Wild About the Man

Clem twisted to look. ‘A bag burst and I slipped. I think it’s a mixture of rotten tomatoes and cabbage.’ She tipped her head back as Nick aimed the water at her chest. ‘Actually, that’s kind of nice. It’s the first time I’ve felt cool since I got here.’

‘I think that’s a spinach leaf on your ankle.’

‘Eeew.’ Clem reached down and picked the leaf off her skin. ‘So, am I clean enough to go into your precious house?’

‘Not in those clothes. Strip.’

Clem lifted her eyebrows. ‘I beg your pardon?’

Nick looked impatient. And amused. ‘I can still smell you and ninety per cent of the smell is in your clothes. I’ll get you a towel if you’re feeling modest.’

Oh, she was very tired of that smirky smile, that expression that said he was dealing with the village idiot. He wanted her to strip?

Well, OK then …

Clem narrowed her eyes and, without removing her annoyed gaze from his face, lifted her vest and pulled it up and over her head and dropped it to the grass. Standing in her low-cut lacy scarlet bra, she reached for the snap of her denims.

Nick tried to looked insouciant but she saw the telltale muscle jump in his jaw. So she flipped open the buttons and deliberately wiggled her shorts down her legs, slowly revealing a brief pair of matching panties. The hosepipe in Nick’s hand dropped as she stepped out of the denims—destined to be burnt—and she swung her hips as she sauntered up to him.

His eyes were everywhere they shouldn’t be and, for once, she was OK with that because he didn’t notice what she was doing. In a flash she lifted the pipe and directed a stream of water at his crotch before whipping it up and directing it into his open-with-shock mouth.

Grinning, she dropped the hose and, listening to him splutter, walked into the house. She hadn’t been a lingerie model for nothing.

When Nick brought Clem back to the house it was after five and she was shattered. She showered, hopped out and could still smell the rubbish dump on her skin so she hopped back in. She’d used up half a bottle of her favourite shampoo and she still reeked of … something vile.

It had been a dismal day, she decided. After her hose down—with neither of them referring to her impromptu striptease—a shower and a huge salad sandwich in the staff canteen at lunch time, Nick had carted her off to the laundry room, where she was given a pile of sheets to iron. After she’d burnt two million-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, the housekeeper had thrown a hissy fit, picked up the sheet and cursed her in her native language. She’d been hustled out of the laundry, told that she was useless, that she was making the sheets smell and was put to work cleaning out The Pit.

That was an experience she’d rather not repeat. Not as bad as the recycling but sticky floors, grimy bar, dirty glasses. Ugh.

Clem pulled on a sleeveless sage-green patterned top, cream shorts and flip-flops and walked into the lounge, towelling her hair dry.

Nick was also freshly showered, dressed in white cargo shorts and a button down navy shirt, and he looked up from his laptop that sat on the kitchen counter.

‘Do you want a glass of wine? Or a beer?’

‘Something soft?’ Clem responded, rubbing the ends of her hair. ‘I don’t drink alcohol.’

Nick looked surprised. ‘At all?’

‘Yeah. And no, I’m not a recovering alcoholic, nor have any addiction problems. My mum was killed in a car accident and the other driver was drunk and stoned.’

Why had she told him that? Apart from the very rare comment to Jason, she never discussed her mother with anyone.

‘I’m sorry.’ Nick turned away from her and looked in the fridge. He pulled out a box of fruit juice. ‘This OK?’

‘Thanks.’ Clem watched him as he pulled out a glass and poured her juice. Their fingers brushed as he handed the glass over and sparks shot up her arm. OK, now she was just being pathetic.

Clem bunched the towel in her hand and wrinkled her nose. ‘Nick, I still stink.’

Nick grinned and her heart pitter-pattered. ‘I’m sure you don’t.’