Free Addicted to Nick by Bronwyn Jameson Page B

toward him slightly, enough that he could see the frown creasing her brow. “You’re his son—you’re family. Why would he write to me and not you?”
    â€œPerhaps you were closer to him than any of his family.”
    She made a disbelieving little noise, then shifted restlessly, as if even considering that notion didn’t sit well with her. “The first years I worked here, I didn’t know him at all,” she said softly. “He didn’t stay over much, just came for a day whenever he could, rang maybe once a week. After his wife died, he started staying weekends, occasionally longer. I can almost see why people might have thought we were…” She cleared her throat. “It was only this last six months that he stayed most of the time.”
    â€œDid he know he was…?”
    Dying.
    The unsaid word hung heavily between them. To Nick, the air felt morbidly thick. That was why breathing was so damn difficult.
    â€œI don’t know,” she replied in that same slow, considering voice. “He said nothing to me. I don’t think anyone knew how sick he was.”
    No one had said a word, not to him at any rate. Big surprise! He had returned from a month in Alaska to a coldly formal solicitor’s letter. The memory was as keenas the day he slit the seal on that innocuous looking envelope.
    â€œI didn’t know,” he said, his voice so gruff he barely recognized it as his own. “I didn’t know anything until it was all over.”
    When she placed her hand on his arm, Nick didn’t shake it off. This time he accepted the firm, warm contact. He accepted it, and he waited for some cloying words of sympathy to break the peculiar bond he felt with this woman he barely knew, but who knew exactly how to touch him.
    She surprised him by saying nothing.
    They sat like that for a long time, their silence comfortable and comforting. Then her hand moved on his forearm. It was simply a shift in pressure, hardly a caress, yet it aroused his senses in a heartbeat. The sweet fragrance of some flowering shrub filled his nostrils, the hoot of an owl sounded preternaturally loud on the still night air, and she drifted closer, her eyes luminous in the ambient light.
    His lips were only a whisper away when Ug bounded to life in her lap. T.C. turned her head sharply, and his lips grazed across her cheek. She laughed awkwardly, then sprang to her feet, dusting the backside of her jeans. “I have to go double-rug the horses. The nights are getting cold.”
    Before he could reply, she was steaming off down the path. He had to raise his voice to be sure it would reach her. “How are we ever going to organize anything if you keep running away?”
    She slowed, her dark silhouette wavering against the silvery outline of the stable block. “I have to rug up,” she insisted.
    â€œWe have to discuss our partnership.”
    She lifted a hand and rubbed it through her tumbled locks, and he heard her faint, frustrated sigh. “Then why don’t you come help me?”
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    T.C. ran a hand under Monte’s rug, then stepped back while Nick threw a second, heavier, blanket over the top. Accepting his help hadn’t hurt, and he had been right on another account. She had to stop running away. They had to discuss how they would handle this partnership. Before she could change her mind or find another excuse to procrastinate, she blurted, “My half share in Yarra Park is Joe’s idea of insurance.”
    Nick clicked the leg straps in place without missing a beat. “Insurance against…?”
    â€œSelling up. Joe seemed to think you might not even consider keeping the place.” She took a deep breath, found it rich with straw and horse and all things important. “Was he right?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou can’t do that without my agreement. That’s why Joe left me half.” It was a sound reason, one she