The cold air outside an hour later didn’t help her sober up, and she wondered just how many drinks she had downed. The figure was nebulous, thanks to Tien constantly refreshing her glass before it was empty. While the alcohol didn’t affect her professional capacity, now that the need to harness her persona for the evening had disappeared, it hit a little harder. She cursed as she stumbled on the footpath.
‘Looks like you’re not driving,’ Tien said. ‘I’ll get us a taxi.’
She waved him off. ‘No need. It’s walking distance.’ That was the best thing about living in the City of Churches: central Adelaide only covered about four square kilometres, so she was never far from home. She pressed the palm of her hand into her chest, forcing a calming breath. Potentially never far from her stalker, either. She shouldn’t have drunk, then she could have driven back to the safety of Settlers Bridge for the night.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Tien said. ‘I’ll see you home.’
She denied the creeping fear that urged her to accept Tien’s offer. ‘It’s fine, I’ll Uber. I’ll walk back here to get my car tomorrow.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Which is technicallytoday. See you on Monday, okay?’ On a slightly drunken impulse, she leaned in and kissed Tien’s cheek, knowing he’d be an awkward mixture of embarrassed and thrilled.
His hand snaked out and he grabbed her wrist. ‘I’m not letting you go home alone, Jemma.’ His voice was oddly flat.
Reflexively, she formed a fist with her trapped hand and rotated her wrist. Her fist supported by her opposite palm, she yanked it from his gasp. The manoeuvre took only a heartbeat and she wasn’t certain which of them was more shocked, Tien because she’d used martial arts against him, or her, because her training had actually kicked in.
‘See? Safe as houses,’ she said with a weak grin. ‘See you Monday. I’ll bring the coffee this time.’
She moved away quickly, leaving Tien standing in front of the restaurant. As she collected her flats from the car, she was sorely tempted to drive home … or, better yet, back to Settlers Bridge. She dismissed the notion. The walk would give her more time to think through her campaign for Monday. She knew what was best for her client, and it certainly wasn’t trickle-feeding compensation to his wife for his behaviour. If Wilkins claimed he was innocent, then he could prove it in court. Regardless of the fight for the partnership, Rohan had no right to bulldoze her case.
She put the Louboutins in the velvet sack she’d picked up from the Settlers Bridge CWA street stall the previous week and slung them over her shoulder. No point risking leaving them in the car. In the rear seat was a travel bag with a few clothes. It was heavier than she expected and she fleetingly wondered if she should unpack, only take her workout clothes to jog back to the car in the next day … but she could feel Tien’s eyes burning into her back from a block away.
Poor Tien. She was out of sorts with the entire world today. A dose of vitamin B to ward off the hangover and adecent sleep would see her fixed—except she wouldn’t get a good night’s sleep without the river’s lullaby.
A full moon bolstered the streetlights, making it bright enough to walk without flicking on her phone torch. She yawned: the day had been long. At the cottage, she’d fallen into the habit of heading to bed early, leaving the curtains drawn back so she could admire the ebony trees reflected in the moonlight path on the silver river. It had been a steep and swift learning curve to discover that a day heralded by the song of kookaburras and magpies, in which she only needed to pull on athletic wear and enjoy her fresh-brewed coffee on the porch while watching the sun gild the water, produced just as valuable a work effort as a day begun fractured by car horns and a rush to the office.
Lost in her thoughts, she had navigated the city blocks on autopilot. Realising she was drawing near the apartment, a cold knot of fear cramped her stomach. She sucked in a ragged breath as she eyed the shadowed entry to the cafe. Next door, the moon glinted in the new plate-glass window of the trattoria, the platinum pretence of daylight a cruel parody of safety.
Yet she was being ridiculous—Dad said he’d had security cameras installed now. And the streets were familiar, quiet. There was nothing to fear.
Nothing … except the stealthy footfall behind her.
22
Hamish
Jemma whirled to face him, dropping her kit bag, one hand curled into a fist, the other clutching a jewel-coloured fabric sack.
He stepped forward—or at least he tried to. The ute was designed to lug around bales of hay, not to accommodate his frame for three hours of waiting on the side of the road, and even though he’d clambered out as he spotted Jemma, his left leg was cramped. He stumbled, reaching toward her to steady himself.
She lashed out, a fingertip punch aimed at his armpit.
‘Jemma!’ he yelped as his arm went dead.
She’d already hauled back, ready to attack him again, and he threw up his forearm.
‘Jemma!’
She checked the move and he cautiously lowered his hand.
‘With reflexes like that, I don’t know why I was wasting my time worrying about you! You probably need to findyourself a good lawyer to get you off a string of murder charges.’
‘Manslaughter,’ she corrected. Her scowl had turned quizzical as she recognised him. She moved a little closer. ‘You were worried about me?’
‘Unnecessarily,’ he grumbled, massaging his arm.
‘Sorry about that.’ She pressed the heel of her hand against his armpit.
It seemed a strangely intimate thing to do, and for a second he was stuck for words.
‘I just thought I’d pass by, make sure you’d got home okay.’
