windows as he shoved his bare feet into his gumboots. He marched across the grass. The caravan’s front door was pinned open—all the better to conduct the music out at ear-wincing volume.
“Savannah?”
No answer, but considering his voice battled against a cacophony of musical instruments, it was little surprise. He banged a fist on the orange-painted side of the caravan. “Goddammit, Savannah!”
“Good morning.” Her voice tinkled in a cheerful sing-song as she appeared in his line of vision, smooth, bare legs flashing under an eye-wateringly yellow dress.
He couldn't help peering inside her caravan. Floral curtains hung over the small windows, and red-checked lino and matching painted cabinets lined the space between ceiling and walls. Opposite the door entrance was a small fridge and next to it a dinette with white-and-red striped cushions. Classic kitschy 1950s decor. And Savannah—in her yellow dress, hair tied in a simple tail and bright-red lipstick on her pouty mouth—looked the part of a domestic goddess.
“Are you kidding me with this crap? It's six in the morning.” He had to shout to make himself heard over the twanging guitars.
Savannah ran a tap at the sink, sliding a stove-top kettle under the stream. She twisted the volume dial on her sound system and the music volume dropped to only ear needling rather than ear splitting.
“Early bird catches the worm.” She finished filling the kettle and placed it on the tiny range-top. “Today, I overslept. Normally I'm up at five, and if I'm working on a set, sometimes I’m even up at three.”
Glen shut his eyes against the lights and the blinding colors of the décor and gripped the door’s edge. Counted to five slowly. He had a sister—so he knew Savannah was baiting him. But he couldn’t help himself. Something about her pushed his buttons. Always had, always would.
“Cup of tea?”
Her voice purred and his eyes popped open.
She smiled, all glossy-red lips that promised sinful sweetness. The woman had a killer smile; he'd give her that. A smile as sweet and sincere as a cat who purred against you one moment and left your arm in bloody shreds the next.
“I don’t drink tea.”
“Coffee?”
“I’m not drinking anything with you at this time of day.”
“Not a morning person then?” She opened a cabinet above the sink, stretching up on tip-toes, the hem of her dress rising to give him a glimpse of silky thighs.
He dropped his gaze, wincing as another song started. This one featuring a harmonica, God help him. He scrubbed at the stubble on his jaw and debated jamming his fingers into his ears. Nope, wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. “No. How about you turn that music down? It’s noise pollution.”
She set the cup she’d reached for onto the counter and swirled over to stand in front of the door, fists on hips. “Hey, it’s classic country. You being a lawyer, I thought you’d have more appreciation for human misery and the whole ‘I lost my job then my wife left me and now my dog died’ genre.”
“I work in corporate law; there’s enough human misery there.”
Savannah stood a step above him, and because of it, his nose was now level with her breasts. Her two very perky, very lush breasts which were swaying gently as her rib cage rose and fell in exasperation. He tried hard to remain irritated and indignant, but her body was a major distraction when his brain clearly hadn’t woken up yet.
He needed caffeine, stat. But not hers—she’d probably poison it.
“Corporate law?” She rolled her eyes. “You really are a suit, aren’t you?”
“Are you going to keep calling me a suit?”
The tag rankled because he had never, ever wanted to be one. No, he’d dreamed of changing the world in a different way. By writing the great New Zealand fantasy novel. Then life and his father interfered. Law became his world, not warlocks, and swords, and heroism. As an idealistic nineteen-year-old he’d switched to a more conservative dream of preserving New Zealand’s clean-green image with environmental law or helping lower income families. But even that dream had fizzled. He’d ended up at his father’s corporate law firm, burning out with twelve hour days reading and writing briefs…and the last thing he felt like doing during what little downtime he had was working on his novel.
“Are you going to keep calling me a diva?” She tossed her ponytail over her shoulder.
Ah, so it did piss her off—he’d suspected as much. “If the shoe fits…”
Long, dark lashes narrowed, and he couldn’t help but