Love Me Tender Page 2

  Past a pair of scuffed men’s work boots – paint-flecked, huge.

  Past faded jeans that fit like their substantial owner had swum in them and let them dry against his skin.

  Past a rough and rustic tool belt, slung low.

  Past a blue, chequered shirt rolled up to the elbows revealing forearms roped in muscle.

  To find a man; broad shoulders cutting a shadow into the bright white light of the chandelier above, a smear of dirt marring his brown neck, hard jaw shadowed in stubble.

  To top it all off he was holding a puppy.

  Yap! Yap, yap, yap! Eyes bugging out of its fluffy head it started wriggling like it might implode if it didn’t lick Sera right now. The puppy that was.

  Sera’s heretofore decidedly quiet ovaries found themselves on the receiving end of such an overload of stunning masculine signifiers they sparked to life, squeezed like crazy, and burned like nothing she’d ever felt.

  And the hiccups Sera had kept at bay could no longer be denied.

  Chapter Two

  In his line of work it wasn’t everyday Murdoch walked into a room to find a woman on her hands and knees.

  Likely because he spent most of his days on building sites primarily populated by filthy, grunting, sweating men.

  Alas, it didn’t last long as the woman in question quickly set to righting herself. Till she knelt on the bag strapped around her neck creating a handy noose.

  With an ‘ugh’ and an ‘ouch’ she leant on the other knee, unhooked the loop, then nearly ended up on her backside.

  And then she hiccupped.

  Quite the unexpected morning’s entertainment.

  The yapper in Murdoch’s grip wriggled, its shaggy, rust-coloured fur bristling against his wrist, and he remembered why he was out and about in the first place.

  He’d gone looking for Hazel with tension riding his shoulders and not holding back on the whip. All he needed was five minutes of Q&A time and for her to keep her yapper away from his tools and his day would improve infinitely.

  He couldn’t go as far as calling the thing a dog. He’d had a dog, a chocolate lab named Rowdy who’d been anything but. Every now and then, Murdoch still felt Rowdy’s dignified shadow beside him as he worked, even though the old dog had been gone a couple of months now.

  The yapper desperately tried to stick its tongue up his nose.

  If he ever got another dog it would be something strong and stoic. Reliable and loyal. Bigger than a handbag.

  With a shake of his head, Murdoch let the yapper go, jaw clenching at the sound of its sharp claws gouging marks into the newly finished floor as it took off in search something to gnaw on.

  Then he tugged off his work gloves and tucked them into the back of his jeans and angled his bare hand in front of the woman’s face.

  She stared at it, eyes behind her Buddy Holly glasses crossing slightly. Then – after surreptitiously spitting a hunk of warm brown hair out of her mouth with deft use of her tongue – she took his hand.

  Clearly an indoor girl, her hand was pale and soft, her fingers long and fine. It made his scarred, brown digits with their heavy knuckles, calloused pads, and permanently-stained fingernails look like that of an ogre. At least he had an ogre’s strength to go with them. With a yank, he hauled her upright.

  She hiccupped again and the corner of his mouth gave a definite twitch.

  “Need some water?” Murdoch asked.

  She shook her head, her hair tangling in front of her face. With a frustrated sigh, she bobbed down to pick up a laptop from the rug, the back of it covered in stickers. Before she slid the thing in her bag, he caught a brightly-coloured skull, a picture of Einstein, and the Road Runner.

  She hiccupped again.

  He tried again. “You sure I can’t –”

  She held up a stilling hand.

  Okay then.

  As she closed her eyes and swallowed at slow intervals, Murdoch let his eyes rove.

  He found chunky animal-print boots. Shiny black material that clung to a great pair of legs beneath a roomy top with tight sleeves that was so black stars could get lost in the thing. Glasses too big for a nice face. Long brown hair, the ends a little wild and heading towards blonde.

  The particular combination of abstract components made her like some kind of throwback. Or throw forward. Either way, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  Once the hiccups stopped, it became clear she was tall. Not willowy, exactly. More like a newborn colt; all long legs and wide eyes.

  Pretty, he thought. And stood straighter.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “Yep.” Hiccup. She muttered something beneath her breath that sounded less indoor girl, more...trucker.

  And Murdoch found himself well on the way to a real live grin.

  “I think that’s it,” she said. Then, with a sharp exhale she opened her eyes, pressed her glasses higher on her nose and looked at him. Right at him. “Thanks for the...you know...hand.”

  “No problem.” Her eyes were such a curious colour, so pale a brown, it was as if they could see deeper, see more.

  And suddenly pretty didn’t even come close.

  “Were you looking for Hazel?” she asked.

  Hazel. For a few blissful moments there, he’d forgotten he was attempting to track her down.

  “Because she went –” Frown lines flicking on and off above her nose, the woman spun around. Seemed unsure where to point, and spun again, her bag flying out in a neat circle, her long legs hooking around one another. Till her boots got caught in the ridiculously thick rug and she lost balance again.

  Murdoch whipped out a hand to catch her, finding purchase on her waist. Surprised by how the delicate curve and his big hand were a perfect fit.

  Her loose top twisted further as she spun to face him, the fabric bunching in his hands. His fingers dug into the material, keening for the feel of her beneath.

  Her bag slapped against her leg and her hands landed on his shoulders. Her gaze caught on his and widened behind the glasses. Such an extraordinary colour, they were – like softest gold – with enough eyelashes for three people.

  On an outshot of breath she said, “Thataway.”

  “That a what?” Murdoch asked, his voice gruff.

  “Hazel.” She flicked a glance over his shoulder. “She went thataway.”

  Right. Hazel. Somehow he’d forgotten her again.

  But if finding a pretty woman on her hands and knees was pretty much every man’s dream, being found all caught up in one by Hazel would be closer to Murdoch’s worst nightmare.

  “She said she was heading out to meet a John,” the woman said, twisting a little so that her body sank deeper into his. And Murdoch didn’t move a muscle. “By which I assume she meant a client. A legitimate client, not the other kind. I hope. So, if that’s you...?”

  Her eyes darted to the muscle tightening his jaw. Before shifting to his mouth. And she swallowed.

  His voice came out rough, low, as he said, “I am not one of Hazel’s Johns.”

  Was that relief that flashed across her face? Interesting.

  No, not interesting.

  He and Hazel had a complicated past. After a rocky few years, they’d gotten better at simplifying. Meaning he never gave insight into his personal life and she never asked.

  “Sorry,” she said, shaking her head as if pulling herself out a fugue. Then, before he was anywhere near able, the woman’s hands slid back over his shoulders, her body uncurling from his as she pressed herself away.

  She fiddled with her bag, moving it in front of her like a shield. While Murdoch folded his arms across his chest to combat the cool where her warmth had been.

  “The tool belt.” She clicked towards his jeans. Stared in that direction for a drawn-out beat. Her teeth ran over her bottom lip before she blinked manically and glanced away. “You’re the one who’s been making all the noise.”

  “That’s me,” he said, trying not to stare at the sheen on her lip. And failing.

  If he was the one making all the noise, who the heck was she?

  One of Hazel’s acolytes, probably. Despite the kick ass boots and black everything else, there was something sweet and unsure and, well, odd that made her exactly the kind of project Hazel loved to get her claws into. He’d seen them come and go over the years. Gofers. Caddies. Scholarship recipients. Minions of all shapes and sizes.

  All a little wild-eyed. All lovely. All replacements for one who’d never again be there.

  Then the sound of Hazel’s high-heeled footsteps cut through the air.

  “Run,” he muttered, tugging his beanie from his head and running fingers through his hair. “While you still have the chance.”

  The woman’s eyes widened a fraction before her mouth curved into a now-you-see-it, now-you-don’t-grin, and he felt the shine of it right down to the soles of his boots.

  “Oh, good, dear girl, you’re still here,” Hazel called out as she made her grand entrance. And then she spied Murdoch and stopped on a dime. “What’s going on here, then?”

  Pink crept into the younger woman’s cheeks as she took a more decided step away from him. She glanced at Murdoch. Likely figured there was nothing she could say about their meeting that would help her cause. “I was just heading off. Thanks again, Ms...Hazel. I look forward to hearing from you soon.”

  Hazel held up a hand in order to stop the woman from going anywhere, her gaze sliding between them like a shark deciding which morsel to snap up first. When it landed on Murdoch, he crossed his arms, white-knuckling the beanie in his hand and shaking his head slowly.

  Mouth kicking into a smile, Hazel shook hers right on back.

  Murdoch couldn’t help but laugh.

  For all her froufrou, she
was the toughest woman he’d ever known, hard-headed and stubborn. She was also one of his favourite people on the planet. If this job had been for anyone else he’d be at the Macquarie Gaol restoration site telling other guys where to hammer.

  “I assume you’ve done the gentlemanly thing and introduced yourself,” Hazel said.

  Remembering how the stranger had felt toppled up against him, her hands sneaking over his shoulders, he said, “Not officially,” Murdoch said.

  “Then let me do the honours,” Hazel said, with enough glee tinging her voice Murdoch braced himself. “Murdoch, this is the lovely, Serafina Scott, my illustrious, new, digital-branding expert.”

  At that the woman – Serafina – responded. It was a visceral thing. Her lean body uncurled to its full height, her fantastic eyes glinted, and the smile that spread across her lovely face – wide and free – was something to behold.

  “She is on the verge of getting her doctorate,” Hazel went on, “I’m having to pay her a well-deserved fortune to lure her away from her studies in order to set up my tiny, little corner of the interweb. She’s tenacious, talented, and also quite charming. Don’t you agree?”

  “Hazel,” Murdoch warned.

  Hazel shushed him with narrowed eyes. He held up his hands in submission. Truth was, he was confused as hell as to what Hazel was up to.

  “Serafina,” she went on, “this glorious hunk of manhood before you is Justin Murdoch.”

  Murdoch nodded as Serafina was forced to look his way.

  And look she did. At first, she gave him a polite smile, as if he hadn’t had his hands on her waist and looked right into those big eyes of hers as her voice had turned to breath. Then sudden warmth flashed in her eyes, so fast and furious he felt it like the lick of a rogue flame.

  Knowing Hazel would be cataloguing every eyelash flutter, Murdoch forced himself to go still. Give nothing away. Including the fact that all the little signs the woman was giving off were hitting right where it mattered. Hell, it starting to feel worse than one of those naked at school assembly dreams.

  “Serafina,” he acknowledged. Nothing more.

  “It’s Sera,” she said. She shrugged. Then shook her head, so her hair fell over her shoulder – silky and uneven and cute as hell. “I usually get Sera. Though Serafina is fine.”

  Hazel’s smile only widened. “Murdoch is a renovation wunderkind. He’s the man behind transforming this white elephant from sadly crumbling to proudly palatial. Do you know his work?”

  Sera/Serafina shook her head, as well she might. It wouldn’t occur to Hazel that not everyone was a Murdoch Construction Group aficionado. Not even his own family kept such tabs.

  Hazel continued on regardless. “He oversaw the restoration of that cathedral in the city. The one with the double spires? No? How about that old church in Surrey, the one they turned into a nightclub? Not familiar with that one either?” Hazel threw her hands in the air. “You’re young. Hip. What do you do with your spare time?”

  “Me?” Serafina asked, in the firing line yet again. “Ah, I game. Read. Draw. Work on my car. More? I watch my favourite TV shows over and over again. I tutor – sociology, marketing, IT, anthropology, anything really. I’ve taken enough courses at uni to have three degrees. I tried tae kwon do for a while but that didn’t stick. Um...”

  When Hazel began to look pained for the girl, Murdoch came to their rescue. “Where do you live?”

  “Haberfield.” Sera blinked at him then away.

  Right. Big back yards, council plans for ‘reinvigoration’, fair-sized Italian community. Vaucluse, on the other hand, had the back drop of Sydney Harbour with properties in the tens of millions.

  “We did the Heritage-listed Italian restaurant on Ramsay Street,” he said.

  Those lovely pale eyes of hers caught his and locked on. “The one with the pizza oven or the one without?”

  “With.”

  Her mouth turned down, she tilted her chin once. Impressed. Then she sucked her bottom lip between her overlapping front teeth. It was a move he got the feeling he’d never forget.

  Mmm. Quite the unexpected morning’s entertainment.

  Hazel, not caring for being out of the loop, leapt back into the fray. “I have had the pleasure of watching Murdoch grow from a mere boy into a man any woman would be crazy not to adore. And he’s single. Aren’t you, tiger?”

  On that note...

  Murdoch clapped both hands together loud enough both women started. “Time to get back to work.”

  That was the thing about being the boss; when a pair of employees called in ‘sick’ (aka hungover) he had to keep the job moving. Which meant lugging wood, failing to get decisions out of a client, and rescuing dogs that were barely dogs.

  Not that he’d been any different from day one.

  From the moment he started in the building trade Murdoch had been the first one on site in the morning, the last to leave at night. He’d spent his first pay cheque on his own tools in order to show how serious he was about the chance he’d been given.

  With his father gone, his brother finding his feet at uni, and his mother in tatters, he’d had no choice but to prove – and improve – himself as fast as humanly possible. And he’d never stopped.

  Wasn’t sure he knew how.

  But now he owned his own outfit and ran teams all over town. Which was why the sooner everything was back on track at Hazel’s new joint, the sooner he could get back to the Macquarie Gaol project. The monumental reinvention of the old prison site was everything in his career had led towards.

  Murdoch tugged his gloves from his tool belt and dragged them back over his work-roughened hands. “And Hazel? No more sitting Cyrus and Phil down for high tea and asking their opinions, or sending messages to Jenny telling her to ‘Google the Palace of Versailles to see what they went with’. You need to email, courier, carrier pigeon the final choices of the bathroom fittings to my office today. Otherwise I’m heading down to the local hardware store and picking them myself. And if your...dog...is caught chewing on a power cord again, I won’t stop it. Hell, I might even sell tickets.”

  Hazel’s eyes lit with laughter, even as they narrowed his way. “You’re formidable when you’re bossy. I like it. Don’t you like it when he’s bossy?”

  This for Serafina, who got caught between a nod and a shrug that near turned her into a pretzel.

  “Hazel, be good. Serafina, good luck.” Murdoch tugged his beanie back into place and left.

  He threaded through the maze and headed outside to find Guy leaning against the Ute instead of hauling in the panels for the walls of he Resplendent Retransformation Room, whatever the hell that meant.

  Feeling strangely dissatisfied – even though he’d pinned Hazel down long enough to get out all he’d wanted to say (for now) – his voice came out hard. “You, right there?”

  Guy looked up from his phone, eyebrows raised. “Yep. Checking the weather.” Guy-speak for mucking about on the stock market.

  “Couldn’t that wait until you had these puppies off the truck and ready to install?”

  “Could have. In retrospect. I got a phone call I couldn’t let slide.” Guy flashed the back of his hand on which a name had been scrawled. Tina? Mina? Murdoch couldn’t be sure, as the name beneath it still showed through.

  All grin and zero remorse, Guy slid his phone into the hard case on his tool belt then got to work, heaving several planks into his arms and shuffling them towards the end of the Ute. “Get what you need from our lady liege?”

  “Rarely,” Murdoch muttered.

  For a heartbeat he thought about mentioning walking in on a woman on her hands and knees. Guy would laugh himself hoarse and it would fast become workplace folklore. Like the time Guy had painted Murdoch’s hard hat pink and implicit on-site rules meant he had to wear it. Or the pigeon that had fallen in love with Murdoch, leaving him little gifts every time he sat down to lunch.

  He shut his mouth at the sight of the woman’s name scrawled on the back of Guy’s hand. And determinedly refused to think about why.

  “It’s why I put my hand up to accompany you today,” said Guy. “Hazel turns your hard ass into pure candy and it’s a beautiful sight to see.”

  “You didn’t put your hand up. I ordered to come because you are my underling. So get your mind off my ass – beautiful as it may be – and on the job.”