About the Author

SARAH MAYBERRY is an Australian by birth and a Gypsy by career. At present she’s living in Auckland, New Zealand, but that’s set to change soon. Next stop, who knows? She loves a good department-store sale, French champagne, shoes and a racy romance novel. And chocolate, naturally.

Dear Reader,

What happens when a one-night stand becomes more than it should be? That’s the question that was the seed for Her Secret Fling. Two consenting adults have a good time and agree that’s all it was—then life intervenes and forces them to get to know each other. And, surprise surprise, they like what they discover—after some twists and turns along the way, naturally.

There’s a scene towards the beginning of the book that was in my mind from the moment I started imagining this story. I call it “man versus machine,” and if you’re reading this after finishing the book, you’ll know what I’m talking about. If you’re reading this letter first… well, you’ll know what I’m talking about pretty soon! I hope it tickles your funny bone as much as it did mine.

Most of all, I hope you enjoy reading about Jake and Poppy’s story as they work their way around to realising they need each other and that loving someone is a gift, not a burden. I love to hear from readers, so please drop me a line at sarah@sarahmayberry.com if you feel the urge.

Until next time,

Sarah Mayberry

Her Secret Fling

Sarah Mayberry

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This one is for all my female friends—the passers of

tissues, the sharers of chocolate, the givers of hugs.

Having a laugh with my mates is one of the small,

perfect pleasures in life.

And, as always, no words would be written if it was

not for Chris cheering me on from the sidelines and

Wanda coaching me from the finish line. You both

rock—thank you for your endless patience.

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Copyright

1

WHATEVER YOU DO, don’t throw up.

Poppy Birmingham pressed a hand to her stomach. The truth was, if her breakfast was destined to make a reappearance, that hand was hardly going to make a difference. She let her arm drop. She took a deep breath, then another.

A couple of people frowned at her as they pushed through the double doors leading into the Melbourne Herald’s busy newsroom. She was acutely aware that they probably recognized her and were, no doubt, wondering what one of Australia’s favorite sporting daughters was doing hovering outside a newspaper office, looking as though she was going to either wet her pants or hurl.

Time to go, Birmingham, the coach in her head said. You signed up for this. Too late to back out now.

She squared her shoulders and sucked in one last, deep breath. Then she pushed through the double doors. Immediately she was surrounded by noise and low-level excitement. Phones rang, people tapped away at keyboards or talked into phones or across partitions. Printers whirred and photocopiers flashed. In the background, huge windows showcased the city of Melbourne, shiny and new in the morning sunshine after being washed clean by rain overnight.

A few heads raised as she walked the main aisle, following the directions she’d been given for the sports department. She tried to look as though she belonged, as though she’d been mixing it up with journalists all her life. As though the new pants suit she was wearing didn’t feel alien when she was used to Lycra, and the smell of stale air and coffee and hot plastic wasn’t strange after years of chlorine and sweat.

The rows of desks seemed to stretch on and on but finally she spotted Leonard Jenkins’s bald head bent over a keyboard in a coveted corner office. As editor of the sports section on Melbourne’s highest circulating daily newspaper, Leonard was the guy who assigned stories and had final say on edits and headlines. He was also the man who’d approached her six weeks ago and offered her a job as a columnist.

At the time she’d been thrown by the offer. Since she’d been forced into retirement by a shoulder injury four months ago she’d been approached to coach other swimmers, to work with women’s groups, to sponsor a charity. A chain of gyms wanted her to be their spokesperson, someone else wanted her to endorse their breakfast cereal. Only Leonard’s offer opened the door to new possibilities. For years she’d known nothing but the black line of the swimming pool and the burn of her muscles and her lungs. This was a new beginning.

Hence the urge to toss her cookies. She hadn’t felt this nervous since the last time world championships were in Sydney—when she had thrown up spectacularly before her first heat.

She stopped in front of Leonard’s office and was about to rap on the open door when he lifted his head. In his late fifties, he was paunchy with heavy bags under his eyes and fingers stained yellow from nicotine.

“Ah, Poppy. You found us okay. Great to see you,” he said with a smile.

“It’s good to be here.”

“Why don’t I introduce you to the team first up and show you your desk and all that crap,” Leonard said. “We’ve got a department meeting in an hour, so you’ll have time to get settled.”

“Sounds good,” she said, even though her palms were suddenly sweaty. She was hopeless with names. No matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried to concentrate on linking names to faces, they seemed to slip through her mental fingers like soap in the shower.

She wiped her right hand furtively down her trouser leg as Leonard led her to the row of desks immediately outside his office.

“Righteo. This is Johnno, Davo and Hilary,” he said. “Racing, golf and basketball.”

Which she took to mean were their respective areas of expertise. Johnno was old and pock-faced, Davo was midthirties and very tanned, and Hilary was red-haired and in her early thirties, Poppy’s age. They all murmured greetings and shook her hand, but she could tell they were keen to get back to their work.

“This mob around here,” Leonard said, leading her around the partition, “keep an eye on motor sport. Meet our resident gear heads, Macca and Jonesy.”

“All right. Our very own golden girl,” Jonesy said. He was in his late twenties and already developing a paunch.

“Bet you get that all the time, huh?” Macca asked. He smiled a little shyly and ran a hand over his thinning blond hair. “Price of winning gold.”

“There are worse things to be called,” she said with a smile.

Leonard’s hand landed in the middle of her back to steer her toward the far corner.

“And last, but not least, our very own Jack Kerouac,” he said.

Poppy’s palms got sweaty all over again as she saw who he was leading her toward.

Jake Stevens.

Oh, boy.

Her breath got stuck somewhere between her lungs and her mouth as she stared at the back of his dark head.

She didn’t need Leonard to tell her that Jake Stevens wrote about football, as well as covering every major sporting event in the world. She’d read his column for years. She’d watched him interview her colleagues but had somehow never crossed paths with him herself. She knew he’d won almost every Australian journalism award at least once. And she’d read his debut novel so many times the spine had cracked on her first copy and she was now onto her second.

He was wonderful—the kind of writer who made it look effortless. The kind of journalist other journalists aspired to be.

Including her, now that she’d joined their ranks.

“Heads up, Jake,” Leonard said as they stopped beside the other man’s desk.

Not Jakey or some other diminutive, Poppy noted. His desk was bigger, too, taking up twice as much space as those of the other journalists.

Jake Stevens kept them waiting while he finished typing the sentence he was working on. Not long enough to be rude, but enough to make her feel even more self-conscious as she hovered beside Leonard. Finally he swiveled his chair to face them.

“Right. Our new celebrity columnist,” he said, stressing the last two words. He looked at her with lazy, deep blue eyes and offered her his hand. “Welcome on board.”

She slid her hand into his. She’d only ever seen photographs of him before; he was much better looking in real life. The realization only increased her nervousness.

“It’s great to meet you, Mr. Stevens,” she said. “I’m a big admirer of your work—I’ve read your book so many times I can practically recite it.”

Jake’s dark eyebrows rose. “Mr. Stevens? Wow, you must really admire me.”

The back of her neck prickled with embarrassment. She hadn’t meant to sound so stiff and formal. Her embarrassment only increased when his gaze dropped to take in her businesslike brown suit and sensibly heeled shoes, finally stopping on her leather satchel. She felt like a schoolgirl having her uniform inspected. She had a sudden sense that he knew exactly how uncomfortable she was in her new clothes and her new shoes and how out of place she felt in her new environment.

“I suppose you must have interviewed Poppy at some time, eh, Jake?” Leonard asked.

“No. Never had the pleasure,” Jake said.

He didn’t sound very disappointed.

Leonard settled his shoulder against the wall. “Big weekend. Great game between Port and the Swans.”

“Yeah. Almost makes you look forward to the finals, doesn’t it?” Jake said.

The two men forgot about her for a moment as they talked football. Poppy took the opportunity to study the man who’d written one of her favorite novels.

Every time she read The Coolabah Tree she looked at the photograph inside the back cover and wondered about the man behind the cool, slightly cocky smile. He’d been younger when the photo had been taken—twenty-eight or so—but his strong, straight nose, intensely blue eyes and dark hair were essentially unchanged. The seven years that had passed were evident only in the fine lines around his mouth and eyes.

The photo had been a head shot yet for some reason she’d always imagined he was a big, husky man. He wasn’t. Tall, yes, with broad shoulders, but his body was lean and rangy—more a long-distance runner’s physique than a footballer’s. He was wearing jeans and a wrinkled white shirt, and she found herself staring at his thighs, the long, lean muscles outlined by faded denim.

There was a pause in the conversation and she lifted her gaze to find Jake watching her, a sardonic light in his eyes. For the second time that morning she felt embarrassed heat rush into her face.

“Well, Poppy, that’s pretty much everyone,” Leonard said, pushing off from the wall. “A few odds and bods on assignment, but you’ll meet them later. Your desk is over here.”

He headed off. She glanced at Jake one last time before following, ready to say something polite and friendly in parting, but he’d already returned to his work.

Well, okay.

She was frowning as Leonard showed her the desk she’d occupy, wedged into a corner between a potted plant and a pillar. It was obviously a make-do location, slightly separate from the rest of the sports team. Pretty basic—white laminate desk, multiline phone, a computer and a bulletin board fixed to the partition in front of her.

“Have a bit of a look-around in the computer, familiarize yourself with everything,” Leonard said, checking his watch. “I’ll get Mary, our admin assistant, to fill you in on how to file stories and all that hoopla later. Department meeting’s in forty minutes—in the big room near the elevators. Any questions?”

Yes. Is it just my imagination, or is Jake Stevens an arrogant smart-ass?

“No, it all looks good,” she said.

It was a relief to be left to her own devices for a few minutes. All those new faces and names, the new environment, the—

Who was she kidding? She was relieved to have a chance to pull herself together because Jake Stevens had rattled her with his mocking eyes and his sarcasm. He’d been one of the reasons she took the job in the first place—the chance to work with him, to learn from the best. Out of all her coworkers, he’d been the least friendly. In fact, he’d been a jerk.

Disappointing.

But not the end of the world. So what if he wasn’t the intelligent, funny, insightful man she imagined when she read his book and his articles? She’d probably hardly ever see him. And it wasn’t as though she could take his behavior personally. He barely knew her, after all. He was probably a jerk with everyone.

Except he wasn’t.

Two hours and one department meeting later, Poppy was forced to face the fact that the charming, witty man she’d imagined Jake to be did exist—for everyone except her.

The first half of the meeting had been a work-in-progress update. Everyone had multiple stories to file after the weekend so there was a lot of discussion and banter amongst her new colleagues. She didn’t say anything since she had nothing to contribute, just took notes and listened. Jake was a different person as he mixed it up with the other writers. He laughed, he teased, he good-naturedly accepted ribbing when it came his way. He offered great ideas for other people’s stories, made astute comments about what their competitors would be covering. He was like the coolest kid in school—everyone wanted him to notice them, and everyone wanted to sit next to him at the back of the bus.

The second half of the meeting consisted of brainstorming future stories and features. With the Pan-Pacific Swimming Championship trials coming up, there was a lot of discussion around who would qualify. Naturally, everyone turned to her for her opinion—everyone except Jake, that is.

He didn’t so much as glance at her as she discussed the form of the current crop of Australian swimmers, many of whom had been her teammates and competitors until recently.

“Hey, this is like having our own secret weapon,” Macca said. “I love that stuff about what happens in the change rooms before a race.”

“Yeah. We should definitely do something on that when the finals are closer. Sort of a diary-of-a-swimmer kind of thing,” Leonard said. “Really get inside their heads.”

“There’s plenty of stuff we could cover. Superstitions, lucky charms, that kind of thing,” she said.

“Yeah, yeah, great,” Leonard said.

Her confidence grew. Maybe this wasn’t going to be as daunting as she’d first thought. Sure, she was a fish out of water—literally—but everyone seemed nice and she understood sport and the sporting world and the commitment top athletes had to have to get anywhere. She had something to contribute.

Then she glanced at Jake and saw he was sitting back in his chair, doodling on his pad, clearly bored out of his mind. A small smile curved his mouth, as though he was enjoying a private joke.

It was the same whenever she spoke during the meeting—the same smile, the same doodling as though nothing she had to say could possibly be of any interest.

By the time she returned to her desk, she knew she hadn’t imagined his attitude during their introduction. Jake Stevens did not like her. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand why. They’d never met before. How could he possibly not like her when he didn’t even know her?

She’d barely settled in her chair when her cell phone beeped. She checked it and saw Uncle Charlie had sent her a message:

Good luck. Come out strong and you’ll win the race.

She smiled, touched that he’d remembered this was her first day. Of course, Uncle Charlie always remembered the important things.

She composed a return message. She’d bought him a cell phone a year ago so they could stay in touch when she was competing internationally, but he’d never been one hundred percent comfortable with the technology. She could imagine how long it had taken him to key in his short message.

The sound of masculine laughter made her lift her head. Jake was talking with Jonesy at the other man’s desk, a cup of coffee in hand. She watched as Jake dropped his head back and laughed loudly.

She returned her attention to the phone, but she could still see him out of the corner of her eye. He said something to Jonesy, slapped the other man on the shoulder, then headed to his own desk. Which meant he was about to walk past hers.

She kept her focus on her phone but was acutely conscious of his approach. When he stopped beside her, her belly tightened. Slowly she lifted her head.

He studied her desk, taking in the heavy reference books she’d brought in with her: a thesaurus, a book on grammar and the Macquarie Dictionary in two neat, chunky volumes. After a short silence, he met her eyes.

“You do know that A to K comes before L to Z, right?” he asked. He indicated the dictionaries and she saw she’d inadvertently set them next to each other in the wrong order. He leaned across and rearranged them, as though she might not be able to work it out for herself without his help.

“My hot tip for the day,” he said, then he moved off, arrogance in every line of his body.

She was blushing ferociously. Her third Jake Stevens–inspired blush for the day. She stared at his back until he reached his desk, unable to believe he’d taken a swipe at her so openly. What an asshole.

He thought she was a stupid jock. That was why he’d been so dismissive when he met her and why he hadn’t listened to a word she’d said in the meeting. He thought she was a dumb hunk of muscle with an instinct for swimming and nothing to offer on dry land. Certainly nothing to offer in a newsroom.

She knew his opinion shouldn’t matter. It probably wouldn’t, either, if it didn’t speak to her deepest fears about this new direction she’d chosen.

She’d finished high school, but only just. She read a lot, but she wasn’t exactly known for her e-mails and letters. For the bulk of her life, she’d measured her success in body lengths and split seconds, not in column inches and words. Even her parents had been astonished when she accepted this job. She could still remember the bemused looks her mother and father had exchanged when she’d told them. Her brother had laughed outright, thinking she was joking.

She picked up her phone again and stared at her uncle’s text:

Come out strong and you’ll win the race.

God, how she wished it was as easy as that.

She was filled with a sudden longing for the smell of chlorine and the humid warmth of the pool. She knew who she was there, what she was. On dry land, she was still very much a work in progress.

Who cares what he thinks? He doesn’t know you, he knows nothing about you. Screw him.

Poppy straightened in her chair. She reached out and deliberately put the L to Z back where it had been before Jake Stevens gave her his hot tip for the day.

She’d beaten some of the toughest athletes in the world. She’d conquered her own nerves and squeezed the ultimate performance from her body. She’d stood on a podium in front of hundreds of thousands of people and held a gold medal high.

One man’s opinion didn’t mean dick. She was smart, she was resourceful. She could do this job.

JAKE PULLED THE CORK from a bottle of South Australian shiraz and poured himself a glass. He took the bottle with him as he moved from the kitchen into the living room of his South Yarra apartment.

Vintage R.E.M. blasted from his stereo as he dropped onto the couch. His thoughts drifted over the day as he stared out the bay window to the river below. He frowned.

Poppy Birmingham.

He still couldn’t believe the stupid pride on Leonard’s face as he’d introduced her. As if she was his own private dancing bear. As if he expected Jake to break into applause because a woman who had never put pen to paper in her life had scored the kind of job it took dedicated journalists years to achieve.

He made a rude noise as he thought about the brand-new reference books she’d lined up on her desk. Not a wrinkle on the spine of any of them. What a joke.

He took another mouthful of wine as his gaze drifted to his own desk, tucked into the corner near the window.

He should really fire up his computer and try to get some words down.

He smiled a little grimly. Who was he kidding? He wasn’t going to do any writing tonight, just as he hadn’t done any real writing for the past few years. It wasn’t as though his publisher was breathing down his neck, after all. They’d stopped doing that about five years ago, two years after his first novel had made the bestseller lists, won literary prizes and turned him into a wunderkind of the Australian literary scene.

He’d missed so many deadlines since then, they’d stopped hassling him. Now the only time he was asked when his next book was due out was when he met people for the first time—mostly because they assumed he’d written second, third, fourth books that they simply hadn’t heard about. After all, what writer with any ambition to be a novelist wrote only one book and never completed another?

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Jake Stevens.

He offered a mock bow to his apartment and poured himself another glass of wine.

Like a needle in the groove of a record, his thoughts circled to Poppy Birmingham. He’d never interviewed her, but he’d interviewed plenty like her. He knew without asking that she’d discovered a love of swimming at an early age, been talent scouted by someone-or-other, then spent the next twenty years churning up various pools.

She’d sacrificed school, boyfriends, family, whatever, to be the best. She was disciplined. She was driven. Yada yada. She could probably crack walnuts with her superbly toned thighs and outrun, outswim and out-anything-else him that she chose to do.

She was a professional athlete—and she had no place on a newspaper. Call him old-fashioned, but that was how he felt.

He leaned back on the couch, legs straight in front of him, feet crossed at the ankle. His stereo stacker switched from REM to U2—the good angry old stuff, not the new soft and happy pop they’d been serving up the last decade.

He swirled the wine around in his glass, shaking his head as he remembered Poppy’s brown suit and how wrong she’d looked in it—like a kid playing dress up. No. Like a transvestite, a man shoehorning himself into women’s clothing.

Honesty immediately forced him to retract the thought. He might not approve of her hiring, but there was nothing remotely masculine about Poppy. She was tall, true, with swimmer’s shoulders. But she was a woman, no doubt about it. The breasts and hips curving her suit had been a dead giveaway there. And she had a woman’s face—small nose, big gray eyes, cheekbones. Her mouth was a trifle on the large size for true beauty, but her full lips more than made up for that. And even though she kept her blond hair cropped short, she didn’t look even remotely butch.

He took another mouthful of wine. Just because his new “colleague” was easy on the eyes didn’t make what Leonard had done any more acceptable. A smile curved his mouth as a thought occurred—if Poppy was anywhere near as inexperienced a writer as he imagined, Leonard was going to have his hands full knocking her columns into shape. It felt like a fitting punishment for a bad decision.

JAKE WALKED TO WORK the next morning, following the bike path that ran alongside the Yarra River all the way into the city. A rowing team sculled past. He watched his breath mist in the air and kept his thoughts on the interview he wanted to score today and not the words he hadn’t written last night.

He was the first one in, as usual. He shrugged out of his coat, hung it and his scarf across the back of his chair then headed for the kitchen to fire up the coffee machine.

Someone had beaten him to it. Poppy Birmingham stood at the counter, spooning sugar into a mug. He counted four teaspoons before she began to stir. That was some sweet tooth.

She glanced over her shoulder as he reached for the coffee carafe, obviously having heard him approach.

“Good—” Her mouth pressed into a thin line when she saw it was him and the rest of her greeting went unsaid. Her dark gray eyes gave him a dismissive once-over. Then she turned back to her sickly sweet coffee.

She was pissed with him because of his gibe about the dictionary yesterday. Probably couldn’t conceive of a world where athletic ability didn’t open every door. Because he was a contrary bastard, he couldn’t resist giving her another prod.

“Bad for you, you know,” he said.

She glanced at him and he gestured toward her coffee.

“All that sugar. Bad for you.”

“Maybe. But I’ll take sweet over bitter any day,” she said. She picked up her mug and exited.

He cocked his head to one side. Not a bad comeback—for a jock.

He picked up his own mug and followed her. He couldn’t help noting the firm bounce of her ass as she walked. Probably she could crack walnuts with that, too. He wondered idly what she looked like naked. Most swimmers didn’t have a lot happening up top, but she clearly had a great ass and great legs.

She sat at her desk. He glanced over her shoulder as he passed. She’d started writing her debut article already. He read the opening line and mentally corrected two grammatical errors. As he’d suspected last night, Leonard was going to have his work cut out for him editing her work into something publishable. Thank God it wasn’t Jake’s problem.

Then Leonard stopped by his desk midmorning and changed all that.

“No way,” Jake said the moment he heard what his boss wanted. “I’m not babysitting the mermaid.”

Leonard frowned. “It’s not babysitting, it’s mentoring. She needs a guiding hand on the tiller for a few weeks while she finds her feet, and you’re our best writer.”

Jake rubbed his forehead. “Thanks for the compliment. The answer is still no.”

“Why not?” Leonard asked bluntly.

Jake looked at the other man assessingly. Then he shrugged. What the hell. What was the worst thing that could happen if he told his boss how he really felt?

“Because Poppy Birmingham doesn’t deserve to be here,” he said.

He wasn’t sure what it was—his raising his voice, a freak flat spot in the background noise, some weird accident of office acoustics—but his words carried a long way. Davo and Macca looked over from where they were talking near the photocopier, Hilary smirked and Mary looked shocked.

At her desk, Poppy’s head came up. She swiveled and looked him dead in the eye. For a long moment it felt as though the world held its breath. Then she stood and started walking toward him.

For the first time he understood why the press had once dubbed her the Aussie Amazon—she looked pretty damn impressive striding toward him with a martial light in her eye.

He crossed his arms over his chest and settled back in his chair.

Bring it on. He’d never been afraid of a bit of truth telling.

2

POPPY HAD PROMISED HERSELF she’d speak up if he did something provocative again. She figured broadcasting his antipathy to all and sundry more than qualified.

Leonard looked as though he’d swallowed a frog. Jake simply watched her, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable.

She offered Leonard a tight smile. “Would you mind if I had a private word with Mr. Stevens?”

Her new boss eyed her uncertainly. His gaze slid to Jake then to her. She widened her smile.

“I promise not to leave any bruises,” she said.

Leonard shrugged. “What the hey? Tear him a new one. Save me doing it.”

He headed to his office and Poppy turned to face Jake. His mouth was quirked into the irritating almost smile that he’d worn every time she spoke during their meeting yesterday. She wanted to slap it off his face. She couldn’t believe that she’d once thought he was good-looking.

“What’s your problem?” she asked.

“I don’t have a problem.”

“Bullshit. You’ve been taking shots at me since I arrived. I want to know why.”

He looked bored. “Sure you do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t want to hear what I really think. You want me to be awed by your career and treat you like the department mascot like everyone else,” he said.

She sucked in a breath, stung. “That’s the last thing I want.”

“Well, baby, you sure took the wrong job.” He turned away from her, his hands returning to his keyboard. Clearly he thought their conversation was over.

“I’m still waiting to hear what you really think,” she said. She crossed her arms over her chest. She figured that way he might not notice how much she was shaking. She didn’t think she’d ever been more angry in her life.

He swiveled to face her. “Let me put it this way—how would you feel if your ex-coach suddenly announced I’d be leading the swim team into the next world championships because he liked a couple of articles I’d written?”

“You think I got this job under false pretenses.”

“Got a journalism degree?” he asked.

“No.”

“Done an internship?”

“You know I haven’t.”

“Then, yes, I think you didn’t earn this job.”

She blinked. He spread his hands wide.

“You asked,” he said.

“Actually, you offered—to the whole office.”

“If you think some of them haven’t thought the same thing.” He shrugged.

She glanced at the other journalists who were all eavesdropping shamelessly. Was it possible some of them shared Jake’s opinion?

“Leonard came knocking on my door, not the other way around.” She sounded defensive, but she couldn’t help it.

“You accepted the offer,” he said. “You could have said no.”

“So I’m not allowed to have a career outside of swimming?” she asked.

“Sure you are. You’re even allowed to have this career, since we all know the Australian public is so in love with its sporting heroes they’ll probably eat up anything you write with a spoon, even if you can’t string two words together. Just don’t expect me to like it,” he said. “I worked long hours on tin-pot newspapers across the country to get where I am. So has everyone else on this team. I’m not going to give Leonard a standing ovation for valuing my skills so lightly he’s slotted a high school graduate into a leading commentator’s role just because she looks good in Lycra and happens to swim a mean hundred-meter freestyle. Never going to happen.”

Poppy stared at him. He stared back, no longer bored or cool.

“You might have come to this job by working your way through the ranks, but I’ve earned my chance, too.” She hated that her voice quavered, but she wasn’t about to retreat. “I’m not going to apologize for the fact that I have a public profile. I’ve represented this country. I’ve swum knowing that I’m holding other people’s dreams in my hands, not just my own. You don’t know what that’s like, the kind of pressure that comes with it. And while you’re on your high horse judging me, you might want to think about the fact that you wouldn’t even have a job if it wasn’t for people like me sweating it out every day, daring to dream and daring to try to make those dreams a reality. You’d just be a commentator with nothing to say.”

She turned her back on him and walked away.

The other journalists were suddenly very busy, tapping away at their keyboards or shuffling through their papers. She sat at her desk and stared hard at her computer screen, hoping it looked as though she was reading, when in fact, she was trying very, very hard not to cry.

Not because she was upset but because she was furious. Her tear ducts always wanted to get involved when she got angry, but she would rather staple something to her forehead than give Jake the Snake the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

Ten minutes later, Macca approached.

“I was just in, speaking to Leonard. I’m going to work with you on your first few articles, until you find your feet,” he said.

She stared at him, chin high. “What did he bribe you with?”

“Actually, I volunteered.”

She blinked.

“What can I say? I’ve always had a thing for water sports.”

She gave him a doubtful look.

“And I think Jake was out of line,” he added. “So what if you haven’t earned your stripes in the trenches? Welcome to the real world, pal. People get lucky breaks all the time for a bunch of different reasons. And even if he disagrees with Leonard’s decision, being an asshole to you is not the way to deal with it.”

“Hear, hear,” she said under her breath.

He smiled at her. “So, we cool? You want to show me what you’ve got so far?”

“Thank you.” She was more grateful for his offer—and support—than she cared to admit.

He pulled up a chair beside her. She shifted the computer screen so he could read her article more easily and sat in tense, twitchy silence while he did so. She’d spent a lot of time working on it—all of last night and most of this morning. She knew it wasn’t great, but she hoped it was passable.

“Hey, this is pretty good,” he said.

She tried not to show how much his opinion meant to her. She’d already been nervous enough before The Snake had aired his feelings. Now she knew all eyes would be on her maiden effort.

“You can be honest. I’d rather know what’s wrong so I can fix it than have you worry about my feelings,” she said.

“Relax. Ask anyone, I’m a hard bastard. Open beer bottles with my teeth and everything,” Macca said. “If this was utter crap, I’d tell you. I think we can work on a few things, make some of the language less formal and stiff, but otherwise there’s not much that needs doing.”

Poppy sank back in her seat and let her breath out slowly.

“And if you’re free for lunch, I’ll give you the lowdown on the office politics,” Macca said.

She smiled. Maybe there was an upside to being savaged by an arrogant, know-it-all smart-ass after all—she’d just made her first new friend at the Herald.

THAT NIGHT POPPY HAD her second Factual Writing for the Media class at night school. She’d enrolled when Leonard had offered her the job. So far, she’d learned enough to know she had a lot to learn. But that was why she was there, after all.

There was a message from Uncle Charlie when she finally got home. She phoned him on his cell, knowing he’d be up till all hours since he was a notorious insomniac.

“Hey there, Poppy darlin’,” he said when he picked up the phone. “I’ve been waiting for you to call and fill me in on your first day at work.”

“Sorry. To be honest, it was a little sucky, and day two was both worse and better. I was kind of holding off on calling until I had something nice to report.”

She filled him in on Jake and their argument and the way Macca had come to her aid.

“Bet this Jake idiot didn’t know who he was taking on when he took on you,” Uncle Charlie said.

She laughed ruefully. “I don’t know. I don’t think he was exactly cowed by my eloquence. It makes swimming look pretty tame, doesn’t it, even with all the egos and rivalries?” she said a little wistfully.

“Missing it, Poppy girl?”

She swung her feet up onto the arm of her couch.

“I miss knowing what I’m good at,” she said quietly, thinking over her day at work and how lost she’d felt in class tonight.

“You’re good at lots of things.”

“Oh, I know—eating, sleeping…”

“You forgot showering and breathing.”

They both laughed.

“Just remember you’re a champion.” He was suddenly very serious. “The best of the best. Don’t let some jumped-up pen pusher bring you down. You can do anything you put your mind to.”

Uncle Charlie was her biggest fan, her greatest supporter, the only member of her family who’d watched every one of her races, cheered her wins and commiserated her losses.

“You still haven’t told me what you want for your birthday,” she said.

He turned seventy in a few weeks’ time. She already had his present, but asking him what he wanted had become a bit of a ritual for the two of them.

“A pocketful of stardust,” he said. “And one of them fancy new left-handed hammers.”

She smiled. He had a different answer every time, the old bugger.

“Careful what you wish for.”

“Just seeing you will make my day.”

She couldn’t wait to see his face when she gave him her present. She’d had her first gold medal mounted in a frame alongside a photograph of the two of them at the pool when she was six years old. It was her favorite shot of the two of them. He was in the water beside her, his face attentive and gentle as he guided her arms. She was looking up at him, laughing, trusting him to show her how to get it right.

He always had, too. He’d never let her down, not once.

“Love you, Uncle Charlie,” she said.

“Poppy girl, don’t go getting all sentimental on me. Nothing more pitiful than an old man sooking into the phone,” he said gruffly.

They talked a little longer before she ended the call. She lay on the couch for a few minutes afterward, reviewing the day again.

She was proud of herself for standing her ground against Jake Stevens, but she wished she hadn’t had to. The only place she’d ever been aggressive was in the pool. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a stand-up argument with someone.

Just goes to show, you’ve led a sheltered life.

She stood and walked to her bedroom. She was pulling her shirt off when she caught sight of a familiar orange book cover on the bookcase beside her bed. The name Jake Stevens spanned the spine in thick black print.

“Uh-uh, not in my bedroom, buddy,” she said. She picked up The Coolabah Tree with her thumb and forefinger and marched to the kitchen. She dumped the book in the trash can and brushed her hands together theatrically.

“Ha!”

She’d barely gone three paces before her conscience made her swing around. Before she’d met Jake, The Coolabah Tree had been one of her favorite books. His being a jerk didn’t change any of that.

She fished out the book and walked into her living room. She looked around. Where to put it so it wouldn’t bug the hell out of her?

She laughed loudly as an idea hit her. She crossed to the bathroom and put the book amongst the spare toilet-paper rolls she stored in a basket in the corner near her loo.

She was still smiling when she climbed into bed.

“ANYONE WANT A COFFEE?” POPPY ASKED.

Jake didn’t bother looking up from his laptop. There was no way she would bring him a coffee, even if he was stupid enough to ask for one. The three weeks she’d been at the Herald hadn’t changed a thing between them.

“I’m cool,” Davo said.

“White for me,” Hilary said.

Jake glanced over his shoulder as Poppy moved to the back of the press box. The room was buzzing with conversation and suppressed excitement. In ten minutes, the Brisbane Lions and the Hawthorn Hawks would duke it out for the Australian Football League Premiership.

Jake still couldn’t believe that Leonard had assigned the newest, greenest writer on the staff to cover the AFL Grand Final. It was the biggest event in the Australian sporting calendar, bar none. Even The Melbourne Cup didn’t come close. The Herald would dedicate over six pages to the game tomorrow—and Poppy hadn’t even clocked a month with the paper and had only a handful of columns under her belt.

Granted, her articles had been a pleasant surprise. Warm, funny, smart. She needed to loosen up a little, relax into the role. Stop trying so hard. But in general the stories hadn’t been the disaster he’d been anticipating. Which still didn’t make her qualified to be here.

They’d flown into Brisbane two days ago to cover the teams’ last training sessions and interview players before the big event, and he’d been keeping an eye on her. What he’d seen confirmed she was a rookie in every sense of the word. She interviewed players from a list of questions she’d prepared earlier, reading them off the page. She studiously wrote down every word they said. She was earnest, eager, diligent—and way out of her depth. Yesterday, Coach Dickens had brushed her off when she tried to ask him about an injured player. She’d been unable to hide her surprise and hurt at the man’s rude rebuff.

Better toughen up, baby, Jake thought as he watched her wait patiently in the catering line for her chance at the coffee urn. Most journalists would eat their own young for a good story. As for common courtesies such as waiting in line.

As if to demonstrate his point, Michael Hague from the Age sauntered up to the line and slipped in ahead of her, chatting to a colleague already there as though the guy had been saving him a place. Poppy frowned but didn’t say anything.

Jake shook his head. She was too nice. Too squeaky clean from all that swimming and wholesome food and exercise. Even if she developed the goods writingwise, she simply didn’t have the killer instinct a journalist required to get the job done.

He was turning to his computer when she stepped out of line. Hague had just finished filling a cup with coffee and Poppy reached out and calmly took it from his hand. She flashed him a big smile and said something. Jake couldn’t hear what it was, but he guessed she was thanking him for helping her out. Then she calmly filled a second cup for Hilary.

Jake laughed. He couldn’t help it. The look on Hague’s face was priceless. Poppy made her way to their corner, her hard-won coffees in hand. Her gaze found his across the crowded box and he grinned at her and she smiled. Then the light in her eyes died and her mouth thinned into a straight, tight line.

Right. For a second there he’d almost forgotten.

He faced his computer.

He was on her shit list. Which was only fair, since she’d been on his ever since he’d learned about her appointment.

He shook the moment off and focused his attention on the field. The Lions and the Hawks had run through their banners and were lined up at the center of the ground. The Australian anthem began to play, the forty-thousand-strong crowd taking up the tune. The buzz of conversation in the press box didn’t falter, journalists in general being a pack of unpatriotic heathens. On a hunch Jake glanced over his shoulder. As he’d suspected, Poppy’s gaze was fixed on the field and her lips were moving subtly as she mouthed the words to the anthem.

It struck him that of all the journalists here, she was the only one who could even come close to understanding how the thirty-six players below were feeling right now. He had a sudden urge to lean across and ask her, to try and capture the immediate honesty of the moment.

He didn’t. Even if she deigned to answer him, just asking the question indicated that he was softening his stance regarding her appointment. Which he wasn’t.

The song finished and the crowd roared its excited approval as the two teams began to spread out across the field. Jake tensed, adrenaline quickening his blood. He loved the tribalism of football, the feats of reckless courage, the passion in the stands. It was impossible to watch and not be affected by it. Even after hundreds of kickoffs over many years, he still got excited at each and every game. The day he didn’t was the day he would retire, absolutely.

The starting siren echoed and the umpire held the ball high and then bounced it hard into the center of the field. The ruckmen from both teams soared into the air, striving for possession of the ball.

Jake leaned forward, all his attention on the game. Behind him he heard the tap-tap of fingers on a keyboard. He didn’t need to look to know it was Poppy. What in hell she had to write about after just ten seconds of play, he had no idea. Forcing his awareness of her out of his mind, he concentrated on the game.

POPPY CHECKED HER WATCH as she stepped into the hotel elevator and punched the button for her floor. By now, most of the players would be drunk or well on their way to it, and probably half of the press corps, too. She’d been too tired to take Macca up on his invitation to join him, Hilary and Jake for a postcoverage drink. Even if she hadn’t been hours away from being ready to file her story by the time the others were packing up to go, she’d had enough of The Snake over the past few days to last a lifetime. She wasn’t about to subject herself to his irritating presence over a meal. Not for love or money.

She scrubbed her face with her hands as the floor indicator climbed higher. She was officially exhausted. The leadup to the game, the game itself, the challenging atmosphere of the press box, the awareness that she was part of a team and she needed to deliver—all of it had taken its toll on her over the past couple of days and she felt as though she’d staggered over the finish line of a marathon.

She was painfully aware that she’d been the last of the team to file her stories every day so far. She’d sweated over her introductions, agonized over what quotes to use, fretted over her sign-offs. Writing didn’t come naturally to her, and she was beginning to suspect it was something she would always have to work at. No wonder her shoulders felt as though they were carved from marble at the end of each day.

She toed off her shoes as she entered her hotel room. She’d given up on high heels after the first week in her new job. Not only did they make her taller than most men, she couldn’t walk in them worth a damn and they made her feet ache. She shed her navy tailored trousers and matching jacket, then her white shirt. Her underwear followed and she made her way to the bathroom and started the shower up. She felt ten different kinds of greasy after a day of being jostled by pushy journalists and fervent football fans and hovering over her laptop, sweating over every word and punctuation mark. She tested the water with her hand and rolled her eyes when it was still cold. Stupid hotel. No one had warned her that the Herald were a pack of tightwads when it came to travel expenses. It was like being on the national swim team again.

She glanced at her reflection while she waited for the water to warm. As always, the sight of her new, improved bust line made her frown. She’d never had boobs. Years of training had keep her lean and flat. But now that she’d stopped the weights and the strenuous training sessions and relaxed her strict diet, nature had reasserted itself with a vengeance over the past few months.

She slid her hands onto her breasts, feeling their smooth roundness, lifting them a little, studying the effect in the mirror. She shook her head and let her hands drop to her sides. It was too weird. She wasn’t used to them. Kept brushing against things and people. And she’d had to throw out half her wardrobe. Then there was the attention from men. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to that. Never in her life had she had so many conversations without eye contact. She’d quickly learned not to take her jacket off if she wanted to be taken seriously. Which meant she wore it pretty much all the time.

The water was warm at last and she stepped beneath the spray. Ten minutes later, she toweled herself off and went in search of food. The room service menu was uninspired. What she really felt like eating was chocolate chip ice cream and a packet of salty, crunchy potato chips. She eyed the minibar for a few seconds, but couldn’t bring herself to pay five times the price for something that was readily available in the convenience store two doors down from the hotel.

She pulled on sweatpants and a tank top, decided against a bra since she was making just a quick pig-out run, then zipped up her old swim team sweat top. Her feet in flip-flops, she headed downstairs.

The latest James Bond movie was showing on the hotel’s in-house movie service. She smiled to herself as she thought about Daniel Craig in his swim trunks. Sugar, salt and a buff man—not a bad night in.

She was still smiling contentedly when she returned to the hotel five minutes later, loaded down with snack food. She was in the elevator, the doors about to close, when Jake Stevens thrust his arm between them. She stood a little straighter as he stepped inside the car.

Damn it. Was it too much to ask for a few moments’ reprieve from his knowing, sarcastic eyes and smug smile?

She moved closer to the corner so there wasn’t even the remote chance of brushing shoulders with him.

His gaze flicked over her briefly. Suddenly she was very aware of her wet hair and the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra. She shifted uncomfortably and his gaze dropped to her carrier bag of goodies.

“Having a big night, I see,” he said.

“Something like that.”

He leaned closer. She fought the need to pull away as he hooked a finger into the top of the bag and peered inside.

“Chocolate-chip ice cream and nacho-cheese corn chips. Interesting combo.”

Up close, his eyes were so blue and clear she felt as though she could see all the way through to his soul.

If he had one.

“Do you mind?” she said, jerking the bag away from him.

He raised his eyebrows. She raised hers and gave him a challenging look.

“Just trying to be friendly,” he said.

“No, you weren’t. You were being a smart-ass, at my expense, as usual. So don’t expect me to lie down and take it.”

His gaze dropped to her chest, then flicked back to her face. She waited for him to say something suitably smart-assy in response, but he didn’t. The lift chimed as they hit her floor.

Thank God.

She stepped out into the corridor. He followed. She frowned, thrown. Then she started walking toward her room, keeping a watch out of the corner of her eye. As she’d feared, he was following her.

She stopped abruptly and he almost walked into her as she swung to face him.

“I don’t need an escort to my door, if that’s what you’re doing,” she said. “I don’t need anything from you, which I know probably sticks in your craw since your ego is so massive and so fragile you can’t handle having a rookie on the team.”

Jake cocked his head to one side. Then he smiled sweetly and pulled a key from his pocket. The number 647 dangled from it. Two rooms up from hers.

Right.

She could feel embarrassed heat rising into her face. Why did this man always make her so self-conscious? It wasn’t as though she cared what he thought of her.

She started walking again. She had her key in her hand well before her door was in sight. She shoved it into the lock and pushed her door open as quickly as she could. She caught a last glimpse of his smiling face as she shut the door.

Smug bastard.

She grabbed a spoon from the minibar and ripped the top off the ice cream. She needed to keep an eye on her temper around him. And she had to stop letting him get under her skin. That, or she had to somehow develop Zen-like mind-body control so she could stop herself from blushing in front of him.

Large quantities of chocolate-chip ice cream went a long way to calming her. She turned on the TV and opened the corn chips. An hour into the movie, she was blinking and yawning. When the movie cut to a love scene, she decided to call it quits for the night. She liked watching James run and jump and beat people up, but she wasn’t so wild about the mandatory sex scenes. She knew other people liked them, even got disappointed when they didn’t get enough of them, but she so didn’t get it.

She contemplated the issue as she brushed her teeth.

Sex, in her opinion, was one of the most overrated activities under the sun. She figured she was experienced enough to know—she’d had three lovers in her thirty-one years, and none of them had come even close to being as satisfying as George, her battery-operated, intriguingly shaped friend. Disappointing, but true.

Of course, it was possible that she’d had three dud lovers in a row, but she thought it far more likely that sex, like most anti-aging products and lose-weight-now remedies, was not all it was cracked up to be.

But that was only her opinion.

She spat out toothpaste and rinsed her mouth. Then she climbed into bed. Just before she drifted off, she remembered that moment in the hallway again. Next time she came face-to-face with The Snake, she was going to make sure she was the one who came out on top. Definitely.

THE NEXT DAY SHE CAUGHT A CAB to the airport for her flight home and discovered that while she and the bulk of Australia had been focused on the ups and downs, ins and outs of a red leather ball, the baggage handlers union had decided to go on strike.

The mammoth lines of irate and desperate-looking people winding through the terminal were her first clue that something was up. She collared a passing airport official and he filled her in. The strike was expected to run for at least three days. Most flights had been canceled.

“Damn it,” she said.

He held up his hands. “Not my fault, lady.”

“I know. Sorry. It’s just my uncle’s birthday is on Wednesday.”

She’d planned to drive to her parents’ place in Ballarat, about an hour north of Melbourne, for the party. But at this rate it didn’t look as though she was even going to be in the same state come Wednesday.

“Lots of weddings and funerals and births, too,” the official said with a shrug. “Nobody likes an airline strike.”

He moved off and Poppy stared glumly at his back. This was not the first time she’d been left stranded by an airline. As a swimmer, she’d been at the mercy of more than her fair share of strikes, bad weather and mechanical failures. Once, the swim team had almost missed an important meet in Sydney thanks to an airline strike, but their coach had had the foresight to hire a minibus and had driven them the thousand kilometers overnight.

A lightbulb went on in Poppy’s mind. If it was good enough for Coach Wellington, it was good enough for her. She turned in a circle, looking for the signs for the car rental agencies. She spotted the glowing yellow Hertz sign. Then she spotted the lineup in front of it. Well, she could only try.

Fingers crossed, she headed over to join the masses.

JAKE WOKE, FEELING LIKE CRAP. Headache, furry mouth, seedy stomach—standard hangover material. He groaned as he rolled out of bed and blessed his own foresight in ensuring he had an afternoon flight out of Brisbane and not a morning one. He’d played this game before, after all, and he’d known last night would be a big one. And it had been. He’d lost track of which bar he’d wound up in, and who he’d been drinking with. There had definitely been some disappointed Bears players in the mix, drowning their sorrows. And he could distinctly remember someone singing the Hawk’s club song at one stage.

Whatever. A fine time was had by all.

Well, not quite all. Some people had chosen to forgo the festivities and hole up in their room with chocolate-chip ice cream and nacho-cheese corn chips.

He rinsed his mouth out as the memory of Poppy’s uptight little “I don’t need an escort” speech filtered into his mind.

He didn’t know what it was about her, but he couldn’t seem to resist poking her with a stick. Maybe it was the way her chin came up. Or the martial gleam that came into her eyes. Or maybe it was the pink flush that colored her cheeks when he bested her.

He stepped beneath the shower and lifted his face to the spray. Oh, man, but he needed some grease and some salt and some aspirin. Big-time.

Of course, Ms. Birmingham wouldn’t be in search of saturated animal fats this morning. She’d had hers last night, in the quiet privacy of her room.

Someone needed to tell her that road trips were a good opportunity to bond with her colleagues. Especially when you were a newcomer to the team.

He shrugged. Not his problem. And she was unlikely to take advice from him, anyway.

He recalled the way she’d looked last night, hair wet, face devoid of makeup. Sans bra, too, if he made any guess. She had more up top than he’d expected. Definitely a generous handful.

He soaped his belly and wondered again what she’d look like naked. She wasn’t his type, but he supposed he could understand why Macca followed her with his eyes whenever he thought no one was watching. She was striking. She could almost look Jake in the eye, she was so tall. He bet she liked to be on top, too.

He stared down at his hard-on.

Okay, maybe she was his type. But only because it had been a while since he’d gotten naked with anyone. Four…no, five months. That was when he’d decided that his fledgling relationship with Rachel-from-the-gym was too much of a distraction from the book he still hadn’t written.

He turned the water to cold. Brutal, but effective—his erection sank without a trace.

He dressed and packed his luggage. Then he checked out.

“We hope you enjoyed your stay with us, Mr. Stevens,” the woman on the reservation desk said. “And we hope the strike doesn’t inconvenience you too much.”

He lifted his head from signing his credit card slip. “Strike? What strike?”

“The baggage handlers’ strike. It looks like it’ll last three days minimum at this point. We’ve had a lot of people coming back from the airport to check in again.”

Shit. He had ten days vacation starting tomorrow. He had plans to go fishing with an old college buddy. No way was he going to kick his heels in Brisbane when there were rainbow trout going begging.

He grabbed his bags and headed to the taxi stand. He’d been caught out like this before and he knew that even during a strike there were still planes in the air. He might be able to talk his way onto one of them. And there was always the bus, God forbid, or a rental.

The moment he hit the airport he nixed the idea of talking himself onto a flight. Lines spilled out the door and every person and his dog was on a cell, trying to hustle some other way home.

He turned for the rental desks. No lines there. Bonus. Maybe no one else had thought of driving home yet.

He dropped his bags in front of the counter and smiled at the pretty blonde behind the desk.

“Hey, there. I need to rent a car,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “You and the rest of the country. Sorry, sir, as we announced five minutes ago, we’re all sold out.”

He kept smiling.

“There must be something. A car due back later today? Something that didn’t pass inspection?”

“Many of our cars didn’t come in when our customers heard about the strike. We’ve been pulling cars in from our other branches, but there’s no stock left. I’m very sorry, sir.”

She didn’t sound very sorry. She sounded as though she’d had a long and stressful day and was privately wishing him to hell.

“There must be something,” he said.

“Where are you traveling to?”

He waited for her to start tapping away at her keyboard to find him a car, but she didn’t.

“Melbourne.”

“The only thing I can suggest is that you hook up with someone else who is driving your way. I know that blond woman over there is going to Melbourne. She got our last car—maybe she’ll take pity on you.”

Jake turned his head to follow the woman’s finger. He stared in disbelief at the back of Poppy Birmingham’s head.

“Shit.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

There was no way Poppy was going to take pity on him. She’d more than likely laugh in his face—if he gave her the opportunity.

“Is there a bus counter around here?” he asked. He hated bus travel with a passion, but desperate times called for desperate measures. There were trout swimming in the Cobungra River with his name on them, and he intended to be there to catch them.

“They’re on the west side of the airport. Just follow the crowd.”

“Thanks.”

He hefted his bags and started walking. He could see Poppy up ahead, talking on her cell phone. If it were anyone else—a complete stranger—he’d throw himself on her mercy in a split second. But Poppy didn’t like him. Admittedly, he’d given her plenty of reasons to feel that way, but the fact remained that she was far more likely to drive over him in her rental car than offer him a lift in it.

He walked past her, wondering how she’d react if he snatched the keys from her hand and made a bolt for it. But she was probably pretty fast on her feet. She had those long legs and hadn’t been out all night swilling beer and red wine the way he had.

He kept walking. Then he started thinking about sitting on a bus with seventy-odd other angry travelers, sucking in diesel fumes and reliving horror flashbacks from half a dozen high school excursions.

Man.

He stopped in his tracks. He lowered his chin to his chest. He thought about the bus, then he thought about his pride. Then he turned around and walked to where Poppy was finishing her phone call.

He stopped in front of her. She stared at him blankly. Then her gaze dropped to his luggage. A slow smile curved her mouth. He waited for her to say something, but she didn’t.

She was going to make him ask.

Shit.

He took a deep breath. “Going my way?”

Her smile broadened. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to do much better than that.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and waited. He stared at her for a long moment.

Then he braced himself for some heavy-duty sucking up.

3

POPPY STILL COULDN’T BELIEVE she’d let Jake into her car. Even if she drove nonstop like a bat out of hell, she’d sentenced herself to twenty-four hours in The Snake’s company in a small enclosed space. Had she been on drugs twenty minutes ago?

She slid him a look. His eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses but he appeared to be staring out the windshield, his expression unreadable. He hadn’t shaved and his face was dark with stubble. He hadn’t said a word since they argued over who was driving the first leg and which route out of the city to take.

He resented having to kiss her ass, but she didn’t regret making him do it. It was nice to have a bit of power for a change, even if it was only temporary.

She focused on the road. If he wanted to play it strong and silent, that was fine with her. She’d had more than enough of his smart mouth over the past three weeks.

“Do you mind if I turn the air-conditioning on?” he asked ten minutes later.

It was an unseasonably warm day for September and she was starting to feel a little sticky herself.

“Sure.”

He fiddled with the controls. “Hmph.” He sat back in his seat. “It’s broken.”

“It can’t be.”

He turned his head toward her. She didn’t need to see his eyes to know he was giving her a look.

“Feel free to check for yourself.”

She did, flicking the switch on and off several times. He didn’t say a word as the seconds ticked by and no cool air emerged from the air vents.

“Fine. It’s broken,” she said after a few minutes.

“No shit.”

She cracked the window on her side to let some fresh air into the car. He did the same on his side. The road noise was loud, the equivalent of being inside a wind tunnel.

Great. Jake the Snake beside me, and a bloody hurricane roaring in my ear. This is going to be the road trip from hell.

After half an hour she couldn’t stand the noise any longer. She shut her window. A short while later, so did Jake.

The temperature in the car rose steadily as the sun moved across the sky. Jake shrugged out of his jacket and so did she. By the time they’d been on the road for two hours, her shirt was sticking to her and sweat was running down her rib cage.

Poppy spotted a sign for a rest area and turned into it when it came up on their left.

Jake stirred and she realized he’d been dozing behind his glasses and not simply staring out the windshield ignoring her.

“You ready to swap?” he asked, pushing his sunglasses up onto his forehead and rubbing his eyes.

“Nope,” she said. “I’m changing into something cooler.”

She got out of the car and unlocked the trunk. Jake got out, too, stretching his arms high over his head and arching his back. His T-shirt rode up, treating her to a flash of flat belly, complete with a dark-haired happy trail that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans. She frowned and looked away, concentrating on digging through her bag in search of her sports tank. When she found it, she gave him a pointed look.

“Do you mind?”

He stared at her.

“What?”

“A little privacy, please.” She spun her finger in the air to indicate she wanted him to turn his back.

He snorted. “Lady, we’re on a state highway, in case you hadn’t noticed. Everyone who drives past is going to cop an eyeful unless you hunker down in the backseat.”

“I don’t care about everyone else. I have to work with you.”

She didn’t care if he thought she was prudish or stupid—she was not stripping down to her bra in front of him. She absolutely did not want him knowing what she looked like in her underwear. It was way too personal a piece of information for him to have about her. She wasn’t exactly sure how he could turn it to his advantage, but that was beside the point.

He sighed heavily and turned his back.

“If I see anything, I promise to poke an eye out,” he said.

She unbuttoned her shirt and shrugged out of it. She checked he still had his back turned. He hadn’t moved. Her tank top got tangled in her haste to pull it over her head. She twisted it around the right way and tugged it on. She glanced at him again. This time his face was in quarter profile as he gazed over the acres of grassland running alongside the freeway.

Had he sneaked a look? She stared at him suspiciously, but he didn’t so much as blink.

“I’m ready,” she said.

He turned and his gaze flicked down her body briefly before returning to her face. She was acutely aware that her tank top was small and tight and a far cry from the business shirts and jackets she’d been wearing to work to date.

She slammed the trunk shut and moved to the driver’s side door. He met her there, his hand held out expectantly.

“I’ll drive,” he said.

“No, you won’t.”

If he’d asked, maybe she would have considered it. But there was no way she was taking orders from him. They’d be serving ice cream in hell before that happened.

“There’s no way you’re driving all the way to Melbourne,” he said.

“I’m not an idiot. When I’m tired, I’ll let you know.”

His stared at her, his blue eyes dark with frustration. Then he turned on his heel and returned to his side of the car.

She waited till he had his seat belt on before pulling back onto the highway. Immediately he leaned across and turned the radio on. Static hissed and he fooled around with the dials until he found some music.

Johnny Cash’s deep voice filled the car. Poppy forced her shoulders to relax. Jake Stevens got on her nerves. She wished he didn’t, but he did. As she’d already acknowledged, she needed to get a grip on her temper when he was around.

It would also be good if she wasn’t quite so aware of him physically. Her gaze kept sliding across to where his long legs were stretched out into the footwell. And she kept remembering that flash of flat male belly. It was highly annoying and disconcerting. She didn’t like him. She didn’t want to be aware of him.

She slid another surreptitious glance his way and tensed when she caught him looking at her. More specifically, at her breasts.

She glared at him until he lifted his gaze and met hers. He had the gall to shrug a shoulder and give her a cocky little smile.

“Hey, what can I say? I’m only human.”

“Subhuman, you mean.”

“Staring at a woman’s breasts is not a capital offense, last time I checked,” he said.

“Maybe I don’t want you looking at my breasts. Ever think about that?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t make a habit of it.”

She stiffened. What was he saying? That he didn’t like her breasts? That he didn’t consider them ogleworthy? She glanced down at herself and frowned.

“What’s wrong with them?” she asked.

She could have bitten her tongue off the moment the words were out of her mouth. She could feel the mother of all blushes working its way up her neck.

She kept her eyes front and center as he looked at her.

“Relax,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Men check out women all the time. It’s basic biology.”

“I am relaxed,” she said through her teeth. “And I didn’t think you were about to propose because you checked out my rack. I might not be used to having boobs, but I know that much.”

She didn’t think it was possible, but her blush intensified. She couldn’t believe she’d made such a revealing confession to The Snake.

There was a short silence before he spoke.

“I wondered about that,” he said. “All the photos I ever saw, you looked about an A cup.”

“You made a note of my cup size?” she asked, her voice rising.

“Sure. I’m not blind. So, what, you stopped training and puberty kicked in, is that it?”

He spoke conversationally, as though they were talking about the weather. As though it was perfectly natural for him to go around guessing women’s breast size. And maybe it was—but not hers. She didn’t want him looking at her and thinking about her like that. It made her feel distinctly…edgy.

She clenched her hands on the wheel. “We are not talking about my breasts.”

“You brought it up.”

“I did not! You were staring at me!”

“Because you changed into that teeny, tiny tank. I could hardly pretend I didn’t notice.”

“The air-conditioning is broken and I was hot and you could have tried. A gentleman would have,” she said.

He laughed. “A gentleman? Baby, I’m a journalist. I wouldn’t have a job if I was a gentleman. Something you better learn pretty quick if you want to survive in this game.”

She held up a hand. “Spare me your sage advice, Yoda. You’re about three weeks too late to apply for the position of mentor.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“I will, thank you.”

“Always have to have the last word, don’t you?”

“Look who’s talking.”

“Thank you for proving my point.”

She pressed her lips together, even though she was aching to fire back at him.

He angled his seat back and stretched out, his arms crooked behind his head. “Do you miss it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Swimming. Training. Being on the team. Do you miss it?”

She made a rude noise in the back of her throat. “Just because we’re stuck in a car for a few hours doesn’t mean we have to talk.”

“It’s a long drive.”

“I’m not here to entertain you.”

He was silent for a moment. She flipped the visor to the side to block the sun as it began its descent into the west.

“Okay, what about this? I get a question, then you get one. Quid pro quo.”

“Thank you, Dr. Lecter, but I don’t want to play.”

“Why? What are you scared of?”

She shifted in her seat. He was goading her, daring her. She knew it was childish, but she didn’t want him thinking he could best her so easily.

“Fine,” she said. “Yes, I miss swimming. It was my life for twenty-five years. Of course I miss it.”

“What do you miss the most?”

“You think I can’t count? It’s my turn. Why haven’t you published a follow-up to The Coolabah Tree?”

She could feel him bristle.

“I’m working on one now,” he said stiffly.

“What’s it called?”

“Nice try. Why do you want to be a journalist?”

“Because it’s not swimming. And because I feel I have something to offer. How long did it take you to write your first book?”

“Two years, working weekends and nights.”

“How many drafts did you do?”

“Three. And that was two questions.”

“You answered them.”

He shrugged. “Do you ever think about the four-hundredmeter final at Beijing? Wish you could go back again?”

She should have known he’d bring that up. The lowest point in her swimming career—of course he’d want to stick his finger in the sore spot and see if she squirmed.

She put the indicator on and pulled into the approaching rest stop.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I’m tired.”

“Right.”

She got out and stretched her back. She was aware of Jake doing the same thing on the other side of the car. Dusk was falling and the world around them was muted in the fading light. They crossed in front of the car as they swapped sides.

She waited until he was on the highway again before answering his question.

“I used to think about it all the time, but not so much now. I had my chance and I missed it and I came home with silver instead of gold. I had a bunch of excuses for myself at the time, but the fact is that I simply didn’t bring my best game on the day. It happens. If you can’t live with your own mistakes, competing for a living will kill you.”

“You’re very philosophical.”

“Like I said, I used to think about it a lot. But you can’t live in the past.”

He reached up and adjusted the rearview mirror. “Your turn.”

She studied his profile. He was a good-looking man. Charming and interesting—when he wanted to be. Not that she’d experienced any of that firsthand, but she had eyes in her head. He’d cut a swath through the female contingent in the press box with his boyish grin and quick wit.

“Why aren’t you married?” she asked before she could censor herself.

He frowned at the road. “I was. We divorced five years ago.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t expected that. Watching him at work, the way he came in early and left late, she’d figured him for a loner, one of those men who had dodged commitment so many times it had become a way of life. But he’d been married. And he sounded unhappy that he wasn’t still married.

“What about you? Why aren’t you married?”

She smiled ruefully. Quid pro quo, indeed. “No one’s ever asked me.”

He glanced at her, a half smile on his mouth. “That’s a cop-out.”

She shrugged. “Maybe, but that’s all you’re going to get.”

They lapsed into silence, even though it was her turn to ask a question.

“We should stop for food soon. And start thinking about where we’re going to stay the night,” he said.

They wound up at McDonald’s since it was the only thing on offer. They studied the road map as they ate, deciding on Tamworth as their destination for the evening.

“There’ll be a decent motel there, and a few places to eat,” Jake said.

She pushed the remains of her burger and fries away.

“You going to eat those?” Jake asked, eyeing her fries.

“Go nuts.”

He polished them off then went back to the counter to order an apple pie for the road.

She waited outside in the cold night air, looking up at the dark sky, listening to the rush of cars on the highway and marveling that she and Jake Stevens had spent several hours in a car together and no blood had been spilled.

Yet.

“Okay, let’s hit the road,” he said as he joined her in the parking lot.

She glanced at him, straight into his blue eyes. They stared at each other a moment too long before she turned away. He walked ahead of her as they crossed to the car. She found herself staring at his butt. She’d always had a thing for backsides and he had a nice one. Okay—a very nice one.

Why am I noticing Jake the Snake’s butt?

She frowned and looked away. Must be the car equivalent of Stockholm Syndrome. At least she hoped that was what it was.

POPPY WAS DRIVING AGAIN when they pulled into Tamworth just before eight o’clock. Apart from one small disagreement over radio stations, their unofficial cease-fire was still in effect. Jake craned his head to read the brightly illuminated signs of the various motels as they cruised Tamworth’s busy main street.

“That place, over there,” he said, pointing to a blue-and-white neon sign in front of a brown-brick, two-story motel. “They’ve got spa baths.”

She rolled her eyes but pulled over, since she didn’t have a better suggestion.

“Park the car and I’ll get us some rooms,” he said.

Before she could say anything, he was out of the car and striding toward reception.

“Yes, sir,” she said to herself. “Three bags full, sir. Have you any wool, sir?”

Because it would rankle too much to obey him to the letter, she joined him in reception as he was handing over his credit card to the middle-aged clerk.

“Hang on a minute,” she said. “I’ll pay for my own room.”

“You got the car. I’ll get this.”

It was a perfectly reasonable argument but she opened her mouth to dispute it anyway.

“We can argue after dinner,” he said. “You can arm wrestle me to the floor and pound me into submission.”

“What makes you think I’m having dinner with you?”

“Because you can’t sit in your room and eat ice cream and chips two nights in a row. You’ll get scurvy. You need vitamin C.”

The desk clerk was watching their interplay curiously. Poppy took her room key.

“This doesn’t mean I’m having dinner with you,” she said.

But after she’d had a long shower and changed into fresh clothes, the sterile cleanliness of the room started to get to her. Plus she was hungry. When Jake knocked on her door ten minutes later, she pocketed her room key and stepped outside.

“There’s a steak place up the road,” he said.

He hadn’t doubted her for a moment, the smug bastard.

“This is only because I’m hungry and they don’t have room service,” she said.

“It’s all right. I didn’t think you were about to propose because you agreed to have dinner with me.”

He was deliberately echoing her words from during their ill-fated breast discussion. She couldn’t help it—she cracked a smile.

“You are such a smart-ass,” she said.

“You’re no slouch yourself.”

“No, I’m strictly amateur hour compared to you. You’re world-class.”

They started walking toward the glowing roadside sign for Lou’s Steakhouse.

“Now you’ve made me nervous,” he said.

“Sure I have.”

“You have. World-class—that’s a lot to live up to. You’ve given me performance anxiety.”

“I bet you’ve never had performance anxiety in your life.”

“That was before I met you.”

She became aware that she was still smiling and slowing her steps, dawdling to prolong their short walk to the restaurant. She frowned, suddenly uneasy. She looked at him and saw that he was watching her, an arrested expression on his face. As though, like her, he’d just realized that they were enjoying each other’s company.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.