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A scornful look. “Believe me! When you’ve been all the places I’ve been, what you want most is a place to call home. And all it entails.”
“Could become boring,” he suggested.
She glared at him. “I’d expect you to say that.”
“Why do you ride a Ducati if you’d like boring?”
Her eyes glittered. “That bike is my baby. I talk to it and it responds to me. It doesn’t know how to cheat, either.”
“Ah! A baby substitute.” He smiled happily. “You really do want them, don’t you?”
“What’s it to you?” she demanded, her eyes narrowing in suspicion, probably anticipating he intended making fun of her.
“A fascinating point of view,” he answered truthfully. “Most of the women of my acquaintance seem to think kids would be a hell of a drag on them. Too big a commitment. Lifelong responsibility. No telling how much they’d mess up their other interests...”
“If you run with the fast crowd, what can you expect?” she said sardonically.
He shrugged. “Maybe you’re right You certainly represent a different slice of life.”
“You bet I do. As far as I’m concerned, family is the real world. The rest is fairy floss, here today, gone tomorrow.”
Matt found this philosophy highly encouraging. Peta Kelly was not only a spunky fighter, she was a stayer in the family stakes. “So how many kids would you like to have?” he asked, getting down to the nitty-gritty.
“A whole brood of them,” she tossed at him belligerently. Her chin went up and she marched over to the bench seat where she’d dropped her tracksuit. Having set her racquet aside, she began pulling on the baggy trousers, ruining the lime-lemon symphony for Matt.
“No more tennis today?”
“You got even. Isn’t that enough for you?”
“I don’t mind if you beat me. I enjoy playing with you.”
“I’ve had enough.” The sweatshirt completed the cover up. She turned to him with a forced little smile. “Thanks for the game.”
“My pleasure.” On many levels.
“It was good,” she conceded, then picked up her racquet and headed for the gate.
Matt swiftly collected his own tracksuit, slung it over his shoulder, and joined her for the walk back to the main building, blithely ignoring her dismissal of him. He saw no reason for her not to be sociable until they had to part for their separate accommodation.
“Just for the record, what do you consider a brood?”
She huffed and slid him a glittering look. “Six,” she said silkily.
Quite a number in this day and age. Rather daunting, in fact. Very expensive, too. Just as well he could afford a big house and whatever help might be required.
“Want to peel off now?” she asked.
“What?” The provocative question was highly surprising, coming after her reading him the riot act about getting into her pants.
She stopped, planting a hand on her hip as she surveyed him with derisive disbelief. “Why aren’t you taking to your heels? I’m a broody hen. A homebody. Not your type. I don’t care that you look like Tarzan. I’m totally deaf to the call of the wild. You haven’t got a hope of changing my mind.”
Right! She hadn’t been asking him to strip. She expected him to be scared off by the prospect of having to handle six kids. He would have to show her he was a man of mettle.
“I can see now why you think twenty-eight is old,” he said seriously. “If you want six kids, you’d need to get started on them straight away. Give yourself time to space them out a bit so you can enjoy them as individuals.”
She threw up her hands, almost hitting herself with the tennis racquet. “Why are you persisting with this?” she cried in exasperation.
“I like to understand people.”
