Chapter Two
Matthew Jamieson scanned the neighboring property through binoculars. Two men. Could be innocent. Could be trouble. Could be a pain in his arse. One man mowed the grass and the other cut back trees and the encroaching undergrowth. He cursed under his breath. This might interrupt the harvest, muck up his retirement plans.
Damn, he’d known he shouldn’t use the land, but it had been the best solution. Hell, a brilliant answer to his problem. He’d made an offer to purchase via his solicitor and been summarily rejected. The owner vetoed his second increased offer. He hadn’t liked to make a third and arouse curiosity.
Place was a dump, the land acreage too small for economic farming. None of his investigations turned up details about C Miller-Pope, other than his name. His inability to extract information from the law firm handling the property had irked him, but after almost nine months of inactivity, he’d decided it was safe to make use of the land to increase his drug production area.
Mistake.
He’d sensed it in his gut yet forged ahead anyway. Taken a calculated risk.
“Fuck.” Matt placed the binoculars on the nearby table and rubbed his face, mind racing, playing the angles as he paced. He halted at the desk in the corner, spinning to return to the cluster of chairs arranged to take advantage of the view.
Yeah, that might work.
He plucked his cell phone from his pocket and rang Herbert, his top man. In a crisp voice, he issued instructions, then disconnected. He stared through the window of his upstairs lounge, his gaze trailing the man mowing grass.
With a harsh sigh, he settled in his favorite chair and reached for the bottle of imported beer he’d opened earlier.
The ability to roll with life’s punches had turned him into a successful businessman. This was nothing but a small bump on the road to his empire. His plan to retire with his son would go ahead. He refused to allow an alternative.
* * * * *
“You could have warned me about his Supreme Hunkiness.Just a workmate,you said. His panty-wetting grin…” Cassie broke off, unwilling to share the extent of her instant arousal. She cleared her throat. “All that hotness needs a license.”
“He’s a flirt. Women adore him,” Emma agreed. “But a warning. As much as I love Hone, he’s not interested in settling with one woman. If you want a holiday fling, Hone is your man. If you’re looking for more, and I suspect you are, trying man-shopping in another market.”
“He’s almost as sexy as Jack.” Cassie’s gaze followed Hone’s progress as he cut the overgrown grass. Tall, over six foot. Messy black hair in need of a cut to tame the curls. Probably brown eyes, given his Maori descent and coloring. Muscles that rippled with each circuit of her lawn, a hairless chest and intriguing tattoos on his back and left biceps. Not an ounce of surplus flesh on him. Easy to see this since he’d whipped off his T-shirt and wore only shorts. She sighed. “It might be worth a dented heart to spend time bumping uglies with him.”
A choked gasp came from Emma, and Cassie turned to gape at her friend. She’d turned red in the face attempting to hold back her laughter. Well, Cassie couldn’t have that. She gave a thumbs-up sign, waggled her eyebrows and worked to hold back the giggles tickling her throat.
Emma exploded in an unladylike guffaw. Seconds later, Cassie let her own amusement loose. They chortled and gasped until they held each other to stay upright. Cassie hadn’t laughed this hard for ages, and as she wiped away her mirth and replaced her glasses, she was glad she’d insisted on taking a break, even if it had left Kevin pissed and grumpy.
She picked up the hammer and the crowbar. “We’d better get started on this carpet.”
“Oh no you don’t,” Emma said, taking ownership of the tools. “You haven’t outgrown the clumsy gene yet.”
Funny, when her mother commented on her habitual clumsiness, Cassie bristled enough to resemble a hedgehog. When her friend did the same thing, she handed over the tools without argument.
“All right. You pull out the tacks, and I’ll roll up the strips.”
They set to work with much chatter to catch up on the things each of them had done since their last letter.
“It must be fun traveling to new places,” Emma said, pausing to wipe her forehead.
After the usual unsettled December weather of muggy temperatures and precipitation, summer had arrived with a roar in the New Year, the dry conditions and lack of forecast rain setting farmers grumbling about drought. Cassie didn’t care about the weather, happy to be back with her friend and in the place she called home.
“It was exciting—for a while—but one hotel room resembles the next. It’s lonely,” she confessed. “I sing at a venue, pack up, travel to the next city and repeat. The constant travel is exhausting. The promo events are nerve-racking. You’d think they’d get easier. They don’t. My bubbly blonde act has a price, even though it offers me anonymity when I step back for a break.” At first, her wigs and costumes had been a coping mechanism for stage fright. A smokescreen when she became confident. A diva. A star. Now, fatigue weighed on her shoulders. Exhaustion had left her questioning her path and she had no idea of what to do to make things better.
“So, what have you decided to do?”
“Kevin wants me to try some crossover songs. More pop than country. Then, once I break out, he wants to do a world tour.”
Emma shot her a look of concern. “You don’t sound keen.”
“It’s the touring part. It’s isolating and strenuous, physically and emotionally. Kevin wants to sign me with a bigger label.”
“Can you do that?” Emma returned to ripping up carpet tacks.
