Perfect Scents

Book 2: Romance By Design

by Virginia Taylor

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Two unsuspecting lovers stumble upon the blueprint for love . . . Calliope Allbrook takes a job in lovely, sunny Adelaide, Australia, hoping to lose herself in her work as a balm for her broken heart. And if it weren’t for the handsome hunk renovating the house next door, Calli would never even have looked up from the garden she is designing for her latest client. But rugged Kellen Dee is just the cure the beautiful heiress needs. After all, he has no idea who she is, so he certainly won’t see her as a meal ticket. Then there’s the fact that Kell’s deliciously sexy— and incredibly good with his hands . . . From the moment Kell takes her in his arms, he knows Calli is more than just a fling. Then the blue collar bachelor learns he’s not sharing his bed with just any woman, but the wealthy daughter of the man who could make Kell’s construction business a success—and Kell the kind of well-heeled man worthy of Calli’s love. But he’ll have to be careful his ambitions don’t trip up his heart . . .

Release date: September 26, 2017

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 174

Sample

 

Calli Allbrook stood, key in hand, her suitcase beside her, contemplating the old stone cottage she intended to house-sit for the next three months. Birds flittered through the nearby trees while clouds scurried across the pallid spring sky.

THUNK! Startled, she dropped the key. The fence next door shook and rattled. A male voice swore loudly. Glass shattered and tinkled onto stone. Footsteps clumped, a hinge squeaked, and a door slammed. She glanced nervously at the tumbledown, overgrown wreck of a house behind the fence. A tad conscious of her overreaction to the neighbor’s noise, she scrambled up her key.

The main house on the allotment had been built at the front of the double block. Her separate accommodation was sited on the back corner. The attached carport sat farther along the back fence, sheltering Judge Adrian Ferguson’s black Jaguar, a luxury model white Mercedes, and her own twenty-year-old green Ford, not an edifying sight alongside the judge’s more expensive choices.

She pushed open the aqua door of the tidy little cottage, hoping that while the judge relaxed in the Mediterranean, she hadn’t taken on a larger commitment than she could manage. But, of course, she had to if she expected to reclaim her professional reputation. She had already seen the outside of her prospective lodgings last week when she had walked the judge through her plan for the design of his garden. Surmising that he had done as good a renovation here as he had on the interior of his spacious bluestone house, she glanced around. The area had been replanned as four spaces.

Three opened into each other; two at the front, one the sitting area, and another the eating area, separated from the white kitchen by an island. A coffee machine stood on top. She craved real coffee. For the past month, she had lived on the cheapest foodstuffs she could buy.

With a happy hitch of her shoulders, she made her way past a soft caramel leather couch facing a television set and two floral armchairs. Opening the door into the fourth space, the bedroom, she spotted a luxurious king-size bed. Before she unpacked, she checked the en suite bathroom. The gleaming white tiles served as a welcome relief from the pink, shared bathroom in the bedsit she had occupied since she had sold her own house a month ago.

Living in this hidden far corner while she worked on the garden of the main house, alone and undisturbed, would give her time to reexamine and finally put her life back together. By the time she had folded her underwear into a drawer; hung up a row of shirts, a skirt, and a jacket; and had pushed a few old gardening clothes onto a shelf; dusk shaded the room gray. She switched on the lights and closed the plantation shutters, glancing pensively at the bed. This morning she had performed one last cleaning round of her bedsit. She could sleep for a week, offered the chance.

Except, she hadn’t given a thought to breakfast in the morning. With only a fond hope, she wandered out to the small refrigerator. Her new employer had been gone a week, yet he had stocked a few staples for her, including butter and long-life milk. She found the coffee pods needed for the machine, a canister of teabags, jam, and peanut butter in an overhead cupboard, and cornflakes and dry crackers in a storage cupboard. Without trying to locate a shop, she could make a nice unhealthy snack before having an early night.

Tomorrow morning, she hoped to mark out various areas in the garden. In the not-too-distant future, the judge would be the proud owner of a new garden more suited to the style of his stately home. His present garden had been planted twenty years ago with rows of standard iceberg roses and English box hedges. Her plan was for a softer, more casual layout. The judge had approved her budget and had signed the various contracts needed for her to go ahead. That way, she didn’t need credit with trades or suppliers, fortunately. She had none.

After plastering peanut butter thickly on the crackers, she sat back in the comfortable armchair to watch the news on television.

Her startled lurch caused the cracker to hit her nose when a yelling voice fronting a heavy rock band screeched that he would rock her. Even the thick stone walls of the cottage vibrated with the noise. The iron roof rattled in protest.

“Turn the music down,” yelled a male voice in the distance.

Wiping the brown gloop off the tip of her nose, she stood, and peered out through the shutters at the grass tennis court at the front of the cottage and the crushed granite driveway, presuming—hoping—that the noise came from the glass-breaking neighbor rather than from invaders armed with stereo equipment. No one appeared to be partying on the court, but barbeque smoke trailed in from next door. Apparently the glass-breaker had outdoor culinary plans for the evening.

With a groan of resignation, she shut the window firmly and went back to the television news. The aroma of cooking meat meandered into her living space through the air vents, apparently knowing she had nothing interesting to eat. The background rock music continued to thump, competing with outbreaks of noisy laughter and shouted conversations. Although predominately male noise, the higher pitched laughing of women pierced the chilly night air. Despite her barbeque envy, she dozed off in front of the television.

She awoke suddenly to the sound of a car engine revving.

“Goodnight. See you soon,” called a female voice.

Lower tones and more revving of engines, perhaps motorbikes, and loud conversations continued for some time. Then, after a squeaky gate finally slammed shut with a metallic rattle, she wandered into the bedroom. Now would be her chance for a peaceful night of unbroken sleep.

She had told her family she would take a short break, implying that she would be travelling. No one other than her family had the number of her new phone. Given brain space, she could work out how she had ended with such a discombobulated life.

“Poor choices,” her mother had said, but Calli had always made considered choices. She always dated suitable men who had come from her background, had approximately the same education, welcoming parents, and suitable jobs. As soon as she thought she might have found the one, he decided to find someone else. So, after two unsuccessful relationships, clearly not marriage material, she had decided to work on her career instead.

“Great idea, Calli,” her sister had said, eyeing her sideways. “Like you don’t already have a good career.”

Calli had, of course, but not an independent one. She had worked in the family business, but she thought that might have been part of her problem—always being an Allbrook and never being Calli. Taking up with Grayson in a purely business relationship seemed to be a sensible idea, killing two birds with one stone. She could be Calli, she could present the gardens she would like to do instead of the gardens her father thought suitable, and not worry about her personal life ever again. That was then. Months ago. Her life had morphed into now.

Sighing, she changed into her pajamas and slid between fresh clean sheets. Her mind drifted. Tomorrow, she would start the most beautiful garden she had ever designed—one that would cause new customers to line up begging for her services. Then, she would be hired for bigger and better projects, and she would be so famous that—

CRASH.

She leaped out of bed in her panic, and stood, trying to find her bearings. Crash. The high-pitched squeals of bottles tumbling into a plastic bin, crash, crash, with each, about a hundred. Crash. Perhaps the neighbor was throwing away his wine glasses, too. Crash, crash, crash. She rubbed her forehead.

After breaking all his bottles and glasses, he started on his outdoor furniture.

Bang. Smack. Thud. Whack. Crash.

His back door slammed after an amplified squeak of the hinges. Now that noisy neighbor had cleaned up, he would surely have to sleep. She lay awake, waiting for the next noise, but she must have been exhausted because she awoke clear-headed in the morning. And ravenous, despite a sore throat.

She ate a bowl of cornflakes, drank a cup of tea, showered, and dressed in an oversized sleeveless sweatshirt and knee-length gym pants. After tucking her hair behind her ears, she pulled on a baseball cap and donned her sunglasses as she usually did for her morning jog. She opened her door and a cat brushed her ankles as it wobbled into the house.

The dirtiest creature she had ever seen dragged itself up onto the pristine couch.

“The judge’s new furniture is not the place for you, I’m afraid.” She hawked, hoping to clear her voice, but she had a clog there that she couldn’t shift. “I must ask you to leave,” she whispered, trying to sound cross, which didn’t work without any sort of volume. She pulled the door wide open, hoping the cat would recognize that her expression looked outraged.

The scruffy dun-colored cat blinked a pair of bleary eyes at her, and subsided into a circle of matted fur.

Not wanting to touch the filthy thing, Calli stood undecided. “So, you don’t take orders, hmm?” After some thought, she filled a saucer with milk. “Have that while I’m gone, but as soon as I get home, you will have to leave.”

The cat barely acknowledged her almost inaudible mutter. Calli tucked a ten-dollar bill and the house keys into her pocket. If she spotted a supermarket while she investigated this upmarket area, she would buy cheese, fruit, and bread for herself, and a can of food to tempt the cat outside again. She had never been a cat lover, though she did feel a modicum of sympathy for the creature’s unkempt condition. When she got back, she would call the animal rescue people.

She jogged up the crushed granite driveway to the street and decided to go left to take a better look at the noisy neighbor’s property. Although she couldn’t see much more than yesterday, she had a chance to note the details of the dilapidated sight behind the low redbrick fence.

Trees hid the façade of the house with only the tallest point of the Tudor roof visible. The date of the build could have been the early 1900s, and likely was. This one in a less affluent area would divide up nicely for six new family homes. Here, not a chance. Two at the most.

A shiny new SUV sat in the street outside. A man with forearms covered in tattoos sat on the wall. He wore black from head to toe—black T-shirt, black jeans, and black shoes. His hair had been cut with a hipster wave in front and short-short sides.

His companion stopped Calli’s breath. Tall, dark-haired, and impossibly handsome, he stood feet apart, arms crossed, his startling blue eyes momentarily raised to glance at her as he finished his sentence. “…might be happier in another area.” He offered Calli the sort of wry half smile that would floor a woman who was not immune to men. “Morning.”

She smiled instead of trying to speak, glad that a neighbor had decided to complain about the noise last night. At least she knew the glass and bottle breaker looked like a gangster, not the sort of man to cross. She just might not complain about the noise if it happened again.

As for his current accommodation, she wouldn’t recommend saving too many of the trees growing in the jungle at the front, among them Tecoma, feral olives, and Rhamnus, the blowfly bush. A recent hacking showed a weed-covered path. Steps led up to a once gracious veranda, tessellated like the step and most likely missing tiles, too. Overgrown branches and leaves hid the rest of the house.

A few more puffing breaths past the same unsightly overgrowth took her to rusting iron gates guarding an opening wide enough to drive a carriage through. The building behind looked like a two-car garage with an addition, possibly on old laundry house. The roof had caved in. In front, sat a couple of work trucks—one with a tray, and both possibly dumped for the duration of the resident’s stay. She hoped this would be short if he planned to host more loud parties with his carnivorous pals.

Though, not even a gangster would have a party every night. She could be a good uncomplaining, cowardly neighbor once a week if need be. To go out herself wasn’t an option. She didn’t intend to socialize for quite a while, not until she had lived down her humiliating fall from grace.

Her downhill trek led her to a group of shops, comprising a doctor’s surgery, a chemist, a physiotherapist, a dentist, and a small supermarket. On the other side of the road she spotted a pizza shop and a coffee bar, which unfortunately advertised an array of small cakes. Farther down the road sat a petrol station and a hotel. She wouldn’t need to go too far for anything she needed.

She jogged back up the hill with the makings of her lunch. The cat made a faint mewing sound as she entered the cottage.

“No, I didn’t forget you,” she said, using a throaty whisper and a faked smile. She tried clearing her throat again. “Who could? Now, look what I bought for you. Why don’t you move yourself off that nice clean carpet and come into the kitchen to eat?”

The cat blinked, slowly stood, and slithered over to her, making that strange noise the whole time.

“Food.” Calli winced in revulsion as filthy fur touched her leg. “Follow me.” She went into the kitchen area and opened the can. The stench of fish wafted out. “Ah, the aroma of the sea. Nice fish. Yum, yum. C’mon, c’mon. That’s me calling you without a voice.”

The cat wearily subsided on the floor near the couch.

She planted her fists on her hips. “Don’t you dare die now that I’ve spent half my money on your food. Don’t you dare.”

Apparently the cat didn’t heed whispered threats. The thing closed its eyes. Her skin crawling, Calli marched over and picked up the cat, which appeared to be mainly matted fur covering fine delicate bones. For no reason that she could name, because she didn’t like cats, her eyes filled with tears. “You’re starving. You couldn’t even make it to the food. Don’t worry. I’ll put it right under your nose.” Suppressing her distaste, and blinking back tears, she moved the cat to the dish and the saucer. The cat wobbled onto its feet and nosed at the milk, then began to lap, slowly and delicately. When the tiny puddle of milk half disappeared, the cat looked at the food and then at Calli.

“You don’t have to eat it all right now. When you have energy, you can start.” The cat licked the fur on its chest. Tears squirted from Calli’s eyes. Starving and filthy, the cat still had some pride in its appearance. Although Calli didn’t care much about hers these days, she knew a lesson when she saw one.

“Okay. You’ve won me for the time being. I won’t call the rescue. I’ll take you to the vet instead. We’ll give you a chance. Everyone deserves a chance.” She wiped at her nose with the back of her hand.

She was an everyone, too.

* * * *

Kellen Dee, known as Kell by his brothers and friends, and Killer by guys who wanted to deride his luck with the female sex, swept the discarded nails into a pile. The shapely young jogger this morning had been a welcome sight. The job he would begin this week was starting to look more interesting.

The well-heeled residents in this area were reputed to be doctors, but only specialists; lawyers, but mainly high court judges; politicians from either party; businessmen, the most successful; and anyone else with up to three million to spend on a house.

The jogger could be a wife of any of the aforementioned, and he would probably never know, but her beautiful long legs had been an enervating sight. If he could watch her every morning, he would be happy to stay for the three months he had estimated he would need here to run a chainsaw through the garden and effectively swing a sledgehammer inside the house.

He glanced idly around the room at the top of the main area where he would begin his destruction this morning, having taken a couple of days off work to make sure of a good start on his new renovation project. All the old cupboards needed to be removed from the bedrooms, as well as a water-stained part of the ceiling in the upstairs hallway. Fortunately, unlike his current housemate, he didn’t have a hangover. Abstemious, and not about to end up like his alcoholic father, he had kept his intake last night to a single glass of beer.

The staircase creaked and Trent appeared. Tall and gangly, with light hair and eyes, he had a peaceful nature. He also thought he had an artistic bent, which left him open to constant ragging.

“I saw Steve outside. What did he want?” Trent massaged his forehead, wincing when the light from the window hit his eyes.

“He thought he’d left his sunglasses here last night.”

Trent creaked out a laugh. “Is he having separation anxiety already?” Steve, briefly the employer of Kell and Trent in his theater set construction business, last year had married Lonny, ex-hairdresser and stylist to the stars, and now had a one-year-old pesky son.

Kell shrugged. “Maybe.”

“He tried to get me to leave with him again last night. I told him I wanted to finish this house with you first.”

“He’s a hometown boy. For him, moving to Sydney is a big deal.”

“Yeah, but he’ll do better with his business there. How about Lonny, though? A contract for a TV makeover show. You and me, we’re getting left behind.”

Kell squared his shoulders. No one would leave him behind. He had plans and nothing or no one would distract him from his course. “Don’t fret. You’ll be back working with him in a couple of months.”

Trent nodded and heaved a sigh. “You starting in here?”

Kell nodded. “I think I can reuse some of the wood.”

“From the cupboards? Yeah. Good quality stuff, man. What are you going to do with it?”

“Haven’t decided. I’ll put it into storage. See these floorboards? Jarrah.” Kell licked three fingers, squatted, and moistened the boards. The wood turned a clear mahogany red. “Beautiful. I’m thinking about taking them up, too. Can’t see much reason to leave them here. I can do this floor with composite instead, because I’ll carpet the place.”

“What job do you want me on first?”

“Start gutting the garage and laundry. Then we can knock down the outbuildings. I’ll want to put up a fence for the subdivision, too. Or you can do that. Remember, I want to keep anything salvageable. And be more careful of the leadlighting. I can make money out of that. I don’t want any more breakages.”

“I didn’t know it was there. Vandals must have taken the window out and then decided to leave it,” Trent said with stiff dignity. “I wouldn’t mind having a go at restoring the broken one, though.”

“No point. I’m not reusing it. I’ll sell it. How did you get on with the nurses last night?” Kell gave Trent a sideways glance.

Trent had somehow never learn. . .