Hot Summer Knight

  A Hot Summer Night and a fairy in the bed.

  The temperature’s rising when the knight comes into Kendra’s room.

  Kendra is cat-sitting for her cousin when temperatures soar and a knight comes into her room and takes off his armour. With no more than a brief phone-coaching session from her cousin’s lover, Kendra has anything but chivalry on her mind.

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  Hot Summer Knight

  Copyright © 2017 Lark Westerly

  ISBN: 978-1-4874-1114-5

  Cover art by Angela Waters

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by eXtasy Books Inc or

  Devine Destinies, an imprint of eXtasy Books Inc

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  www.eXtasybooks.com or www.devinedestinies.com

  Hot Summer Knight

  A Fairy in the Bed

  By

  Lark Westerly

  Hot Summer Knight

  From the age of nineteen, Kendra and Frances were in the same romantic boat.

  Kendra visualised that boat as the lifeboat that failed to launch, or the one that was up shit creek without a paddle. She and Frances even laughed about it now and then.

  I know where all the good men are... (pause) Wherever we’re not!

  That always made them giggle is a wry kind of way.

  Frances was stunning, with red hair that naturally fell into ombre waves, and long, elegant hands. Kendra’s hair was almost black, cut short and spiky to match her pert features. She was shorter and rounder than Frances, with olive skin in contrast to Frances’s milk-and cinnamon redhead’s complexion. They agreed, without vanity, that they were a super-uber-hot pair.

  Men loved them. They were never short of a date.

  “Lucky we live in different states,” Kendra declared during one drunken Skype catch-up when they were twenty-one.

  “Yeah, the two of us in the same town...” Frances gestured with her right hand, almost spilling her drink. “The men would have no chance, baby.”

  “None.”

  Pause.

  “So,” they said together, “how’s it going with what’shisname?”

  Pause.

  Then two hands lifted, Frances’s right and Kendra’s left, and made emphatic thumbs-down gestures.

  Frances did spill her drink, effectively ending the call and almost her antiquated laptop.

  As Kendra went through her twenties, the what’shisnames piled up, toppled, and fell behind in the wake of the romantic boat. They were all dicks, but it was okay. If gorgeous Frances couldn’t take a trick (or find an unencumbered dick, as she put it) the problem lay in the dicks, not in Kendra and Frances. It was obvious.

  That was the situation. There had to be decent men out there, but where?

  Wherever the cousins weren’t.

  One Christmas, Kendra went to dinner with her aunt and uncle, surrogate parents since her own passed. Frances said she wouldn’t be there... she was off on a cruise with her what’shisname dejour. This was the only weekend he could get away.

  He’s so married, thought Kendra, though Frances declared he was separated. His wife’s away. Obviously. Typical.

  So, Kendra went to Christmas Dinner with her aunt and uncle, to find Frances there after all, accompanied by a what’shisname who turned out to be something other. His name was Niall Le Fay, (it would be) and he had green eyes, dark hair, an upbeat manner and a gorgeous body. Kendra could live with that and keep on smiling. It was his obvious love for Frances that made her feel cold and shrivelled. There were no PDAs. It was just there in the way he looked at her and the way she curved like a sunflower towards him.

  As they cleared up the kitchen, Kendra said, trying to keep the envy out of her voice, “Where’d you find him?”

  “Um...” Frances came out of her happy daze to push a long red curl back from her face. She laughed. “I didn’t find him. I bought him for a fiver at Thrifty Buys on Christmas Eve.”

  Kendra blinked. “Christmas Eve?” A fiver?

  “Yes.”

  “As in yesterday?”

  “Last night, technically,” said Frances with a reminiscent smile.

  “You met him last night in Sydney. You brought him to Brisbane today.”

  “He brought me.” Frances looked dreamily into the washing up water. “He made the booking because my phone is trashed. It fell in the boiling custard.”

  Oh. Only Frances could say that without feeling the need to explain.

  “I thought you were going on a cruise with—what’shisname.”

  “We broke up,” said Frances.

  “When?”

  Frances lost interest in the piled-up suds and smiled at Kendra. “Last night. Right before I bought Niall.”

  “But—”

  The smile broadened and Frances held her finger to her lips. “Shh. I know what you’re thinking, and how it looks. I would explain but you couldn’t possibly understand.”

  The cold shrivelling intensified.

  She and Frances were no longer in the same romantic boat.

  Six months later, the relationship still burned with a warm glow.

  Unfair, railed Kendra inside. Bitter envy gnawed her. She hated the feeling. She ended it with the current what’shisname. He wasn’t married, but he had baggage with a capital B. He smelled funny. Then he started stalking her.

  Bloody hell!

  Her phone buzzed.

  Frances.

  Kendra’s thumb hovered over the ‘reject’ button. She fought a brief battle with herself and accepted the call. “Hey, Frances. What’s up?”

  Her cousin giggled, and was that a faint slap and a squeak?

  “Frances?”

  “Sorry. Niall, stop that. She didn’t mean that kind of up. Oops, sorry. Listen, Kendie, can you come down to Sydney for a week?”

  “Why?”

  “You need a holiday.”

  “I do?”

  She needed a bolthole, but she didn’t mention that to Frances.

  “We need a pet-sitter.”

  We. “I didn’t know you had a pet. What’s the catch?”

  “No catch. We’re going to a festival to meet up with Niall’s cousin from over the water. And it’s two pets,” said Frances. “Cats, Cherry and Pie.” Her voice burbled on and Kendra’s hand tightened on the phone.

  “So, you want me to come down to Sydney and cat-sit for a week,” she broke in.

  “We know it’s short notice, but Niall’s only just heard from his cousin. He’s over from England to teach medieval history—anyway, can you come?”

  Yes. “Sure. I can work from your place as well as from here. I’ll catch the train down. When do you leave?”

  “This Friday morning,” said Frances.

  “I’ll be there Friday evening. Just leave the key in
the usual place.”

  “Can you make it Wednesday? Have a couple of days with us first?”

  “That would’ve been nice.” No, that would be some species of hell. “Sorry. I have an appointment on Thursday.” She forced some warmth into her voice. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll text you as soon as I get there. Just leave the cat food where I can find it.” And put away the sex toys.

  “Okay. We appreciate this,” said Frances. “We’ll pay your way, of course.”

  We.

  “Are you kidding? I’m getting a week in Sydney, with the run of an historic terrace house rent free!” And what’shisname could knock and ring and haunt the coffee shop as much as he liked.

  Frances promised to email full instructions. “Niall says hi, and bless you,” she added, and ended the call.

  We. Cats. Niall says hi. And bless you. Was Niall living with Frances? Surely not. Frances would never let a what’shisname move in. They were too difficult to dislodge once they got their boots in the closet.

  “Gack,” said Kendra. She raised her head from her arms where she’d dropped it when Frances hung up and surveyed her face in the mirror. “You are a bitter, envious bitch,” she said to her reflection. “No more of it.” She forced a smile.

  Frances inherited her terrace house from her grandmother on her mother’s side. Kendra came from the other side of the family, but she’d visited the house whenever she was in Sydney.

  She got off the bus she’d caught from the station, and carried her holdall up the short tree-shaded street. Sydney was its usual lovely self, and Kendra looked about with appreciation. She came to Number 17, which was Frances’s Victorian terrace house, three rooms high and two rooms wide. The white wrought iron shone like sugar and Kendra blinked. She remembered it being dingy with peeling paint.

  So, the gorgeous Niall was as handy as he was handsome. That figured.

  She glanced about before taking the key from its hiding place (not under a potted plant) and letting herself in.

  The terrace was quiet, but it hadn’t the bleak air of a house whose owner was away. The hall glowed with sunshine coming through the rose window above the door, and the steep stairway invited rather than forbade. Kendra walked up the stairs, and put her holdall on the spare bed. It was a double with a firm mattress and polished wooden headboard. Two bamboo pillows sat on a forest green blanket, with one corner turned down to reveal pale green sheets. A small bunch of daisies smiled from a crystal vase on the night stand.

  “Nice,” said Kendra. She put down her bag, and took off her jacket. She’d make coffee, and then shower... and at some point, she’d better find those cats. No, make that now. She was here for their benefit.

  “Puss, puss!” she called.

  A rusty mew answered her and she stepped across the landing to Frances’s room. The door was ajar so she pushed it open. Her mouth fell open in astonishment. There were the two cats, curled comfortably on the bed, and what a bed! There was an acre or so of mattress, covered with a rich dark green velvet spread and piled with pillows. The bedside tables both bore books and a quick look in the wardrobe revealed men’s clothes.

  So, Niall Le Fay was no weekend lover, or occasional sleep-over boyfriend. He lived here in a full-time, forsaking-all-others kind of way. The ‘we’ was not cosmetic.

  The cats, a tabby and a tux, blinked at her, and the tabby stretched its front paws and flexed its claws.

  “Are you supposed to be in here, Cherry and Pie?” asked Kendra.

  The tux yawned so widely its ears almost met and its head appeared about to turn inside out. The tabby blinked.

  Kendra shrugged. “I’ll take that as a yes. I’m going downstairs. You guys come out when it’s dinner time or—um—litterbox, okay? Guys?”

  The tux yawned again. The tabby got up and turned its back to show off its fluffy britches. Not a guy then, or maybe a de-guyed-guy. Kendra didn’t care to make a closer investigation.

  She made coffee in the sunny kitchen, seeing more evidence of true cohabitation in duplicated crockery, two toasters and some mismatched tea-towels. A pile of Thrifty Buys catalogues lay on the counter, and three shopping lists, written in an unfamiliar hand, clung to the fridge above a crookedly placed selfie of Frances and Niall.

  They must have printed it out. How sweet.

  The evening passed comfortably enough. The cats pattered downstairs when Kendra opened the fridge, and yowled until she filled their bowls with chicken and kibble. They ate, and then gravely squatted in the litter trays, scratched up the litter and retired to Frances’s bedroom.

  “Not very sociable, guys,” said Kendra to their receding butts. She still wasn’t sure if they were he or she or maybe one of each. You could tell with dogs. The boy-dogs had amazing decorated bellies.

  She made cheese on toast for dinner, debated getting some work done, and decided to give it a miss and go to bed. She was tired and depressed. She’d put away bitterness, but she envied Frances her good fortune. She didn’t want Niall, exactly; she was tired of what’shisnames that belonged to other women. She just wanted her own version of what Frances evidently had—a guilt-free relationship that made her happy. About to turn out the light, she stopped and considered the selfie. Frances and Niall had won the love lottery.

  “I wish I had some luck like Frances got,” said Kendra aloud. Then she sighed, snapped off the light, and plodded up the stairs to her room.

  She woke abruptly. Heat and light flooded the room.

  That couldn’t be right. As a native of sub-tropical Brisbane, she usually found temperate Sydney cool, even in midsummer. It wasn’t summer now; in fact, it was well into winter.

  So, why was it hot? And what was that smell of bonfires and roses, hay and horses?

  Kendra pushed back the green blanket. Perspiration dewed her hairline, and her nightshirt clung to her damp body.

  “Ugh.” Was she running a fever? She was much too young for hot flushes. An experimental shake of her head made her eyes blur, but there was no pain in her temples. Her throat wasn’t sore. Kendra sat up, crossed her arms, grasped the nightshirt and hauled it inside out over her head. The air bathed her naked torso. That was a little better, but the feeling of midsummer heat persisted.

  She got out of bed, holding her arms away from her sides, and turned in a rapid circle, generating an air current. It was not enough.

  Kendra moved to the window. Keeping the heavy curtains drawn, she groped under the cloth for the sash window, forced the lever round and heaved. The old sash crunched and groaned up a hand’s breadth and stuck. Kendra heaved again, perspiration trickling down her face to drip on her breasts. The air outside was cold, but the curtains disallowed the draught. Frances’s street was by no means busy, but neither was it deserted. In this area of art house theatres, galleries, market stalls and craft collectives, people were likely to pass in gaggles on their way to their cars or down to the main road to flag down a cruising taxi. It might be a bohemian part of Sydney, but probably wasn’t ready for a naked woman framed in the window. It would be okay if it was dark in the room but she’d stand out like dogs’ nuts against the light.

  Kendra frowned, hot and puzzled. Why wasn’t it dark? She applied one eye to the tiny gap between curtains. The last smudges of sunset had vanished hours ago, and moonlight washed the city, vying with the lights outside. She’d turned out the light before she went to bed, tugging the old-fashioned pull-down with a satisfying click. The bedside lamp was out, the curtains were closed, yet the room blazed with hot sunlight.

  Kendra turned from the window, grabbed her phone from the nightstand and thumbed it awake. The numbers swam, but she made out the time: 23:49.

  Eleven minutes to midnight. It couldn’t be. She made a soundless mew of distress and discomfort, just as a thundering scutter (if there was such a thing) tore up the stairs outside her door.

  Frances’s cats. But they were upstairs already.

  Litterbox, supplie
d her mind. Water bowls. Feline perversity. Or maybe it was just a game of terrify the pet-sitter.

  She’d better check them.

  Kendra opened the door and stepped out onto the landing, then padded across to the other room. The door was ajar as she’d left it, and she peeped in. It was dark in there, so she flipped on the light switch.

  The cats were on the bed, but not curled in slumber. The tabby stood facing the door with startled eyes the colour and shape of full moons, while the tux’s whiskers stood out like nylon filaments. Both tails stuck up, fuzzed like bottlebrushes.

  “What’s wrong, guys?” Kendra stepped towards them, then hesitated. She liked cats, but she wasn’t too well acquainted with these two and besides; she was naked. If the cats had gone feral for some reason they could do her a lot of damage. “Settle down,” she said in what she hoped was a soothing voice. “Go to sleep.”

  Standing naked in Frances and Niall’s bedroom, although they were far away, was inappropriate, so Kendra backed out, flicking off the light as she went. The cats seemed okay, startled and alert rather than terrified, but she had the peculiar problem of her room.

  She retreated across the landing. Apparent sunlight gushed from her open door, and surely the summery smell intensified? It hinted at botanical gardens, mixed with farms, and the perfume of cottage flowers and honey.

  It’s coming from one of the market stalls, she told herself, although common sense said the shutters would be pulled down at this hour. And that didn’t explain the heat and light. Or the music she now perceived. It was faint and lilting, tickling just on the edge of hearing, and although Kendra turned her head from side to side she could not identify the source.

  A music box in one of the other terraces? An ice cream van? Some distant harpist practising two streets away?

  Could Frances’s terrace house be haunted? That would spook the cats.

  Kendra cast a distrustful glance down the stairs. She could telephone Frances. Or call a cab, pull on some clothes, lock up the house behind her and book into a motel for the night. It was an enticing thought, but that meant going downstairs in the dark, fumbling around the kitchen, and possibly running into whatever alerted the cats.