Claimed by the Hunk

Chapter 10

Sam had to think about it, but he was pretty sure that no one had ever slammed a door in his face before. Not even an angry ex-girlfriend. So much for easing the concerns of his elderly neighbor.

Not that there was anything elderly about Cassandra Lowell. If he had to guess, he’d say she was around the same age as him—maybe a few years younger—and judging by her firm, lean body, there was nothing remotely doddery about her.

Nothing soft or warm or welcoming about her, either, from the cool, clear blue of her eyes and small, straight nose to her very short brown hair.

From the second she’d opened the door she’d wanted him gone—he’d felt the force of her will like a hand shoving him away. More fool him for trying to do the right thing in the first place. He wouldn’t make that mistake again, not where she was concerned.

He’d met a lot of women like Cassandra over the years. Allison had gravitated to that type of woman—aspirational middle-class, with European luxury cars in their driveways, addresses in the “right” part of town, foreheads injected with Botox, fashionably skinny bodies and husbands who earned the big money in banking or law. The only wonder was that Cassandra had taken time out from her no-doubt hectic social schedule to rusticate in the wilds of the Mornington Peninsula. Hardly the kind of place he’d expect to find an upwardly mobile, hard-edged woman like her.

He paused climbing the steps to his porch, aware that there was a considerable degree of vitriol in his thoughts.

Perhaps a disproportionately large degree, given the length of his acquaintance with Cassandra Lowell. They had been talking for all of two minutes before she’d slammed the door, after all. Hardly enough time to drum up a high level of ire.

Before his life had turned out to be about as substantial as an empty cereal packet, he’d considered himself a pretty easygoing kind of guy. Not particularly prone to temper tantrums, reasonably long fuse, pretty quick with a laugh when something tickled his funny bone.

Lately, though… Lately he’d noticed a tendency to see only the darkness, the ugliness in people and the world.

And his fuse had shortened considerably. Six months ago, Cassandra’s little stunt would have made him laugh and worry about her blood pressure. Today, it filled him with the urge to do something childish like put Led Zeppelin on the stereo and turn up the volume to bleeding-eardrum level so that it rattled her windows.

He released his breath on an exasperated exhalation. It didn’t take a psychologists’ convention to work out where the impulse stemmed from and who his anger was really directed at.

Allison.

Except she was a thousand miles away and he hadn’t spoken to her for more than three months.

Because he didn’t know what to do with all the anger Cassandra had inadvertently triggered in him, he strode through the house and into the yard, aiming for the shed in the far corner. Nothing like a distraction to avoid dealing with his feelings.

Strudel kept pace with him, her whiskered face bright with doggy anticipation. At least one of them was getting something out of this.

He was struggling with the rusty latch on the shed when his phone rang. He glanced at the screen before deciding to take the call. It was Brent, his brother.

“You there yet or still on the road?” Brent asked.

“Got here a couple of hours ago.”

“How’s the place looking?”

“Old.”

“Coat of paint will fix that. I’ve been doing some research. Looks like the big-gun real-estate agent in the area is Dixon and Lane.”

Sam gave the latch a thump with his fist. “It’ll be a while before I can call the agents in, mate.” The latch finally gave and he pulled the door open. “Bloody hell.”

“What?”

“The garden shed is stuffed with furniture.” His gaze ran over chairs, a sideboard, a dresser, a bed frame, all of it crammed cheek by jowl and covered with dust.

“Any good stuff?”

 “I have no idea.” It all looked old-fashioned and heavy to him, but what did he know?

“We should get an evaluator in. One of those guys who specializes in estates,” Brent said.

“I guess.”

“You sound tired.”

“Lot of road between here and Sydney.”

“That’s kind of the point, though, right?”

Sam shut the shed door and used his shoulder to hold it in place while he forced the rusty bolt home. “Yeah.”

“I’ll let you go. Speak again tomorrow, okay?” Brent said.

Sam suppressed a sigh. Ever since he’d told his brother about Allison and Nick, Brent had been checking in with him daily. As though Sam would “do something stupid” if he didn’t have his hand held.

“You don’t have to keep up the suicide watch, you know. I’m pissed off, but I’m hardly going to end it all,” he said drily.

For a moment there was nothing but the sound of the wind in the trees and the distant thunder of surf.

“You’re not on suicide watch,” Brent said stiffly.

“Whatever you want to call it. I don’t need my hand held.”

“Excuse me for caring.”

Brent sounded pissed now. Sam ran his hand through his hair.

“I appreciate the sentiment, okay? But you don’t need to babysit me.”

“Sure. I’ll speak to you later.” Brent hung up.

Sam congratulated himself on being a d**k. Brent was a good guy. A little fussy sometimes, but maybe that came with the territory when you were the older brother. Rewarding his concern with smart-assery was a kid’s way of dealing with an uncomfortable situation.

Jamming his hands into his coat pockets, Sam promised himself he’d call Brent tomorrow. He surveyed the garden, looking for Strudel before he headed into the house.

He frowned when he saw her doing the doggy meet-and greet routine with the neighbor’s dachshund.

“How did you get over here?” He glanced at the fence that separated the two properties. It was silver with age, but it looked solid enough. Obviously there must be a hole somewhere.

“Strudel. Come here, girl. Come here.”

His normally obedient schnauzer didn’t so much as glance in his general direction. She was too busy canoodling with her new best friend, sniffing and dancing around and generally being coy.

Sam went after her, scanning the fence line as he walked. Sure enough, he found a half-rotted board and a hole that was sufficiently large for a determined dachshund to gain entrance.

“Party’s over, buddy.” He reached down to scoop up the dachshund. The dog wriggled desperately, but Sam kept a tight grip, only releasing him when he’d arrived at the fence. He squatted, pointed the dog at the hole and stood guard until the sausage dog had wiggled into his own yard.

There were a few loose bricks in the garden bed nearby and Sam used them to build a blockade. He’d patch the hole properly later, but the makeshift barrier should keep Romeo out in the interim.

He returned to the house and did a thorough tour of each room, making notes on the work that needed to be done. He’d reached the kitchen when he realized Strudel had disappeared. He checked the living room, sure he’d find her making herself at home on the overstuffed couch.

She wasn’t there, however.

He glanced outside as he returned to the kitchen. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the dachshund planted at the bottom of the exterior steps.

Bloody hell. Houdini had done it again.

He found Strudel sitting at the door, gaze fixed longingly on the handle, almost as though she was willing it to turn. He had no idea how she knew that her furry friend had come calling, but clearly she did.

“You can do much better, girl,” he said. “He’s way too short for you.”

He went outside, Strudel hard on his heels. He watched in bemusement as the two dogs greeted each other with what he could only describe as the canine equivalent of a twenty-one-gun salute. Didn’t seem to matter that they’d seen each other less than an hour ago.

“Okay. Hate to break it up, but Houdini has to go home.”

He picked up the dachshund and carried him to the hole in the fence. To his surprise, the barricade was still intact.

He followed the fence farther into the garden, squirming hound under his arm

By the time he’d reached the rear of the property he’d found another three holes, which made the dachshund more of an opportunist than an escape artist. Sam considered the problem for a few seconds, but he really couldn’t see any alternative to biting the bullet and paying his not-very neighborly neighbor another visit. She needed to be made aware of the issues with their shared boundary. As tempting as it was to simply attach a note to her dog’s collar and send him through one of the many holes in the fence, Sam figured the news would probably be better received in person.

He ushered the interloper inside and clipped Strudel’s lead onto his collar. He had to practically drag the dachshund out the door, however, and he could hear Strudel whining beseechingly as he crossed to Cassandra’s driveway.

He knocked on her door, then looked down. The dog was staring up at him with sad eyes, the picture of abject misery.

“Yeah, yeah, your life is hell. I get it.”

He could hear footsteps inside the house. He braced himself for more rudeness. Cassandra opened the door and stared at first him, then the dachshund.

“Why do you have my dog?” she asked, a frown furrowing her brow.

“Because he was in my yard. Twice. The fence between our properties is riddled with holes.”

She crouched, one hand reaching for the door frame for balance.

“Mr. Smith, what have you been up to? Have you been out making new friends?” Her tone was warm, even a little indulgent.

She knelt, rubbing the dog beneath his chin. Sam stared at her down-turned head, noticing something through her dark, clipped hair. A white, shiny line sliced across her scalp along the side of her skull, then curled toward the front just inside her hairline.

A scar.

A pretty wicked, serious one by the looks of it.

She glanced at him. “Thanks for bringing him back.”

She wasn’t wearing a scrap of makeup. Her skin was very fair and her long, dark eyelashes stood out in dramatic contrast to her piercing blue eyes. He had a sudden jolt to his gut making him feel that he knew this woman from somewhere, where he could not feel or remember but the sense of familiarity gnawed at his gut.

She unclipped the leash, then straightened. Maybe he was looking for it after seeing the scar, but it seemed to him the move wasn’t anywhere near as easy and casual as she’d like him to think. He reminded himself of the reason he was here—and it wasn’t to ferret out her secrets.

“We need to do something about the fence,” he said.

 “There’s never been a problem before. Mr. Smith isn’t much of a roamer.”

“I think he’s more interested in Strudel than exploring the terrain.”

“That’s never been a problem before, either.”