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Chapter 2
Solomon Jakoby—Solo to just about everyone who knew him—pulled up the rusty bolt of the French doors to his room and kicked them open with the heel of his boot. A quick glance revealed that the wood was rotting beneath peeled paint. This place was seriously falling apart.
He needed another cigarette. On Fridays and Saturdays he allowed himself three after 5 p.m. He wasn’t stupid enough to let it go further; he knew he could probably become a chain smoker if he let himself.
Blame it on a shit year. And now, it was time for his luck to change. Except he didn’t believe in luck, other than the kind you made for yourself. And wasn’t that exactly why he was here? To force his luck to change?
He walked out onto the wide veranda of the hotel. Weird old place. Compared with the east coast, Western Australia was so vast, so empty. He liked the spacious skies, the red dirt and roads that went seemingly forever. And so far, the women—or at least one of them—were hellish cute.
He slid the cigarette from behind his ear. It was a habit he’d learned from his pop, and a way of keeping the packet out of reach. Fishing the lighter out of his jeans pocket, he leaned on the wooden balustrade, hoping it wasn’t as rotten as the door. He tapped the cigarette like Pop used to, put it to his lips and flicked the lighter, once, twice, then dragged until the nicotine hit the back of his throat.
Somewhere out in the shadowy bush an owl hooted morosely. Solo blew out a smoke ring and thought—yet again—about his encounter with the woman called Polly. He’d never have placed her as a social worker. Way too… sexual. Christ, what would her young clients do with themselves when she walked in? His mouth twisted into a rueful smirk. Didn’t bear thinking about.
She’d hit him between the eyes as soon as she burst out onto the patio. 1950s film star curves: real hips, serious cleavage, small waist, all squeezed into a silky red dress. A head full of black curls that bobbed and bounced and then, when he’d interrupted her strange mutterings, those vivid green eyes appraising him had started a throb in his groin that hadn’t happened for too damn long.
He wouldn’t have said she was his type, but clearly his body had other ideas.
Fuck.
Oh, yes. She made him want to. No words, no foreplay, just a wildly primitive, let’s-get-down-and-dirty urge. With full permission, of course. And Polly sure looked like someone who would give it.
The thought surprised him; he’d never realised he could be such a Neanderthal. He grinned almost sheepishly into the dark. His wild little fantasy was hardly hurting anyone, was it?
And at least it gave him hope that his libido hadn’t completely shrivelled and died.
He took another long drag and stared at the moon rising behind a row of straggly eucalypts. Apart from that darned owl, the quiet out here was eerie.
Until a loud banging started up from the room next door.
The next moment a curvy silhouette catapulted onto the veranda. Adrenaline spiked through Solo’s veins. There was something serendipitous about this.
“Stupid door,” muttered the shadow.
Holy cow, she mustn’t catch him smoking again. Solo whipped the cigarette out of his mouth and hid it behind his back. He’d put it out, but it was the last one of the day and he was buggered if he’d let it go to waste.
“Hi again.”
His voice sounded way too enthusiastic.
“You!” Her head jerked round.
“No need to sound so pleased.”
He heard her sniff. “I can smell smoke.”
“Bloody hell, you’re a beagle. Have you thought of applying for a job at Customs?”
“Oh, you’re such a wit.”
He tapped ash and hoped it wouldn’t fall through the slats. At least there were tiles below. “I try.” He smirked.
“If I’d known you were next door…”
“What?”
“I’d ask to be moved.”
“Yeah?”
