Книга - Mistress: At What Price?

Mistress: At What Price?
Anne Oliver


She couldn’t afford to turn him down… Struggling fashion designer Mariel Davenport has never forgotten Dane Huntington, or his cruel rejection of her. Seeing him for the first time in years, she finds the red-hot chemistry is still there and her hormones zing into life! Devilish tycoon Dane has a tantalising deal to offer.He’ll help Mariel set up her dream business – if she will help him distract the paparazzi by playing his adoring mistress! For a man who broke her heart, he’s asking a lot! But, with her career in tatters, has she any choice?









Praise for Anne Oliver:


‘BEHIND CLOSED DOORS by Anne Oliver is an amazing story of an unrequited love that has smouldered for years and is about to come to a head. Ms Oliver’s characters are rich, and create a depth to the story that makes it a tempting read.’

—CataRomance

‘MARRIAGE AT THE MILLIONAIRE’S COMMAND is a terrific story. Anne Oliver has created a winner in Ben, the hot and sexy, but equally complex, hero.’

—RT Book Reviews

‘Anne Oliver’s BUSINESS IN THE BEDROOM is a fun and entertaining tale about the attraction of opposites. The heroine is terrific: smart, fun and not afraid to go after what she wants.’

—RT Book Reviews




Excerpt


‘I need a regular companion to take some of the heat off this Bachelor of the Year thing,’ Dane continued.

‘Someone to accompany me to functions. It’ll be good publicity for you too, and if they do find out anything about what happened in Paris my influence with the media here could come in handy. As for finance—I have an empty room that you can use rent-free to get your business started.’



Mariel was still stuck on ‘regular’. ‘How regular are we talking?’



His eyes were like charcoal now, and intense. ‘You’ll move in with me—’



‘Whoa. Hold it. Move in with you? So in the public’s eyes we’re a couple?’

‘Lovers,’ he corrected.



Heat spurted through her veins at the mental image. ‘So we’ve gone from companion and a couple of dates to lovers?’

His gaze remained steady on hers. ‘I won’t pretend not to want you in my bed, Mariel.’



‘What makes you think I’d want to be there?’ she shot back.



What made her think she could resist?


When not teaching or writing, Anne Oliver loves nothing more than escaping into a book. She keeps a box of tissues handy—her favourite stories are intense, passionate, against-all-odds romances. Eight years ago she began creating her own characters in paranormal and time travel adventures, before turning to contemporary romance. Other interests include quilting, astronomy, all things Scottish, and eating anything she doesn’t have to cook. Sharing her characters’ journeys with readers all over the world is a privilege…and a dream come true. Anne lives in Adelaide, South Australia, and has two adult children. Visit her website at www.anne-oliver.com. She loves to hear from readers. E-mail her at anne@anne-oliver.com





Mistress: At What Price?


By




Anne Oliver











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)


With a big thank-you to my critique buddies, Kathy, Sharon and Linda, for helping me bring out the best in Mariel and Dane’s story.



Thanks also to my editor Meg Lewis, for her patience and advice during the revision process.




Chapter One


‘REMIND me again why I dragged my jet-lagged body to a wedding with you when I could be sleeping it off in the comfort of my own bed?’

Mariel Davenport glanced at her sister Phoebe over the obligatory glass of champagne—except Mariel’s glass sparkled with mineral water. After the stress of packing and avoiding the press, then the long-haul flight from Paris, the last thing she needed was alcohol.

She skimmed the elite crowd, dripping with diamonds and couture and French perfume. Some she knew; most were strangers. Ten years away was a long time.

Phoebe flashed a smile, brown eyes sparkling. ‘Because you’re my big sister and you love me, and we haven’t seen each other since that Mediterranean cruise three years ago.’

Mariel arched a brow. ‘Not because your boyfriend left you in the—?’

‘Ex-boyfriend,’ Phoebe snarled, all humour extinguished. She topped up her champagne flute from the bottle on the nearby table with a sharp chink of glass on crystal. ‘Kyle’s history.’ She tossed back a mouthful of bubbly in disgust. ‘Men. Who’d trust them?’

The words pierced the thin armour Mariel had struggled to wrap around herself since leaving Paris. ‘Who indeed?’

Phoebe’s eyes widened in obvious dismay. ‘Oh, Mari, I’m sorry…’

‘Don’t be. I was a fool; it won’t happen again.’ She bit down on the inside of her lower lip. Hadn’t she made that very same vow once before? Right here in her home town?

‘That’s the spirit.’ Phoebe’s firm nod had her blonde bangs bouncing. ‘New Year’s resolution: no men. Until the next full moon at least.’ She grinned, then tucked her hand into the crook of Mariel’s arm as the band struck up a popular party hit. ‘Let’s mingle.’ The happy couple had left but the revelry lived on. ‘Or we could dance,’ she suggested. ‘It’ll take your mind off things.’

Mariel shook her head. ‘You know I love nothing better than a good party, but not tonight.’ What sane people would choose New Year’s Day to get married anyway? She raised her glass and pointed it towards the crowd congregating on the makeshift dance floor beyond the open French doors of the luxurious old Adelaide Hills mansion. ‘You go ahead. I’m fine. I’ll just loiter here a while.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive.’ She fixed a smile on her lips and shooed Phoebe away. ‘Go.’

Mariel watched her sister thread her way through the colourful crowd, her silk and diamonds shimmering beneath the heavy chandelier. Only then did she allow herself a much-needed sigh. Phoebe knew nothing of the mess Mariel had left behind in Paris except that it was over between her and French fashion photographer Luc Girard, her business partner of seven years and lover for the past five.

He was probably the reason she’d thrown up—twice—somewhere over China. She massaged the heel of her hand over the affected area. The organza of the latest and probably last addition to her after-five wardrobe shifted beneath her palm.

Turning her back to the room, she sipped water and studied the guests through the gilt-edged mirror over the mantelpiece.

The bride’s parents, who’d spared no expense for their daughter’s special day, were conversing with another wealthy Hills couple near the floor-to-ceiling ice sculpture, now dripping in Adelaide’s January heat.

Was that little Johnny…? What was his last name? Mariel frowned at the blond guy, trying to remember. Not so little now, she thought with a twinge of nostalgia. And there was nothing she liked better than a guy in a well-tailored suit. As her gaze moved on, she realised several of the well-suited men were eyeing her up. And not-so-little Johnny What’s-his-name was headed her way. Great. Just what she didn’t need.

She knew she attracted men. With her face on the cover of Europe’s top magazines, and becoming a familiar face in Australia, it was inevitable. But tonight she could have done without the attention. Especially tonight, since she’d just sworn off men for life. Another sigh slipped past her lips as she automatically checked her lipstick in the mirror, straightened her shoulders and turned, smile back in place.

Well, surprise, surprise. Daniel Huntington the Third, who refused to answer to anything but Dane, leaned a shoulder against the doorway and watched Mariel Davenport hold court, her little flock of male admirers clustered around her, apparently hanging on every word that spilled from those luscious coral lips.

She was the last person he’d expected to see here this evening. Nor had he anticipated the quick punch to his solar plexus as he cast a critical eye over the breezy black halterneck number, with its plummeting neckline and incy-wincy skirt. He was pretty sure if he stood close enough and let his eyes skim casually down he’d see her navel.

Not that he intended to stand that close. With his six-foot-three advantage he could see her well enough from here. He thought he might just be able to smell the perfume she used to wear—that hint of black roses and sweet sin seemed to waft across the few feet between them. Alluring, seductive. It suited her, from the tips of her raven-black hair, piled on top of her head, to the soles of her perfectly pedicured feet and shiny stiletto sandals.

He couldn’t see her feet, of course, or those milelong legs that had her topping out at nearly six foot, but he knew her well enough. First class all the way.

She hadn’t noticed him yet, but he lifted his beer in mock salute, then poured a fortifying mouthful of the cool bitter brew down his suddenly dry throat.

Was she with someone? he wondered. Her French lover? Odd how his fingernails bit into his palms at the thought. He’d been fine about that little detail until a moment ago.

Until he’d seen her again in all that glorious flesh.

But, no, she must have come alone—because if she’d had a partner Dane was pretty sure the man would be attached to her side like some fashion accessory.

He flexed the fingers of his free hand, flicked them against his thigh, and watched her flash that cover-winning smile at her fans. The one thing Mariel loved was attention, be it personal or the camera. And from what he’d heard about her career over the past years, and seen in the latest beauty magazine that her sister had touted, the camera loved Mariel.

Fashion designer turned photographic model.

He considered speaking to her, but he wasn’t about to become one of her fawning admirers. Good grief, a couple of those guys had been exploring Play Dough and finger paint when she’d been experimenting with make-up and mobile phones. Did they not realise? He expelled a harsh breath through his nostrils. He could wait.

‘Ah, here’s our very own newly announced Babe magazine’s Bachelor of the Year.’ Justin Talbot materialised beside him. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to, my friend.’

‘Looks like you found me.’ Dane glanced his way, mentally shaking his head at the snazzy dove-grey waistcoat, matching tie and wing-tip collar Justin’s new wife had obviously picked out. Dane didn’t believe in conforming to dress code unless it was for a funeral.

‘You’ve done us proud,’ said Justin, clapping a hand on Dane’s shoulder.

‘Easy for you to say.’ Dane scowled, his gaze unerringly finding Mariel again. ‘You dobbed me in.’

As if he needed more women hounding him. Since he’d won the title he’d grown very weary of the relentless parade of would-be starlets clamouring for his attention.

‘Think of it as doing your bit for charity,’ Justin said.

‘There are better ways to raise funds,’ Dane muttered. ‘And the press is having a field-day.’

‘What did you expect? Millionaire businessman, founder of OzRemote and eligible bachelor. Hey…it’s Mariel Davenport.’

Dane felt Justin’s voice switch from jovial to slightly breathless like a prickle between his shoulderblades. He shrugged the feeling off. ‘So it appears.’

‘Jee-ee-z. Looking good, Mariel,’ Justin murmured. ‘Even better than that photo spread Phoebe showed us. She hasn’t been back in…how long? What’s she doing at Carl and Amy’s wedding?’

‘Ten years.’ And five months. ‘And your guess is as good as mine,’ he muttered, frowning into his amber liquid.

‘Wasn’t she living with some French guy?’

‘Yep.’

‘You spoken to her yet?’

‘Nope.’ Sweat trickled down Dane’s back, making his shirt stick. He tossed back the remainder of his beer and thought about stepping outside for some fresh air. The atmosphere was stifling in here, even with the aircon working overtime.

‘Why not?’ Justin queried. ‘You two were pretty close. I remember—’

‘That was a long time ago.’

A lifetime ago…The night before she’d left for overseas. In her bedroom, the full moon filtering through the open window, its silver light bathing her milk-white skin, her eyes black pools of wonder, gazing up at him…

Dane shifted his stance, cleared his throat as every hot-blooded cell south of his larynx mobilised. ‘You right for a drink?’

‘We’re leaving in a moment, Cass has an early start tomorrow. I’m going to say hi to Mariel before we go; want to join me?’

Dane shook his head. ‘I’ll catch up with her later.’ He turned and pointed himself in the direction of the nearest drinks waiter.

But, damn, he couldn’t let it go. His head swivelled in time to see Justin plant a kiss full on Mariel’s smiling lips. He knew it meant nothing more than what it was—a welcome home—but a sudden tension locked Dane’s jaw, making his teeth clench. His fingers tightened around his glass.

He watched his mate whisper something close to her ear and Mariel turned slowly to look Dane’s way. So slowly—or maybe it was just that the moment seemed to crawl to a stop—that he had time to experience, in graphic detail, the full effect of that face, that attention, focused wholly on him.

The way the high cheekbones flushed with colour, the flutter of long black lashes as she blinked those emerald eyes at him, just once. The way her glossy lips parted slightly—in surprise or dismay?—then lifted infinitesimally at the corners, resembling something approaching warmth.

Whatever—it faded like a rose in winter, no doubt as she took in his rigid jaw and neutral stare. Because, frankly, he couldn’t seem to drum up anything else. She lifted a hand, let it hover a moment before she smoothed a non-existent strand of hair behind her ear.

Her eyes were still locked with his. Until her gaze lifted to his hair. And, yeah, some might say it needed a trim. Her nostrils flared slightly as her gaze shifted to his open-necked shirt. His throat prickled; his Adam’s apple bobbed. Hell. He was glad he didn’t have a woman, particularly an ex-fashion designer, telling him how he should dress.

And thanks to Justin’s intervention he had no alternative—manners dictated he at least speak to her. Forcibly unclenching his teeth and loosening his grip on the glass, he started forward.

Mariel watched Dane Huntington saunter towards her, his casual, almost arrogant manner all too familiar. Whatever Justin was saying—if he was saying anything at all—faded. Her stomach juddered once, as if she’d hit more of that air turbulence she’d experienced on the final approach into Adelaide.

Phoebe, where are you? Get me out of here, she pleaded silently. She should have known she’d bump into him sooner or later, but Dane was the last man she wanted to face right now, with her body clock out of sync and her digestive system doing nasty things to her insides.

She’d wanted to look her best when she saw him again. Show him what he’d missed out on all those years ago, when she’d been a naïve seventeen-year-old who’d thought the young Dane Huntington was her sun and moon and everything in between.

Well, she wasn’t so naïve now, even if it had taken every one of those ten years. Seconds ticked by, but they felt like minutes. His cool grey gaze remained fused with hers, no hint of a smile on those beautiful lips. Lifting her chin, she sucked in her stomach and eyeballed him boldly as he drew nearer.

Dark hair with glints of auburn covered his ears and carelessly kissed the back of his neck. Some things hadn’t changed, she thought with attempted disdain. And he still scorned traditional dress code. He was tieless. His black collarless shirt with white stitching along the seams was undone at the neck and revealed tanned skin and a smattering of dark hair.

The fashion designer inside her winced. Black jeans, to one of Adelaide’s Society Weddings of the Year, for heaven’s sake? But, to her chagrin, the wholly inappropriate image made her thighs melt and her pulse do a strange little blip.

She straightened, clutching her glass tighter to hide the fact that her fingers were trembling, and said, ‘Hello, there,’ before he opened his mouth. ‘Happy New Year.’

She did not lean in for a kiss.

‘Mariel. Happy New Year to you, too. How long have you been back?’

‘I flew in yesterday morning.’

‘Just in time for Carl and Amy’s big day.’

His whisky-on-velvet voice flowed over her and he smiled—finally—and her pulse did another of those little blips. With her height she didn’t often experience men looking down at her and it made her feel delicate. And feminine.

She stiffened. She didn’t want to feel delicate and feminine with Dane Huntington. Ever again. But—and how crazy was this?—she wanted him to see her that way.

To remember…Did he remember?

How could he forget?

‘Coincidentally Dane mentioned you just the other day,’ Justin said, and Mariel saw the familiar little tic in Dane’s jaw.

‘Oh?’ Dane had been talking about her? ‘Why was that?’

‘My wife, Cass, and I are thinking about going to Europe in October, and since you live in Paris he thought maybe you could give us the guided tour.’

‘Did he?’ She speared Dane with the pointy end of her gaze. ‘He didn’t try to look me up when he was there. When was it—five years ago, Dane? Mum mentioned it in an e-mail.’

‘It was business, Mariel,’ he said. ‘There wasn’t time for sightseeing. Or anything else. It was in and out. What brings you home?’

‘Family. I needed a break.’

‘One would think if you wanted to be with family you’d have come a week earlier and celebrated Christmas with them.’

Oh. ‘I’m ashamed to say I left it too late and the airlines were fully booked.’ She refused to look away beneath his close scrutiny. Look away and he’d know she was lying.

‘That’s too bad.’

‘I’m here now.’

‘So you are,’ he said lazily, eyes still locked on hers.

Justin, obviously feeling the weird tension, switched topics. ‘Our Dane won Babe’s Bachelor of the Year contest.’

‘Is that so?’ Mariel lifted her glass and took a sip to soothe her throat, noting the dark look Dane flashed at the other man.

‘You remember the one,’ Justin went on. ‘Babe magazine runs it every year.’

‘Ah, yes, that magazine,’ she drawled, infusing her tone with a large dollop of sarcasm, and was rewarded with a flare of colour on Dane’s cheekbones.

And what do you know? Dane Huntington, master of cool, actually looked hot. The hot-and-bothered kind of hot. Amused, she watched his head tilt as he stretched his neck, as if easing the tension there. The smile that touched her lips was more of a smirk.

‘The side benefits: dates with ten different babes.’ Justin grinned, with the devil’s glint in his eyes.

Mariel’s stomach clenched around the image Justin provoked, but she held on to that smirk for all she was worth.

‘Uh-oh, my wife’s giving me the eye,’ Justin said. ‘I’ll leave you two to catch up. Great seeing you again, Mariel.’

‘You, too.’ Mariel smiled at an attractive brunette watching them as Justin threaded his way in her direction, then turned back to Dane. ‘So…Babe’s Bachelor of the Year, huh? How does it work again?’

‘Like Jus told you,’ he clipped. ‘A bit of fun. And it’s for a good cause. Charity fund-raiser. I need a refill—how about you?’ Jutting his chin, he motioned her away from several interested onlookers towards a punchbowl in the middle of a table.

He ladled orange liquid into two crystal cups, offered her one. ‘Thank you,’ she said, careful to avoid contact with his fingers.

‘You mean these babes—’ Mariel drew the word out with sarcastic relish ‘—wherever they come from, they rate the contestants and the highest score wins? What are they scoring you on, I wonder?’ She couldn’t help the wicked smile…but inside, somewhere deep and almost forgotten, something hurt. ‘I can’t wait to see you on the cover of the magazine.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s not as bad as you think.’

‘How bad am I thinking?’

‘The date ends at the front door.’

Biting back resentment that she thought she’d got over years ago, she said, ‘That’ll be a novelty for you, then. I’ve heard you’re a regular Casanova these days.’

His lips stretched into an indolent grin that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Don’t believe everything you hear.’

The back of her throat tickled at the sound of that lazy tone. She glanced down, flicking her eyes to his again before they had time to indulge in the snug fit of his jeans and the way his exclusive hand-made casual shirt clung to his chest, even if the seam was too narrow for his broad shoulders. ‘If you’re going to look the part you’ll really have to update your wardrobe, or acquire a new tailor.’

‘Ah, ever the fashion designer. And looking a million bucks tonight,’ he said, his gaze skimming her body, just a tad longer than might be considered polite in company. ‘One of your designs?’

She met his eyes, paused, smiling inwardly, then sipped her drink. ‘No.’ Hah. He obviously knew nothing about her designs.

‘That’s right—you’re a photographer’s model these days. I saw your picture in a magazine here a couple of months back. Phoebe showed us. Very nice.’

His gaze swept over her once more. Was he comparing her to his girlfriends? According to Phoebe’s regular newsy e-mails from home, Dane enjoyed more than his fair share.

It no longer bothered her. After all, she’d put Dane in her past where he belonged years ago. Hadn’t she? Standing here, within his all-too-compelling aura, she wondered if she was as certain about that as she’d thought.

‘Not any more.’ She took another long gulp to wash the sudden bitter taste of Luc’s betrayal from her mouth.

‘Oh?’

‘There you are, Mari,’ Phoebe interrupted with breathless haste, clutching her mobile to her breasts and saving Mariel from having to discuss her ruined career.

‘Hi, Dane.’ She barely spared him a glance, and Mariel had the fleeting thought that life had gone on here as usual while she’d been away. Phoebe leaned in and murmured, ‘Kyle just rang. He wants to meet me. Now.’

Mariel stared at her sister, incredulous. ‘And you agreed? What happened to your New Year’s resolution?’

Phoebe bit her lip. ‘I know, I know, but…’

‘Don’t let him call the shots, Pheebes.’

‘I won’t. But I’ve got to meet him halfway, don’t I?’

Mariel raised a brow at the gleam in Phoebe’s over-bright eyes. ‘And where’s that?’

‘Um…a spot we like to go. Oh, and in case I don’t see you, I won’t be around when you get up. I’m on an early-morning flight to Melbourne. There’s a music festival on. So I’ve asked Brad Johnston to drop you home. You remember Brad; he’s keen to catch up with you again.’

‘Ah…’ Stomach sinking, she glanced over Phoebe’s shoulder, saw the familiar fuzzy-haired guy weaving his way through the crowd. More than keen, if Mariel wasn’t mistaken.

‘You two came together?’ Dane asked.

‘Yeah, my wonderful sister came to keep me company…um…because Kyle couldn’t make it. You don’t mind, do you, Mari?’

‘Of course not, but I think you should consider—’

‘No need to bother Brad,’ Dane cut in, his voice disturbingly deep, disturbingly close. ‘It’s all arranged, I’m taking Mariel home.’




Chapter Two


‘OH? OKAY…but…’ Phoebe’s eyes darted between the

two of them.

‘I’ll let Brad know,’ he told her.

‘Okay. Thanks, Dane. See ya later, sis.’ Phoebe pecked Mariel’s cheek and was gone in a whirlwind of pink and perfume.

‘Arranged?’ Mariel muttered, glaring at him while every internal organ traded places.

‘Wait here,’ he ordered, and was gone before she could utter another word of protest.

Hardly. But she stood immobile, feet stapled to the floor, while she watched him dispatch Brad in less than five seconds. Why weren’t her legs moving? Why wasn’t she getting the heck away before it was too late?

Dane could tell Mariel was unsettled by the sudden turn of events as he made his way back. Her eyes glinted dangerously, that beautiful mouth a slash of coral in her pale face. But, he noted with satisfaction, she’d made no attempt to disappear amongst the guests.

‘I was hoping to leave early,’ she said the moment he reached her side. Setting her cup down, she unzipped the diamante bag that swung from her shoulder. ‘About now, in fact. I wouldn’t want to spoil the evening for you. You probably came with someone…’ She pulled out her mobile. ‘I’ll call a cab.’

‘I told you. I’m taking you home. And it’s not a problem; I came alone.’

‘Oh…’ He saw her register that fact as her eyes clashed with his again.

Not a problem? Dane gave himself a mental slap on the forehead. They had unfinished business that went back ten years. To a night of youthful passion on a girly patterned quilt, the night-cooled fragrance wafting inside on the moonbeams.

Then a very ugly end outside his father’s garage.

Not a matter that could be sorted out tonight, Dane knew, but he’d taken one look at Brad and some sort of proprietorial instinct had kicked in.

‘But you’ll want to stay, enjoy…’ She waved a carefully manicured hand. ‘Whatever…’

‘I’m ready to leave when you are.’

‘Very well,’ she said with quiet formality, her spine rigid. ‘Thank you. I’d like to leave now, if that’s okay. My body clock’s still on Greenwich Mean Time.’

‘We’ll say our goodbyes, then.’ He placed a hand on the small of her back. He hadn’t counted on the heat that rushed into his palm at that first electrifying contact. Beneath his palm the sensuous fabric of her designer dress shifted against her flesh, making him wonder how she would feel without the silk.

Just smooth, sleek skin.

She flinched as if burned. So she felt it, too, he mused as he steered her towards their hosts. Interesting. Had she and her French lover called it quits? She’d returned alone, and there’d been a definite chill in her reply when Paris had been mentioned.

The paparazzi, eager for their quota of celebrity guest snaps, were milling about the property’s open gates. A security guard waved Dane through. Bulbs flashed and a blur of faces bumped up against the window.

‘You’d be accustomed to this?’ he asked, steering his way through the photographers. ‘I should have asked if you were okay with it.’

‘Yes and yes. But in this case they’re not aimed at me.’

‘That ain’t necessarily so. You’re somewhat of a celebrity yourself these days.’

‘Not so much here. And it’s not as if I’m your date or anything.’

He glanced her way before spinning the car onto the country road, leaving the press behind in a spray of dust. ‘They don’t know that.’

She didn’t reply. In fact she looked serenely ahead, watching the moon-drenched paddocks and stands of gum trees flash by. Every so often a light glinted from a farmhouse behind the regular curtains of foliage.

She wasn’t as calm as she let on, he noted. The grip on her bag was white-knuckled, and her thumbs massaged the strap in tiny jerky movements against her thighs.

Thighs that looked smooth and silky and…very naked.

Eyes on the road. Only on the road. Sweat broke out on his brow. He switched the air-conditioning to full blast. ‘Too cold?’ he asked a moment later, more to fill the silence than anything else. Silence that seemed to throb with the sound of the bass from the stereo speakers.

‘No…no, it’s…cool.’

She changed position, and he didn’t have to look to know she’d stretched those long naked legs out in front of her. Within the Porsche’s confines her roses-and-sin perfume wound around his senses like a long-forgotten dream. He thanked whatever lucky star was out tonight that it was only a short drive over the next ridge of hills.

Through childhood she’d always been his best mate, generous and loyal and stubborn. By seventeen she’d turned into a confident, ambitious young woman who wanted to take on the world. And leave him behind.

He shook off the edgy thought and glanced her way again. At twenty-seven…Well, right now she was all about lusciousness and impact. But how well did he know this grown-up version? ‘You were saying you’re not modelling now?’ he prompted into the silence.

She hesitated. ‘No. My business partner and I parted ways.’

‘Luc?’ She’d carefully avoided mentioning the fact that he’d also been her lover. ‘Phoebe told me all about him.’ Slight emphasis on ‘all’.

‘Yes. Luc. I don’t want to talk about it. Him.’ She waved a disconcerted hand. ‘Any of it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and hoped he sounded sincere. And why wouldn’t he be? He’d only ever wanted the best for Mariel.

‘How’s your father?’ She spoke suddenly, as if she’d plucked something—anything—out of the ether to switch topics.

‘He was okay when I spoke to him a couple of months ago.’And that was all Dane needed to know, all Mariel needed to know, and all he wanted to say about his old man.

‘And your mother?’

‘Still living in Queensland, last I heard.’ With her man of the moment.

‘So…by that I take it you don’t live at home now?’

Home. Dane scowled at the white line dissecting the road as it curved over a rise. Had the generations-old homestead set amidst acres of rolling Adelaide hills ever been a home? ‘Home’ implied two parents who were committed to each other, their marriage and their offspring. At least it did in Dane’s opinion; it seemed his parents thought differently.

‘I moved out years ago. Soon after you left, in fact. I’ve got my own place in North Adelaide. It’s close to work. Jus and I have an IT business there.’

‘Then I’m taking you out of your way.’

‘Not a problem. I like driving.’ He glanced in the rear-vision mirror, frowned at the car which had been tailing them since they’d left the wedding, and with a sharp twist of the steering wheel pulled over to the edge of the road. ‘Especially when you get a view like that.’

An almost full moon lifted out of the landscape, bleaching the fields and spilling inky shadows beneath the gums. From the corner of his eye Dane watched the car behind slow down, pass, then continue on.

‘Oh…wow.’ Mariel shimmied upright, her face animated in the soft glow. ‘I’ve missed this. It must be the atmosphere here, but the Aussie moon looks so much bigger than the Parisian moon.’ A quick grin danced over her features. ‘And wouldn’t they kill me back there for saying that?’

‘They wouldn’t if they were here,’ Dane murmured, his thoughts tumbling back in time. As a kid, how many evenings had he spent watching possum shadows play amongst the trees against a star-studded sky? Gazing at the moon in all its phases?

Waiting until it felt safe enough to go inside?

He shook his head, edged back onto the empty road. Being with Mariel after all this time was tossing up old memories.

The last time he’d seen her she’d been careening down his father’s driveway, grating gears and spraying gravel as she fishtailed onto the road.

He pressed his foot harder on the accelerator. The sooner he got her home, the better off he’d be.

The better off they’d both be.

A few moments later they approached her parents’ home. Dane checked the road behind him again before turning into the driveway. Since Mariel didn’t have a remote, he climbed out, punched in the code Mariel gave him on the panel set into the stone pillar and the tall gates swung open. They continued down a long drive, where blue agapanthus bordered a healthy lawn on one side, a row of old pines on the other. Ivy climbed the walls and iron lace framed a wide veranda. As they came to a stop three security lights winked on, but no light shone through the front door’s stained glass.

He peered up at the blackened windows. ‘Your parents out?’

‘They left for a Pacific cruise yesterday. Thanks for the lift.’ Her eyes flicked to his. He glimpsed nothing in those dark depths, as if she’d blanked all thought.

He didn’t want her to go in yet. Not this way. Hell, not as this polite and distant stranger.

He reminded himself their childhood friendship had been years ago. She wasn’t the young, innocent girl he remembered, with her fairytale dreams. She was a successful, mature and independent woman.

And what a woman she’d grown into. Those youthful curves had only grown lusher, and if it were possible her face more beautiful.

He switched off the ignition, sensed her instant panic. ‘Mariel…’

‘No.’ She closed her eyes briefly. ‘Not tonight.’

His hands tightened on the steering wheel momentarily. But tension showed in the lines around her mouth, the smudges beneath her eyes. ‘I’ll walk you to the door.’

‘It’s okay; this isn’t the city,’ she said, swinging the car door open.

‘I’ll walk you to the door,’ he repeated, and pulled his key out of the ignition. Some things hadn’t changed—still as stubborn as she’d always been.

And as fast—she was already halfway up the path before he’d climbed out. The aftermath of the day’s heat still blanketed the earth, thick and smelling of dried eucalypt and pine.

Metal tinkled as she fumbled with house keys, holding them aloft and squinting at them under the porch light.

‘Allow me.’ Dane took the keys from her hands. The brush of skin against skin sent a tingle through every nerve-ending in his fingers, up his arm and straight to his groin.

The flash of awareness when their eyes met was a stark reminder that they could never go back to the easy camaraderie they’d once had.

He wasn’t sure he even wanted that with her any more. Less than an hour in her company and his wants, his desires, were fanning to life inside him like a bushfire sweeping up from the valley floor.

She broke eye contact first, and a breathlessness caught at her throat when she said, ‘Phoebe gave them to me, but I didn’t ask her which one opened the front door…’

He fitted a key into the lock but the door opened without it. ‘Not locked,’ he said.

‘Oh…that’s probably my fault. I assumed the door automatically locked once closed.’ Someone who didn’t know her as well as he did wouldn’t have noticed the slight sag in her posture.

Dane stepped past her and through the doorway, located the light switch. A warm glow from the antique foyer lights gleamed on polished wood and brass fittings, and brought a rich luxury to the burgundy carpet runner.

She glanced at the discreet panel on the wall as she followed him inside. ‘Damn. I didn’t even remember to set the alarm. Dad’ll throw a fit if he finds out.’

‘Only if you tell him.’ Without looking at her, he started down the hall. ‘I’ll check the place before I leave.’

‘That’s not necessary,’ she assured him quickly. A sudden nervous energy spiked her voice.

‘Yes. It is. Anyone could have come in.’

‘I look after myself these days.’

‘I’m sure you do.’

A few moments later, ground floor covered, he started up the stairs, switching on lights as he checked the rooms. Mariel followed, muttering protests. He paused at the last door on the left.

Mariel’s room.

So he left the light off. But as soon as he’d stepped inside he realised he’d made a mistake. Moonlight flooded the room, spilling over an open suitcase, a dressing table strewn with tubes and bottles. He breathed in the mix of feminine potions, powder and perfume like a man who’d gone too long without.

He’d never denied himself the pleasures to be found in a woman’s bedroom, but at this moment he couldn’t remember a single one that had ever compared to that one all-too-short time in Mariel’s arms.

Dangerous thoughts. He dragged his attention back to the task he’d set himself. ‘Everything seems to be okay, so—’

‘Of course it is,’ she snipped. ‘I told you it was. But did you ever listen to me? No. Oh…Why did you have to come in and…? Be you.’ She punctuated those final agonised words with a long slow breath.

The old guilt rolled nastily through his gut. In the pregnant silence that followed he heard the wind sigh through the trees, an echo of his own feelings. ‘I thought that was what was so good about us,’he said, his eyes fixed on the moon but not seeing it. ‘We could be ourselves.’

‘Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away. Maybe.’ Mariel switched on the light. He didn’t know why, except that maybe the moonlit scene reminded her, too. He turned to face her. She’d folded her arms across her chest and was watching him with unnerving calm. Either that or she was a damn good actress.

‘It’s been a while, Queen Bee.’

He felt rather than saw her little hitch of breath at the use of her old nickname, then she pulled herself up straighter, lifted her chin. ‘I’m not that inexperienced, trusting little girl any more.’

‘Dane…’ Mariel said, reaching for him with passion-drenched eyes that hinted at vulnerability.

The kiss.

Their first fully-fledged kiss.

A goodbye kiss, because she was leaving and for who knew how long?

He met her eyes squarely, ready to admit the pain he’d inflicted on her young pride an hour later. ‘I was eighteen and an insensitive jerk.’

But that was then. This was now. And now was full of possibilities. She wasn’t an innocent; she was an international sensation. A modern woman who’d no doubt had her share of men over the years—a thought he didn’t particularly want to dwell on.

Her mouth twisted with grim humour. ‘Has anything changed?’

A grin tugged at his mouth. ‘Nope. Still that same insensitive jerk.’ He couldn’t help himself—he stepped closer, so their bodies almost touched, and brushed a finger down her cheek.

She shook her head. ‘We’re not those kids now. It’s in the past. Leave it there.’

But Dane couldn’t leave it there, whatever the hell it was, because his brain had ceased to compute anything so complicated as reason or words or sentence structure. All it recognised was the fragile face he suddenly found himself holding between his palms, emerald eyes swimmingly close, the seductive scent of her perfume, her hands against his chest and her indrawn breath as he leaned in to touch his lips to hers.

He tasted heat and sun-warmed honey, and he slid his hands through silky hair then down over smooth shoulders and chiffon to haul her closer, so he could absorb the fuller, richer flavour as her mouth opened for him.

He closed his eyes as her body grew pliant, melting against his. Fingertips scraping against his shirt. Soft throaty murmurs. Fast, warm breaths against his cheek—

Hard, flat palms pushing at his chest—

Heaving a breath, she reared back, eyes dark and wary. ‘Why did you do that?’ She touched the fingers of one hand to her lips then spun away.

Good question. Damn good question. He noticed the wisps of hair he’d dislodged from the clasp at the back of her head floating about her temples and around her neck. ‘Perhaps I wanted to see if it was the same as I remember.’

She turned, eyes flashing with residual passion…or desire or anger—he couldn’t tell through the sexual haze still blurring his vision. To give himself a moment he paced to the dressing table, picked up a bottle of perfume, set it down.

‘And was it?’ She closed her eyes, as if regretting the question, then shook her head. More silken hair tumbled over her shoulders. ‘Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.’

‘Or maybe I just wanted to kiss you for old times’ sake.’

He leaned nonchalantly against the dressing table as if his blood wasn’t thudding through his body like a big bass drum. As if his jeans didn’t feel as if they’d shrunk two sizes in the crotch. ‘You kissed me back, Queen Bee.’

The shared knowledge singed the air between them, and she drew a shaky breath but didn’t reply.

‘And it felt good. You thought so, too.’

She let out a stream of air through her nostrils. ‘Isn’t that just a typically arrogant male response?’

‘Am I not a typically arrogant male?’

She glared back, unsmiling, or was that a hint of humour at the corner of her mouth?

‘Good,’ he said, taking it as a yes and venturing a grin of sorts. ‘Now we’ve got that sorted, I’ll check outside.’

Mariel shot a hand up, palm out. Oh, no, she wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily. ‘Not sorted, Dane. Why don’t we just get it out in the open now, then never speak of it again?’

His smile faded. ‘Okay,’ he said slowly. ‘Why did you come to see me that night? We’d said our goodbyes at your place.’

‘That kiss. It meant something to me. It meant everything to me.’ Her heart twisted, remembering.

‘It was a goodbye kiss,’ he murmured.

‘I thought—stupidly and naïvely, I realise now—that I was in love with you. And when you kissed me…like that…I thought…’ She waved it away. ‘Well, I went looking for you because I wanted to ask you…to tell you I was coming back…that we…’

That evening was still as clear as day in her mind. After The Kiss, she’d driven to his house. She’d seen his car lights on in the garage…

‘I heard a noise,’ she said. ‘I was so pathetically dumb I thought you were in pain. Imagine my shock-horror when I saw Isobel on the bonnet of your car and you going at it like…well.’

She recalled that she must have made some sort of sound, because they’d both turned and seen her. Then bizarre fascination had held her in thrall for those few agonising seconds while her gaze swept the two of them and her heart shattered.

‘I hate you, Dane Huntington, I never want to see you again!’

She didn’t remember how she’d made it to the sanctuary of her car—it was the feminine giggle and the ‘Poor Mariel’ that stuck in her mind, and the sound of Dane’s footsteps behind her, his calls for her to wait up. Wait?

Dane shook his head and she knew he, too, was remembering. ‘Thing is, Mariel, as close as we were, as much as I cared for you, the one thing we never discussed was our sex lives.’

‘Or lack of.’ She held his gaze unapologetically.

‘We should have. It would have saved any misunderstanding. I came by the next day to apologise, but you’d already left. So I’ll apologise now. For hurting you.’

She nodded. ‘Accepted. But you didn’t have any reason to apologise. I realise that now. You didn’t see me the way I saw you.’

Maybe not then. She read the message in his eyes and something fluttered inside her. Or perhaps it was something else that had stopped him.

‘I tried contacting you several times,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t take my calls. You won’t know I was in Paris a couple of years later. I dropped by to see you, but your landlady told me you were in London for the weekend with your boyfriend.’

‘He wasn’t my boyfriend; he was a fellow student.’

‘Student, boyfriend—it makes no difference now.’ He needed air. ‘I’ll go check the garden.’

It took a good ten minutes to scour the perimeter of the extensive grounds. Not that it was absolutely necessary. But it gave them both some time.

As he returned to the house light from the kitchen’s stained glass windows flowed into the adjacent atrium, turning the abundant greenery within to the colours of amber and ripe plums.

From the other side of the glass he saw Mariel, sitting on the edge of the raised pond beside a stone maiden pouring sparkling water from her jug. A moth, distracted by the light, fluttered above her head. Shards of crimson and gold light sliced through the fronds of a potted palm, danced on the water and reflected over the face he hadn’t had the pleasure of looking at up close and personally in a long time.

She’d needed to chase her dreams overseas, he reflected. And she’d excelled. He’d been right in not taking their relationship to the next logical step. Thinking herself in love with him would have brought her nothing but grief. She might never have left, and he hadn’t wanted to be responsible for that.

Marriage had never been on his agenda.

He focused on her once more. She’d braced her forearms on her thighs and held an open can of beer between her palms. Her posture drooped and he was hard pressed to remember any occasion when Mariel had allowed herself that indulgence since early high school. She probably hadn’t noticed that her dress gaped at the front, revealing more creamy cleavage. Another tinny sat on the ledge beside her.

He took that as an invitation.




Chapter Three


MARIEL tilted the can to her lips and rolled the familiar bitter Aussie brew around her tongue. So much for tonight’s decision to avoid alcohol. The night seemed to call for it after all. She stiffened when she heard Dane’s footfall on the marble tiles, then made a conscious effort to appear relaxed. Rolled her shoulders. Stretched her neck. Unclenched her fingers on the can. No way would she allow him to see the effect he’d had on her tonight.

‘I didn’t take you for a beer kind of girl,’ he said, appearing from behind the foliage.

‘When in Oz…’ She tossed him the other can. ‘Happy New Year, again.’

He caught it one-handed, popped the top, but remained standing a few steps away. It gave her another moment to take in the whole man. And what a man. He’d always had a well-toned body, but he was no longer the eighteen-year-old she remembered. He was twenty-eight and in his prime. His face had weathered somewhat under the harsh Australian sun, but it only increased his rugged appeal. Harsher jaw. Darker stubble. Eyes that saw more, knew more.

She forced away the shiver of disquiet that rippled down her spine and looked further. Beneath his shirt he was all hard muscle. She knew because when she’d pushed him away earlier he’d been as unyielding as concrete.

Model looks? No, not smooth enough, not conventional enough, with that careless hair. Scowling, she tipped another mouthful of beer down her throat. He was more the dark heroic type.

Not hers.

‘So what are your plans while you’re here?’ he asked, sitting beside her. He assumed the same sitting position as her on the edge of the circular pool, not quite touching her. But she could feel his body heat across the tiny space. Her skin prickled with the awareness that if either of them moved a millimetre she’d feel the hair on his arm brush against her skin.

She sat perfectly still and said, ‘At the moment I’m not thinking beyond chilling out and surfing the sofa for a few days—after I’ve thoroughly reacquainted myself with my bed.’

And, yes, in the charged hiatus that followed she knew he’d caught the image she’d unthinkingly tossed out there. Damn.

He cleared his throat and said, ‘You’re staying a while, then?’ into the charged stillness.

‘Yes.’ She had no choice. But she wasn’t telling him that. He might still be Dane, but he was a man…The fiasco in Paris was still so raw and recent it brought a chill to her bones. Her shoulder muscles tensed and tightened.

‘Mariel.’

She turned at his simple touch on her shoulder, ready to flee. Or fight. Or mash her mouth against his. Sheesh.

‘I can feel the tension in your body from here.’ He set his beer aside and reached up, took a pin from her hair. ‘For goodness’ sake, woman, loosen up.’

She sucked in a breath. ‘What are you doing?’

‘When in Oz…’ He took out another. ‘I always liked your hair down,’ he murmured. ‘It’ll relax you.’

‘Relax…?’ Her thoughts disintegrated. Mesmerised, she gazed at him, his eyes focused on the task as he concentrated on removing the clasp on top of her head.

‘Yes…’ Then his fingers were in her hair, and she was turning towards him while he loosened it, so that it tumbled down over her shoulders and released the pressure, massaging her scalp in slow circles on either side…

Oh, yeah…She forgot all about tension and tired muscles. She wanted to arch and purr and follow him to the ends of the earth. No one had hands like Dane. No one smelled quite like Dane. A hint of spicy soap and his own brand of musky, masculine scent.

And he felt right at home, with his body heat warming her all down her left side, while water trickled over the smooth stones beside them and the air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and vegetation.

What if she leaned in now and kissed him again? He was right: it had felt darn good. She’d watch his grey eyes turn smoky. She’d let her tongue slide over his, warm and decadently rich, like rum-flavoured chocolate…

And she’d be the one to pull back first, she thought darkly. Just when his mouth responded to hers. Payback time.

Or was it all too long ago to matter?

His hands dropped away. And maybe a corner of his mouth tipped up in a hint of a smile, maybe his eyes flickered with a one-step-ahead-of you glint. Or maybe it was the barely veiled cynicism of a man all too experienced with women’s ways. She couldn’t be sure because she was still finding her way out of her little daydream.

‘Goodnight, Queen Bee.’ He rose, giving her an eyeful of male crotch. ‘I’ll lock up behind me. Pleasant dreams.’

Then he left.

As he should, Mariel told herself, pouring the rest of her beer into the fountain. Judging by the impressive bulge at the front of his jeans, one moment more might have been too late.

Pleasant dreams? Hours later Mariel lay on her bed, staring up at the familiar ceiling. Night air chased goosebumps over her naked body, pebbling her nipples and making the hairs on her arms stand up. The draught through the window was an uncomfortably warm northerly. But the heatwave conditions weren’t the cause of her shivers.

Linen shwupped beneath her restless feet as she shifted for the zillionth time. Her lips still tingled from their encounter with Dane’s; she could still smell his scent in her room.

She frowned into the dark. Despite her attempts to put tonight to the back of her mind, stubborn images—make that one stubborn image—refused to co-operate.

She’d first locked eyes with Dane when Justin had kissed her and tipped her off that he was there. She’d been subjected to that familiar cool and casual gaze he was so good at.

Ah, but at other moments his eyes had blowtorched her with such searing heat she’d wondered how her skin hadn’t blistered.

It was still there between them, that connection, like the ghost of Christmases past. She’d thought she was over it; she’d even put it behind her and moved on with Luc, but had she been fooling herself all these years?

She’d come to Dane, her closest friend, looking for comfort and support on the eve of her first solo overseas adventure. He’d come upstairs to help her close her suitcase. Then, in a fit of nerves and excess energy, she’d decided to rearrange her furniture…

They shifted the shabby-chic dressing table she’d bought at a little French provincial shop in town, relocated her blanket box, then she’d flopped back on her bed.

She’d stared up at the ceiling and told him she’d paint it indigo, like the night sky. And that she’d paint gold stars and suspend a crescent moon over the mirror. If she was staying.

He’d watched her in silence, but her young heart had been sure…

She’d taken his hand and pulled him down onto the bed so that they were both staring up and sharing her sugarplum dreams. Then, in that typically female way, she’d succumbed to the tears she’d been fighting all day.

Yes, she wanted to study overseas. She wanted a career. But she was coming back. Because she had someone to come back to. Dane.

She just hadn’t told him that.

She’d thought she was in love…And then they’d shared the most dreamy, most poignant kiss of all…

She shook the memories away. She was over it. Over him. Teenage heartache was always the most painful. The most memorable.

Years later she’d allowed herself to be swept away by another man. Flattered by his promises to make her a celebrity. Seduced by his smooth European looks, charm and attention. She’d thought she was in love again.

Just went to prove she couldn’t trust her heart. From now on she’d make decisions with her head and leave emotion out of it.

She sighed into the darkness. Dane had changed, too. He was more remote, more cynical. More attractive. Just as she wasn’t that starry-eyed girl any more, who’d spun impossible dreams around a moonlit night and a goodbye kiss.

Dane rolled over and picked up the bedside phone, checking the clock’s digital readout as he did so. Seven a.m.

‘Good morning, Mr Huntington.’ A cheery male voice greeted him.

He leaned up on one elbow. ‘Who is this, and how the hell did you get this number?’

‘The name’s Bronson; I’m a reporter with—’

‘I don’t care who you’re with—’

‘Is it true that your reunion with Ms Davenport last night has you rethinking your Bachelor of the Year status?’

What the…? He shot up, swung his legs over the side of the bed. ‘No comment.’ He slammed the phone back on its cradle.

So they hadn’t wasted any time digging up the past, had they? Running both hands through his dishevelled hair, he peered through his upstairs window. The high security wall bordering his North Adelaide home kept intruders out.

Mariel. She was alone out there in her parents’ house.

Damn. He needed to get out there ASAP.

Mariel didn’t deserve to be dragged into the media circus his life had become since he’d been named Bachelor of the Year. His gut told him she was dealing with some heavy-duty stuff right now. Since he didn’t have her mobile number, he punched in the Davenports’ home number. It went through to the answering machine. Swearing a blue streak, he disconnected and headed for the bathroom.

Setting the showerhead to massage, he let the tepid water pummel his flesh while he cursed the day he’d allowed Justin to persuade him into what was rapidly becoming a cirque des femmes.

Teenage groupies who followed the Bachelor of the Year as if he were some kind of rock star rather than a respected businessman and charity patron. Babes from the magazine e-mailing him, contriving to bump into him outside his office, in the supermarket. He’d even had to give up training on his favourite running track along the River Torrens.

He was tired of the endless parade of women who’d manoeuvred their way into his life over the past few months, but he was Bachelor of the Year for another six months unless he made some kind of formal commitment with an eligible female, and that was never going to happen.

Unless…His thoughts turned to Mariel again as he poured on shampoo and lathered his hair. It didn’t have to be a formal commitment…A regular date might just take the pressure off. A classy woman at his side. And Mariel was accustomed to the press. She had style and elegance and intelligence. Maybe they could come to some arrangement…

But did he want to get involved—in any way—with the woman he’d never quite been able to get out of his system? He rinsed off his hair, reached for a towel. It was a moot point in any case. She’d never go for it.

Mariel woke to the musical warble of magpies outside her window. Pushing her hair off her face, she rose, reached for her robe. Last night’s clothes lay in an untidy heap beside the bed. Not the way to treat her latest designer dress, which had cost her more than some people made in a year.

The knowledge that it might well be her last indulgence had her picking it up and slotting it into the wardrobe, before padding to the window and staring out at the bushland beyond the property.

The sun already had its claws into the day, scoring the rapidly drying undergrowth for any hint of remnant moisture. Heat and light. She stretched her arms open in welcome after the hibernation beneath heavy, restrictive clothing the European winter necessitated.

She rummaged through her partially unpacked suitcase. Fifty quick laps up and down the pool was just what she needed. Since she couldn’t find her swimsuit, and she had the house to herself, she pulled out the first matching set of underwear she found: sapphire, with little cherries all over and a red satin trim.

At the edge of the pool she paused, then in a moment of madness decided skinny-dipping was the way to go and stripped off.

She plunged into the refreshing coolness and angled straight to the bottom, then up. As she sliced through its mirrored surface, she concentrated on the tang of chlorine, the pool’s aquamarine lining and the burn of her muscles as she headed for the far end with long, slow strokes.

The last time she’d been swimming had been during a photo shoot on the Riviera in August, but she’d been working, and her enjoyment had been marred by the hordes of beachgoers and photographers. This morning she had the pool to herself. Pure luxury.

She knew almost before she surfaced that her notion had been premature. A ripple of sensation, as if someone had run their knuckles down the length of her spine, was her first and only warning.

Dane stood near the edge of the pool, a folded newspaper under one arm. Unlike last night’s sinful black, today he was wearing white. Casual white shorts. White body-hugging T-shirt. Old. Worn. Soft. She imagined it against her fingers. Or her cheek. Her pulse tapped a wild, irregular rhythm. Unlike his top, his shorts were loose. They gave her a far too detailed and up-close view of tanned, hairy and very muscular legs. And, from her lowly position, more than enough exposed thigh…

She jerked her eyes to his. He’d slipped his sunglasses on top of his head and seemed to be rooted to the spot—

And then she remembered…Oh, God, she was stark staring naked.

She inhaled, gulping in a mouthful of chlorinated water, and managed, barely, to sputter, ‘What are you doing here?’ She glanced at her clothes and towel. Impossibly out of reach. Her cheeks filled with heat and the already irregular pulse picked up speed.

Stepping closer, to the very edge of the pool, he studied her with those piercing grey eyes. ‘Watching you. Do you need rescuing?’

‘No!’ Oh, God. Oh, no. She sank as low as she could, crossing her arms over her chest and struggling to stay afloat while every skin cell vibrated as if he was physically stroking her. The water was as clear as glass; no part of her was hidden from his powerful gaze. ‘How long have you been here? Never mind. Pass me my clothes.’

‘No need to panic; I’ve already seen you naked.’ His mouth quirked and his eyes crinkled up at the corners. Lucky for her—or him—depending on one’s point of view, right now they were focused on her face. But for how long?

The heat in her cheeks rushed to every tingling part of her body. ‘Seven years old does not count. And I’m still traumatised by it.’

He picked up her underwear, held the items out over the water for her. Just a fraction too high, she knew—and he knew. She remained as she was.

‘Wasn’t my fault you forgot your towel and risked running bare-assed down the hallway.’

‘Whatever you say. Hurry up.’

‘Nice undies, by the way.’

She was acutely, devastatingly aware that he wasn’t looking at her undies. A shiver rippled through her. The water suddenly felt chilled against her overheated flesh.

Just when she thought he wasn’t going to play nice, he released them. They hit the water with a plop, floating on the surface just far enough away so that she had to uncross her arms and manoeuvre sideways a fraction. She snatched them to her with a murmured, ‘Thank you. Now, if you’ll be a gentleman and turn your back…’

‘Thing is, Mariel, I’m no gentleman.’

For a few seconds the air hummed. The tension between them crackled. She couldn’t reply, could only think that if she reached out she could wind her fingers around that calf and feel how hard that muscle really was. Then pull him closer and sink her teeth into that flesh. Fair punishment.

He took a step back, as if he’d anticipated such a move, then—finally—turned away. ‘Did you realise there’s a photographer a couple of hundred metres down the road?’ His casual comment was followed up with an equally casual, ‘They could have a long-range camera set up for all you know.’

Oh, hell. With shaking fingers she struggled to pull on the meagre covering—no easy feat underwater. ‘Maybe they’re just keen birdwatchers,’ she said hopefully. Half decent at last, she hauled herself out of the water.

At the sound, he turned to her once more. ‘You should be more aware of security when you’re on your own. I could have been any stranger.’ She snatched up her towel and blotted water from her face, bemoaning the fact that her complexion was winter-lily pale without its make-up mask.

‘But you weren’t. And you remembered the gate’s security code—clever you.’

‘Have you seen this morning’s paper?’ He tossed it on the little glass table between two loungers.

‘No.’ In a brisk flurry of movement she scrubbed the rough terry towel down one arm, then the other. ‘Is it bad?’

‘I’ll let you decide.’

She felt his gaze on her and realised she was holding the towel in front of her as if she wasn’t totally comfortable in her own skin. As if she wasn’t used to men looking at her.

She wasn’t used to this man looking at her.

His gaze drifted lazily down to her breasts, barely covered by her cherry-splashed blue bra, then lower, over the high-cut bikini briefs. ‘If you don’t watch out you’ll burn that tender European-climate-accustomed skin.’

Burn? Her skin already felt singed and raw and tingling. Her nipples, already pebbled from the cool water, contracted painfully.

She swiped the towel over her body one last time, then swung it around her neck, fisted her hands and lifted her chin. Their eyes connected across the stone pool surround. ‘So is it the society pages or the ghastly gossip column?’

‘Check it out for yourself. Page twenty-three.’

There was a shot of the two of them leaving the wedding, and a smaller one of Dane’s car parked in her parents’ driveway.

The mystery woman on Dane Huntington’s arm last night appears to be none other than Mariel Davenport, daughter of wealthy landowner Randolph Davenport, Europe’s latest modelling sensation. Ms Davenport flew in from Paris and, it seems, straight into the arms of her old friend and flame. Could this cosy reunion signal the end of Adelaide’s most popular Bachelor of the Year’s reign?

Bad. Bad. Bad. She didn’t bother with the small print underneath. She tried to laugh, but the sound came out parched. ‘Local gossip. You don’t pay any heed to that rubbish, do you?’





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