desk, so I put this here for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Lizzie sent a final queenly glance around the room, then slipped her laptop bag from her shoulder and set it on the desk, giving the laptop an affectionate pat, as if it was her best friend—or her lifeline.

  Then she removed her sunglasses and set them beside the laptop, and took off her big white hat, which should not, of course, have been a big deal.

  But hell.

  Jack’s body reacted as if Lizzie had launched into a striptease.

  She’d accidentally dislodged her hairpins, and her hair—thick, lustrous, shiny and as dark as midnight—spilled to her shoulders, and suddenly he was having difficulty breathing.

  Which was probably just as well. If he’d been able to draw breath, he might have spoken, might have said something crazy, like telling her she was out-of-this-world beautiful.

  Because—damn it, she was. She was stunning. Her eyes were the most amazing hazel, with flecks of earthy brown and mossy green stippled with gold. As for her face, framed by all that silky dark hair—

  Jack could feel the muscles in his throat working overtime as he stood there like a fool, staring. At her.

  Until she frowned, then looked worried. Nervous.

  Somehow, he dragged in a necessary breath, and switched his gaze to the desk, forced his mind back to business. ‘I—I believe you—you’ve brought your own Internet connection?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lizzie also took a breath, and she lifted her shirt collar again, pulling it away from her flushed skin. ‘I—um—have a wireless broadband mobile card.’

  ‘Sounds brilliant.’

  ‘It’s handy for travelling.’

  She took another breath, deep and slow, then began to twist her hair back into a safe, neat, spinsterish knot.

  Jack rammed his hands hard into the pockets of his jeans and looked about him—anywhere but at her. ‘So what would you like to do? Unpack and settle in here? Or take a gander at the rest of the house?’

  Lizzie hesitated, dismayed that her mind was so fuddled she found the simplest decision difficult. Given the amount of work she had to do, she should unpack her laptop and get started immediately.

  ‘Perhaps you need a cuppa first,’ Jack suggested slowly, almost reluctantly.

  There would be a housekeeper in the kitchen. Someone sensible and cosy to provide a reassuring buffer between Lizzie and this disturbingly attractive, but highly unsuitable man. She found herself saying, ‘Tea would be lovely, thanks.’

  Once again, she followed Jack, this time down a narrow hallway and through a large living room filled with deep squishy lounge chairs and low occasional tables, with two sets of French doors opening onto a veranda. Casting a quick glance around the room, she gained an impression of casual relaxation and carelessness.

  Cushions had been left in a tumbled pile at one end of the sofa, clearly for the comfort of the person who’d lain there watching television. Sporting magazines and empty coffee cups were strewn about, and an overturned beer can lay on the floor beside the sofa. The housekeeper was obviously as casual as Jack.

  Lizzie thought fondly of her minimalist, twenty-first-century apartment and her super-efficient cleaning woman, and sighed.

  They reached the kitchen.

  ‘Pull up a pew.’ Jack nodded to one of the mismatched chairs gathered around a huge, scrubbed pine table that had one end cleared, while the rest was littered with magazines, newspapers, an assortment of mail, a hammer, nails and a leather strap with buckles that might have been part of a horse’s bridle.

  To Lizzie’s surprise, he went to the sink and filled a kettle, turned on the gas and set it on the stove.

  Where was the friendly, pink-cheeked, country housekeeper, waiting with a warming teapot and a batch of scones just out of the oven?

  ‘Is it the housekeeper’s day off, Jack?’

  He frowned. ‘What do you mean?’ His eyes narrowed as he sent a puzzled look around the shabbily out-of-date kitchen. ‘Is there something wrong?’

  With growing dismay, Lizzie watched him reach up to a shelf above the stove for a caddy of loose-leaf tea. He did it automatically, with the familiar ease of someone who’d done this a thousand times. ‘You do have a housekeeper, don’t you?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘No need. There’s just me in the main house.’ He sent her a wry quarter-smile. ‘Kate said you wanted a retreat. She didn’t say anything about luxury.’

  ‘I’m not asking for luxury.’

  Jack’s eyebrow rose, but he spoke quietly, ‘That’s all right, then.’

  He poured a little hot water into the teapot, swirled it around and then tipped it into the sink before he added tea leaves. Once again, Lizzie watched his hands—strong, long and capable, with golden, sun-bleached hairs on the backs.

  Damn. She shouldn’t have been watching Jack Lewis’s hands. She was over men. Twice bitten, permanently shy. Besides, Jack was much younger than she was—and she’d come here to escape, to retreat in peace and quiet: optimum conditions for a healthy pregnancy. Already, she felt agitated and edgy. It was Jack’s fault. No, it was hers. She simply had to control her reactions.

  Of course, if she told Jack she was pregnant, she would clear the air instantly. Such news would quickly kill that sexy sparkle in his eyes, and she might be able to let her hair down without the world coming to a standstill.

  She could get on with her plan to relax at Savannah while her baby grew healthy and strong.

  She opened her mouth, already tasting the words: By the way, Jack, I’m pregnant.

  But suddenly she knew she wasn’t going to tell him. She’d come to this outpost to avoid giving explanations about her pregnancy to a pack of hungry journalists. There was no need to tell Jack. Not yet.

  Maybe later.

  Maybe never. He was a stranger, after all, and Lizzie’s pregnancy was none of his business.

  Very so
on, her hormones would settle down and this inappropriate sense of attraction would die a natural death.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘DO YOU do all your own cooking?’ Lizzie asked Jack, forcing her mind to practical matters.

  ‘Not usually. Most of the time there’s a station cook, but I sent him out with the mustering team.’ Jack poured boiling water into the teapot, replaced the lid and set the pot on the table with two blue striped mugs.

  ‘Is there a muster on at the moment?’

  He nodded. ‘We always muster as soon as the wet season’s out of the way.’

  ‘Does that mean I’ve inconvenienced you?’

  His shrug was a beat too late. ‘The team can manage without me.’

  ‘But you’re the manager. Are you supposed to be supervising?’

  His back was to her now and he spoke as he reached for milk and sugar. ‘I have a satellite phone. I can stay in touch.’ He turned, and his green eyes regarded her steadily. ‘You should know that, Senator. After all, you’ll be running the whole country from here.’

  It was a not-so-subtle dig—and she realised that Jack probably resented her sudden arrival.

  She said, ‘I suppose you’re wondering how a federal senator can retreat into the outback without reneging on her responsibilities.’

  ‘Not at all. I leave politicking to politicians.’ Jack’s face was as unreadable as a poker player’s as he poured tea into a mug. ‘Do you take milk? Sugar?’

  ‘Thank you.’ She helped herself to a dash of milk and half a spoon of sugar. ‘I hope I haven’t spoiled too many of your plans.’

  ‘Most plans are easy enough to change.’ Jack sat and, now that he was level with Lizzie, she was reacquainted with the superior breadth of his shoulders.

  He looked across the table at her, trapping her in his steady gaze. ‘That goes for you, too, Senator. No one’s holding you here if you find that this place doesn’t suit you.’

  Something in his gaze set fine tuning-fork vibrations inside her. Quickly, she looked down at her mug. ‘Please, you mustn’t keep calling me Senator.’

  ‘What should I call you? Elizabeth?’

  ‘My family and friends call me Lizzie.’

  ‘Lizzie?’ Jack repeated her name without shifting his gaze from her face. ‘Now that’s a surprise.’

  ‘Why?’

  His mouth twitched as he stirred sugar into black tea. ‘Seems to me, a woman called Lizzie is a very different kettle of fish from an Elizabeth.’

  ‘Really? How?’ As soon as the question was out Lizzie regretted it. It wasn’t appropriate for her to show so much interest in this young man’s theories about women and their names. And yet, she was desperately curious to hear his answer.

  ‘When I think of Elizabeth, I think of the Queen,’ Jack said.

  ‘My mother would be pleased to hear that. It’s why she chose Elizabeth as my name.’

  ‘She named you after the Queen?’

  ‘Yes. She named all her daughters after strong women. I have a younger sister Jackie, named after Jackie Onassis, and then there’s Scarlett, named after Scarlet O’Hara.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Jack chuckled. ‘No maternal pressure or anything.’ He lolled back in his chair, legs stretched under the table. The man sure had a talent for looking relaxed. ‘Your mother must be proud of you. A federal senator. That’s a pretty big deal.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure she is proud.’

  ‘But she still calls you Lizzie.’

  Lizzie… Cara…

  With a wistful pang Lizzie remembered her mother’s tearful reaction to the news she’d shared just last week, when she’d flown back to Italy, to her hometown of Monta Correnti. Her mother’s tears had been happy, of course, and accompanied by fierce and wonderful hugs.

  Lisa Firenzi was thrilled that her eldest daughter was about to become a mother at last, and she’d been surprisingly OK with the unexpected news that her grandchild’s father was an unknown donor. But then, Lisa Firenzi had never bowed to convention.

  Like mother, like daughter…

  Lizzie took a sip of her tea, which was hot and strong, just as she liked it, and she pushed aside memories of the end of her visit home, and the unhappy family row that had erupted.

  Instead, she asked Jack, ‘Why do you think Lizzie is so different from Elizabeth? What kind of woman is a Lizzie?’

  Jack laughed out loud and the flash in his eyes was most definitely wicked. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know you well enough to answer that.’

  For heaven’s sake, he was flirting with her. She had to stop this now. She was most definitely not looking for any kind of relationship. Apart from the fact that she’d given up on men, she was pregnant, for heaven’s sake. Besides, Jack was probably the kind of man who flirted with any available female.

  Lizzie froze him with her most cutting glare. It was time to get serious. Really serious. She hadn’t come to the outback for a holiday, and she certainly hadn’t come here for romance. She had a stack of paperwork to get through and she should set Jack Lewis straight. Now.

  And yet…she couldn’t help wondering…who was she really? An Elizabeth? Or a Lizzie?

  A small frown settled between Jack’s brows and he stood abruptly. ‘We should talk about meals,’ he said. ‘The pantry’s well stocked and so is the cold room, but we’re the only ones here to do the cooking, so—’

  ‘We?’ Lizzie interrupted, somewhat startled. ‘You’re not expecting me to cook, are you?’

  He slid a sideways glance to the big country stove, then back to Lizzie. ‘Excuse me, Senator. Perhaps you weren’t aware that lesser mortals actually prepare their own meals?’

  ‘Of course I know that,’ she snapped, aware that he probably planned to call her Senator whenever he wanted to put her down.

  Jack narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Can you recognise one end of a saucepan from another?’

  She rolled her eyes to the ceiling to show her exasperation, but, truth was, in recent years she’d been far too busy to dally with anything remotely domesticated. Admittedly, since she’d become pregnant, she’d been conscientious about breakfast—making a smoothie from yoghurt and fruit—but her PA brought her a salad from the deli for lunch, and her diary was filled with evening engagements—charity functions, political dinners, business meetings—so she often ate out.

  On the few occasions she ate at home, the meals had mostly been takeaway, eaten at her desk with little attention to taste or texture. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten alone with a man in a private home.

  ‘I don’t have time for cooking.’ Lizzie added a dash of ice to her tone.

  Not in the least intimidated, Jack leaned his hips against a cupboard and eyed her steadily. ‘Then you’ll have to risk your digestion with my cooking.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  His eyes held the glimmer of menace. ‘I guess you’ll soon find out, won’t you? Otherwise, you could go solo and make your own meals. No skin off my nose. Or we could take turns at the stove and share what we cook.’

  ‘Share?’ Lizzie set her mug down before she spilled its contents. She hadn’t shared a house, taking turns in the kitchen, since her carefree university days.

  Back then, when she’d shared a house and a kitchen, she’d also fallen in love. With Mitch.

  Her mind flashed an unbidden memory of her younger, laughing self, teaching Mitch to test spaghetti by throwing it against the kitchen wall to see if it stuck. As always, he’d had a better idea, and they’d shared a spaghetti strand between their linked mouths, eating until their lips met. And then, of course, they’d kissed…and, quite probably, they’d gone to bed. She’d been so madly in love back then.

  But it was such a long time ago.

  ‘No worries.’ Jack gave her a crooked grin. ‘I’m no chef, but I guess I can look after the cooking. I hope you like steak.’

  ‘Steak’s fine,’ Lizzie said, and then, to her astonishment, she found herself adding, ‘but I’m sure I could
brush up on a few old recipes.’

  When Jack looked uncertain, she supplied her credentials. ‘After all, my mother owns a restaurant.’

  ‘A restaurant?’ His eyes widened, suitably impressed. ‘Where?’

  ‘In Monta Correnti. In Italy.’

  ‘An Italian restaurant!’ Jack sent her an eye-rolling grin and rubbed his stomach. ‘I love Italian tucker. I bet the talent for cooking runs in your family.’ His grin deepened. ‘And here I was thinking you were just a pretty face.’

  As Lizzie unpacked her suitcases she refused to think about Jack Lewis. She especially refused to think about his throwaway line about her pretty face.

  For heaven’s sake, he was a young man, barely thirty, and she was pregnant and practically middle-aged, and she’d long ago learned to ignore comments about her looks.

  Female politicians were fair game for the media, and from the moment she’d hit parliament journalists had paid far too much attention to her appearance, her dress sense, and her hairstyles. It had been beyond infuriating.

  Since Lizzie’s university days, she’d had her heart set on working hard to better the lives of ordinary, everyday Australians, but the reporters only seemed to notice what she was wearing, or which man she was dating.

  There’d been one infamous photo, early in her career, of her coming out of a restaurant, arm in arm with a male colleague. Her hair was loose, blowing in the wind, and she was wearing a shortish skirt with knee-high Italian leather boots. The boots were dark red, and the photo had found its way onto the front page of every metropolitan daily in the nation.

  “Boots and all” the headlines had announced. It was as if she’d dropped IQ points simply because she’d worn something sexy.

  After that, Lizzie had chosen to keep her hair in a tidy bun and to dress sedately and she’d schooled herself to ignore the unwanted attention of the press gallery.

  Jack’s comment was no different. It was water off a duck’s back.

  Of course it was.

  She concentrated on colour-coding her clothing as she hung it in the old-fashioned wardrobe with an oval mirror on the door. Her undergarments and nightwear went into the Baltic pine chest of drawers.