Out of Bounds by Kris Pearson Page A

said, pointing at the white
walled, charcoal tiled version with black and white geometric
fabric options. “I’ve also done you a ‘naturals’ scheme—which I can
tell you right now is what most people will want.”
    Anton ran a long finger over the small square
of nubby cream carpet and grinned.
    “And this one, which is still very neutral
but has colored accents.” She slid it onto the top of the stack,
watching his eyes as they ran over the magazine clippings of bright
cushions, flowers, ceramics, a vibrant painting. “Same
exactly—apart from the accessories.”
    He sent her one of his bone melting smiles.
“You’re good, but you need to sign them. If you’re back from New
York in time the work’s yours.”
    “Thank you cousin,” she said without thinking.
    Anton disappeared soon afterward, looking a
lot tidier, and calling over his shoulder, “Expect me when you see
me.” Jetta presumed he was seeing Claire. She was welcome to
him.
    Once he’d gone, she checked the rest of the
house.
    The bathroom had gained an electric
toothbrush, a second tube of toothpaste, and extra towels. She
flinched at the evidence of masculine occupation. Panic waves began
to lap around her ankles.
    The spare room was wonderfully clear. Only
his drawing board and a stack of plastic chairs lurked there.
    The front bedroom had that big, big bed, and
the sleek desk and chests she’d seen at the other house. He’d
pulled the old brown roller blinds halfway down against the setting
sun, making the atmosphere mysterious and sexy.
    She sniffed. His lemony cologne hung in the
air, bringing back memories of Saturday, and his arm against hers
as she told him how nasty his apartments were.
    The panic waves lapped higher.
    She spied his toolbox in the corner and
thought of the big new latch she’d bought. She simply had to have
that control. There was no way she’d be able to sleep, knowing he
could walk right into her room like he had earlier...like Uncle
Graham had on the evenings her parents went out, when they’d
trusted him to look after her.
    She trembled, calling herself a wuss, a
scaredy-cat, a nutcase.
    But surely knowing she was unreachable would
help her relax?
    She picked up the toolbox and carried it back
to her room. Half an hour later, she nodded with satisfaction. The
latch was ugly, slightly crooked, and stiff to work, but it was
on.
    Then she noticed the little TV on the corner
stand had been replaced by Gran’s bigger sitting room set. Anton
had been in here, messing with her stuff, invading her privacy! The
shivers of shock and consternation started all over again. How dare
he do that without asking?
    She stared across at the ugly latch again,
and waited until calmness stole over her and her heart rate
decreased.
     

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Against all expectations, she slept deeply on
Monday night—exhausted from the terrible day, and grief and worry
and trepidation. She didn’t hear Anton come back. But she certainly
heard the demolition crew when they arrived at number seventeen
early next morning.
    A noisy truck, men’s loud voices far too
close, and metallic clanking and thumping yanked her out of her
peaceful sleep before her alarm sounded. She shot from the bed,
parted the curtains, and glared across at them.
    Anton said the men would be working inside
number seventeen on Tuesday, but when she came home, she found a
big chunk of the side fence missing, the old timber palings stacked
up beside her bedroom, and a door rather roughly installed through
the outside wall of Gran’s old spare bedroom/site office.
    “I knew you wouldn’t want everyone tramping
through the house,” Anton said, as if he’d done her a favor.
    Privately she agreed. If extra people had to
access the site office, she had no wish to see them or their muddy
boots, but she wasn’t about to look grateful for his
thoughtfulness.
    By Wednesday knockoff time, the old
terracotta roof tiles had disappeared from seventeen. She presumed
that meant