The one who got away is back...and as bad as ever!

Callie Umberto has had enough of dating disasters after the holiday fling of a lifetime ended abruptly and she swore off men for good.

Now her ex-flame is back in her life. Pro surfer Archer Flett might be as gorgeous as always, but his commitment phobia is just as active. She must be out of her mind to agree to be his date for his brother’s wedding! But there’s something about Archer that has always tempted Callie to throw caution to the wind....

“I need to ask you a favor.”

“What is it?”

Now or never. “My youngest brother, Travis, is getting married Christmas Eve and I’d like you to be my date.”

She stared at him in open-mouthed shock, her soda can paused halfway to her lips.

“You’re asking me to be your date?”

She made it sound as though he’d asked her to swim naked in a sea full of ravenous sharks.

“Is it that much of a hardship to be my date for an evening?”

“Considering I don’t know you anymore, yeah.”

“Easily rectified.”

Before he could second-guess the impulse, he leaned across and kissed her.

It was nothing like his reckless, prove-a-point kiss in the car. This time it just felt right.

Dear Reader,

Ever experienced the thrill of a holiday romance? The carefree, live-in-the-moment attitude? The buzz of falling for someone quickly? The rush of squeezing in so many lush experiences into the limited time you have?

There’s something infinitely appealing about falling head over heels while on holiday: living for today with no thought for tomorrow. It’s truly exciting!

I wanted to recreate that tummy-tingling vibe, so Archer and Callie were born. Their week in Capri was magical, before circumstances and choices tore them apart. So what happens when two people who were meant for each other reunite eight years later?

I hope you’ll have a ball discovering how a holiday fling may just lead to a happily ever after...

Happy reading,

Nicola

Wedding Date with Mr. Wrong

Nicola Marsh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Nicola Marsh has always had a passion for writing and reading. As a youngster she devoured books when she should have been sleeping, and later kept a diary, which could be an epic in itself! These days, when she’s not enjoying life with her husband and son in her home city of Melbourne, she’s at her computer doing her dream job: creating the romances she loves.

Visit Nicola’s website, www.nicolamarsh.com, for the latest news of her books.

For Natalie Anderson and Soraya Lane, the best writing buds a girl could wish for.

Your support and friendship mean so much.

Huge thanks!

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

EXCERPT

CHAPTER ONE

‘IF you mention weddings or tinsel or Secret Santa one more time I’m going to ram this wax down your throat.’

Archer Flett brandished his number-one-selling surfboard wax at his younger brother, Travis, who grinned and snatched the wax out of his hand.

‘Resist all you like, bro, you know you’re fighting a losing battle.’ Trav smirked and rubbed a spot he’d missed on his prized board.

When it came to his family it always felt as if Archer was fighting a losing battle.

Despite making inroads with his brothers Tom and Trav, nothing had changed with his parents over the years—his dad in particular. That was why coming home for his yearly obligatory Christmas visit set him on edge. And why he rarely stuck around more than a few days.

This year would be no exception, despite Travis turning into a romantic schmuck.

‘What were you thinking?’ Archer stuck his board vertically in the sand and leaned on it. ‘A Christmas wedding? Could you get any cheesier?’

His brother’s eyes glazed over and Archer braced for some more claptrap involving his fiancée. ‘Shelly wanted to be a Christmas bride and we saw no point in waiting.’

Archer placed his thumb in the middle of Trav’s forehead and pushed. ‘You’re under this already. You know that, right?’

‘We’re in love.’

As if that excused his brother’s sappy behaviour.

The Fletts were third-generation Torquay inhabitants, so he could just imagine the shindig his parents would throw for the wedding. The entire town would turn up.

Christmas and a wedding at home. A combination guaranteed to make him run as soon as the cake had been cut.

‘You’re too young to get married.’ Archer glared at the sibling who’d tagged after him for years, pestering him to surf.

He’d spent the bulk of the last eight years away from home and in that time Travis had morphed from gangly kid to lean and mean. Heavy on the lean, light on the mean. Trav didn’t have a nasty bone in his body, and the fact he was marrying at twenty-two didn’t surprise Archer.

Trav was a marshmallow, and while Shelly seemed like a nice girl he couldn’t imagine anything worse than being shackled to one person at such a young age.

Hell, at twenty-two he’d been travelling the world, surfing the hotspots, dating extensively and trying to put his folks’ deception out of his mind.

A memory he’d long suppressed shimmered into his subconscious. South coast of Italy. Capri. Long hot nights filled with laughter and passion and heat.

Annoyingly, whenever anyone he knew was loco enough to tie the knot his mind drifted to Callie.

‘So who’re you bringing to the wedding?’ Travis wrinkled his nose. ‘Another of those high-maintenance city chicks you always bring home at Christmas?’

Archer chose those dates for a reason: women who demanded all his attention, so he didn’t have time left over to spend one-on-one with his folks.

He’d honed avoidance to an art, ensuring he didn’t say things he might regret. Like why the hell they hadn’t trusted him to rally around all those years ago.

He wasn’t the flighty, carefree surfer dude they’d assumed him to be and he’d prove it this trip. He hoped the surf school he’d developed would show them the type of guy he was—the type of guy he wanted to be.

‘Leave my date to me.’ He wriggled his board out of the sand and tucked it under his arm. ‘Planning on standing here all day, gossiping like an old woman? Or are you going to back up some of your big talk by showing me a few moves out there?’

Trav cocked his thumb and forefinger and fired at him. ‘I’m going to surf your show-pony ass into oblivion.’

‘Like to see you try, pretty boy.’

Archer took off at a run, enjoying the hot sand beneath his feet, the wind buffeting his face, before he hit the water’s edge. He lay prone on his board, the icy chill of Bell’s Beach washing over him as the lure of the waves took hold. He’d never felt so alive. When he was in the ocean he came home.

The ocean was reliable and constant—two things he valued. Two things his parents didn’t credit him as being.

He paddled harder, wishing he could leave the demons of his past behind, knowing he should confront them over the next few days.

He’d made amends with his brothers four years ago, at a time when Tom had needed his support. His relationship with his mum had thawed too, considering he didn’t blame her for what happened; she’d do anything for Frank.

But things were still rough with his dad. He’d wanted to make peace many times but a healthy dose of pride, an enforced physical distance and the passing of time had put paid to that fantasy.

He’d tried making small efforts to broach the distance between them, but the residual awkwardness lingered, reinforcing his choice to stay away.

Maybe, if he was lucky, this visit home would be different.

* * *

Callie went into overdrive as an Argentinian tango blared from her surround sound.

She bounced around her lounge room, swivelling her hips and striding across the floor with arm extended and head tilted, a fake rose between her teeth.

She’d cleaned her apartment for the last two hours, increasing the volume of the music as her scrubbing, polishing and vacuuming frenzy did little to obliterate what she’d confront this afternoon.

A face-to-face meeting with her number one client.

The client her beloved CJU Designs couldn’t afford to lose.

The client who might well fire her lying butt when he discovered her identity.

Archer Flett didn’t do commitment. He’d made that perfectly clear in Capri eight years ago. So how would he feel when he learned he’d committed his new mega campaign to a woman he’d deliberately walked away from because they’d been getting too close.

She stubbed her toe on a wrought-iron table and swore, kicking the ornate leg again for good measure.

She was furious with herself for not confronting this issue sooner. What had she expected? Never to cross paths with Archer physically again?

Yep, that was exactly what she’d expected.

It had been three years since she’d tendered for the lucrative Torquay Tan account, completely unaware the company was owned and run by the surf world’s golden boy.

It had come as a double surprise discovering the laid-back charmer she’d met eight years ago had the business nous to own a mega corporation, let alone run it. It looked as if the guy she’d once been foolish enough to fall for was full of surprises.

Now she had a chance to take on her biggest account yet: the launch of Archer’s surf school in Torquay, his home town. To do it she had to meet with the man himself.

She should have bowed out gracefully, been content to be his online marketing manager for lesser accounts.

But she needed the money. Desperately.

Her mum depended on her.

The music swelled, filling her head with memories and her heart with longing. She loved the passion of Latin American music—the distinct rhythms, the sultry songs.

They reminded her of a time gone by. A time when she’d danced all night with the stars overhead and the sand under her feet. A time when she’d existed on rich pasta and cheap Chianti and whispered words of her first love.

Archer.

The music faded, along with the sentimental rubbish infiltrating her long-established common sense.

These days she didn’t waste time reminiscing. She’d given up on great loves and foolish dreams.

Watching her mum go through hell had seen to that.

She was like her hot-blooded Italian father, apparently: they shared starry-eyed optimism, their impulsiveness, their passion for food and fashion and flirting. She’d considered those admirable qualities until she’d witnessed first-hand what happened when impulsive passions turned sour—her dad’s selfishness knew no bounds.

And just like that she’d given up on being like her dad. She didn’t give in to grand passion or fall foolhardily in love. Not any more.

Sure, she dated. She liked it. Just not enough to let anyone get too close.

As close as Archer had once been.

‘Damn Archer Flett,’ she muttered, kicking the table a third time for good measure.

Housework might not have worked off steam but she’d do the next best thing to prepare for this meeting.

Choose a killer business suit, blow-dry her hair and apply immaculate make-up.

Time to show Mr Hot Surfer Dude he didn’t affect her after all these years.

Not much anyway.

* * *

The tiny hole-in-the-wall office of CJU Designs didn’t surprise Archer. Tech geeks didn’t need much space.

What did surprise him were the profuse splashes of colour adorning the walls. Slashes of magenta and crimson and turquoise against white block canvases drew his eye and brightened an otherwise nondescript space.

Small glass-topped desk, ergonomic chair, hardbacked wooden guest chair opposite. Exceedingly dull—except for that startling colour.

Almost as if the computer geek was trying to break out of a mould, trying to prove something to herself and her clients.

Well, all CJ had to prove to him was that she could handle the mega-launch he had planned for his pet project and she could hang the moon on her wall for all he cared.

He glanced around for a picture. Not for the first time he was curious about his online marketing manager.

He’d internet-searched CJU Designs extensively before hiring their services and had come up with nothing but positive PR and high praise from clients, including many sportspeople.

So he’d hired CJ, beyond impressed with her work. Crisp, clear, punctual, she always delivered on time, creating the perfect slogans, pitches and launches for any product he’d put his name to.

Trailing a finger along the dust-free desk, he wondered how she’d cope with a campaign of this size. Launching the first Flett Surf School for teens had to succeed. It was a prototype for what he planned in the surf hotspots around the world.

He’d seen too many kids in trouble—kids who hung around the beaches drinking, smoking dope, catching the occasional wave. They were aimless, trying to look cool, when in fact he’d seen the lost look in their eyes.

This was his chance to make a difference. And hopefully prove to his family just how wrong they’d been to misjudge him.

He’d never understood it—had done a lot of soul-searching to come up with one valid reason why they hadn’t trusted him enough.

Had he been too blasé? Too carefree? Too narcissistic? Too wrapped up in his career to pick up the signs there’d been a major problem?

Tom and Trav hadn’t helped when they’d discussed it a few years ago. He’d asked, and they’d hedged, reiterating that they’d been sworn to secrecy by Frank, embarrassed that their complicity had contributed to the ongoing gap between them.

So Archer had made a decision right then to forget his damn pride and re-bond with his brothers. They might not be the best mates they’d once been but their sometimes tense relationship now was a far improvement on the one they’d had previously—the one he still had with his dad.

It irked, not knowing the reason why they’d done it, and their lack of trust had left a lasting legacy. One he hoped opening the surf school would go some way to rectifying.

Thinking about his family made him pace the shoebox office. He hated confined spaces. Give him the ocean expanses any day. He never felt as free as he did catching a wave, paddling out to sea, with nothing between him and the ocean but an aerodynamic sliver of fibreglass.

Nothing beat the rush.

He heard the determined click-clack of high heels striding towards the office and turned in time to see Calista Umberto enter.

His stomach went into free fall, as it had the first time he’d caught a thirty-foot wave. That rush? Seeing Callie again after all these years topped it.

While he stared like a starstruck fool, she didn’t blink. In fact she didn’t seem at all surprised, which could only mean one thing.

She’d been expecting him.

In that second it clicked.

CJU Designs.

Calista Jane Umberto.

The fact he remembered her middle name annoyed him as much as discovering the online marketing whiz he’d been depending on for the last three years was the woman he’d once almost lost his mind over.

His Callie.

‘I’ll be damned,’ he muttered, crossing the small space in three strides, bundling her into his arms in an impulsive hug before he could process the fact that she’d actually taken a step back at his approach.

The frangipani fragrance hit him first—her signature bodywash that instantly resurrected memories of midnight strolls on a moonlit Capri beach, long, languorous kisses in the shade of a lemon tree, exploring every inch of the deliciously smooth skin drenched in that tempting floral scent.

Any time he’d hit an island hotspot to surf—Bali, Hawaii, Fiji—frangipanis would transport him back in time. To a time he remembered fondly, but a time fraught with danger, when he’d been captivated by a woman to the point of losing sight of the end game.

In the few seconds when her fragrance slammed his senses, he registered her rigid posture, her reluctance to be embraced.

Silently cursing himself, he released her and stepped back, searching her face for some sign that she remembered what they’d once shared.

Her lush mouth—with a ripe red gloss—flat-lined, but she couldn’t hide the spark in her eyes.

Flecks of gold in a rich, deep chocolate. Eyes he’d seen glazed with passion, sparkling with enthusiasm, lighting with love.

It was the latter that had sent him running from Capri without looking back. He’d do well to remember that before indulging in a spin down memory lane and potentially ostracising his marketing manager.

‘Good to see you, Archer,’ she said, her tone polite and frigid and so at odds with the Callie he remembered that he almost took a step back. ‘Take a seat and we’ll get started.’

He shook his head, the fog of confusion increasing as he stared at this virtual stranger acting as if they barely knew each other.

He’d seen her naked, for goodness’ sake. For a week straight. A long, hot, decadent week that had blown his mind in every way.

‘You’re not serious?’

Her stoic business persona faltered and she toyed with the bracelet on her right wrist, turning it round and around in a gesture he’d seen often that first night in Capri.

The night they’d met. The night they’d talked for hours, strolled for ages, before ending up at his villa. The night they’d connected on so many levels he’d been terrified and yet powerless to resist her allure.

She’d been brash and brazen and beautiful, quick to laugh and parry his quips, slow to savour every twirl of linguini and rich Napolitano sauce.

She’d had a passion for everything from fresh crusty bread dipped in olive oil to hiking along pebbly beach trails to nights spent exploring each other’s bodies in erotic detail.

That passionate woman he remembered was nothing like this cool, imperturbable automaton.

Except for that tell with the bracelet he would have thought she didn’t remember, let alone want to acknowledge the past.

‘I’m serious about getting down to business.’

The bracelet-twirling picked up pace, a giveaway that she was more rattled than she let on.

‘Plenty of time for that.’ He gestured towards her slimline laptop, the only thing on her desk. ‘What I want to know is why you’ve been hiding behind your PC all this time?’

Another hit. Her eyes widened and her tongue darted out to the corner of her mouth.

A mouth designed for culinary riches and sin.

A mouth thinned in an unimpressed line so far removed from the smiles he remembered that he almost reached out with his fingertip to tilt the corners up.

‘I’m not hiding behind anything,’ she said, her tone as prim as her fitted black suit.

Actually, the suit wasn’t all bad. Hugging all the right curves, flaring at the cuffs and hem, ending above her knee. Combined with an emerald silk shirt hinting at cleavage, it was better than okay.

He was just grouchy because she wasn’t rapt to see him. But then again, considering the way they’d parted...

‘You didn’t think I might like to know that the marketing whiz I e-mail regularly is someone I...’

What? Once had memorable sex with? Once knew intimately? Once might have given up his freedom for, in another time, another place? If he hadn’t still been reeling from his parents’ revelations?

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Someone you what?’

He should have known she wouldn’t let him off lightly. She hadn’t back then either, when he’d told her he was skipping out.

‘Someone I know,’ he finished lamely, trying his signature charming grin for good measure.

Her lips merely compressed further as she swivelled away and strode to her desk. Not so bad, considering he got the opportunity to watch expensive linen shift over that memorable butt.

Damn, he loved her curves. He’d seen his fair share of bikini babes over the years—an occupational hazard and one he appreciated—but the way Callie had filled out a swimsuit?

Unforgettable.

She sat behind her desk, glaring at him as if she could read his mind. She waved at the chair opposite and he sat, thrown by her reaction. Acting professional was one thing. The ice princess act she had going on was losing appeal fast.

‘Our fling wasn’t relevant to our business dealings so I didn’t say anything—particularly after how things ended.’

She eyeballed him, daring him to disagree. Wisely, he kept mute, interested to see where she was going with this.

‘I tendered for your account without knowing you were behind the company.’

Her next sign of anything less than cool poise was when she absentmindedly tapped the space bar on her laptop with a thumb.

‘When we started corresponding and worked well together, I didn’t want to complicate matters.’

‘Complicate them how?’

A faint pink stained her cheeks. Oh, yeah, this was starting to get real interesting.

‘What do you want me to say? Any shared past tends to complicate things.’

‘Only if you let it.’ He hooked his hands behind his head, enjoying the battle gleam in her eyes. At last the fiery woman he knew was coming out to fight. ‘Don’t know about you, but I don’t let anything interfere with my career.’

‘Like I didn’t know that,’ she muttered, and he had the grace to acknowledge a twinge of regret.

He’d used his burgeoning surfing career to end it in Capri. It had seemed as good as excuse as any. He might as well live down to the reputation his family had tarred him with. Anything was better than telling her the truth.

‘Is this going to be a problem for you?’

He threw it out there, half expecting her to say yes, hoping she’d say no.

He wasn’t disappointed to see her—far from it. And the fact they’d have to spend time together in Torquay to get the marketing campaign for the surf school off the ground was a massive bonus.

Torquay... Wedding...

It was like a wave crashing over him. He floated the solution to another problem.

They’d have to spend time in Torquay for business.

He had to spend time with his overzealous family at Trav’s wedding.

He had to find a date.

A bona fide city girl who’d act as a buffer between him and his family.

Lucky for him, he was looking straight at her.

Not that he’d let her know yet. He needed her expertise for this account, and by her less than welcoming reaction he’d be hard-pressed getting her to Torquay in the first place without scaring her away completely.

Yeah, he’d keep that little gem for later.

Her brows furrowed. ‘What’s with the smug grin?’

He leaned forward and nudged the laptop between them out of the way. ‘You want this latest account?’

She nodded, a flicker of something bordering on fear in her eyes. It might make him callous, but he could work with fear. Fear meant she was probably scared of losing his lucrative business. Fear meant she might agree to accompany him to Torquay even if she had been giving him the ice treatment ever since she’d set foot in the office.

‘You know this campaign will mean spending loads of one-on-one time together on the school site down at Torquay?’

Her clenched jaw made him want to laugh out loud. ‘Why? I’ve always worked solo before. and as you can attest the results have been great.’

If she expected him to back down, she’d better think again. He’d get her to accompany him to Torquay by any means necessary—including using the campaign as blackmail.

Feigning disappointment, he shook his head. ‘Sorry, a remote marketing manager won’t cut it this time. I’ll need you to shadow me to get a feel for the vibe I’m trying to capture with the school. The kids won’t go for it otherwise.’

Her steely glare could have sliced him in two. ‘For how long?’

‘One week.’

She sucked in a breath, her nose wrinkling in distaste, and he bit back a laugh.

‘From your previous work I’m sure you want to do this campaign justice and that’s what it’s going to take. You can be home in time to celebrate Christmas Day.’

Appealing to her professional pride was a master touch. She couldn’t say no.

‘Fine. I’ll do it,’ she muttered, her teeth clenching so hard he was surprised he didn’t hear a crack.

‘There’s just one more thing.’ Unable to resist teasing her, he twisted a sleek strand of silky brown hair around his finger. ‘We’ll be cohabiting.’

CHAPTER TWO

CALLIE stared at Archer in disbelief.

The cocky charmer was blackmailing her.

As if she’d let him get away with that.

She folded her arms, sat back, and pinned him with a disbelieving glare. ‘Never thought I’d see the day hotshot Archer Flett resorted to blackmail to get a woman to shack up with him.’

His eyes sparked with admiration and she stiffened. She didn’t want to remember how he’d looked at her in a similar way during their week in Capri, his expression indulgent, bordering on doting.

As if. He’d bolted all the same, admiration or not, and she’d do well to remember it.

For, as much as she’d like to tell him where he could stick his business contract, she needed the money.

‘Blackmail sounds rather harsh.’ He braced his forearms on her desk and leaned forward, immediately shrinking the space between them and making her breath catch. ‘A bit of gentle persuasion sounds much more civilised.’

That voice... It could coax Virgins Anonymous into revoking their membership. Deep, masculine, with a hint of gravel undertone—enough to give Sean Connery healthy competition.

There was nothing gentle about Archer’s persuasion. If he decided to turn on the full arsenal of his charm she didn’t stand a chance, even after all this time.

That irked the most. Eight long years during which she’d deliberately eradicated his memory, had moved on, had dealt with her feelings for him to the extent where she could handle his online marketing without flinching every time she saw his picture or received an e-mail.

Gone in an instant—wiped just like that. Courtesy of his bedroom voice, his loaded stare and irresistible charm.

‘Besides, living together for the week is logical. My house has plenty of room and we’ll be working on the campaign 24/7. It’s sound business sense.’

Damn him. He was right.

She could achieve a lot more in seven days without factoring in travel time—especially when she had no clue where his house was or its vicinity to Torquay.

However, acknowledging that his stipulation made sense and liking it were worlds apart.

‘You know I’m not comfortable with this, right?’

‘Really? I hadn’t picked up on that.’

He tried his best disarming grin and she deliberately glanced away. Living with him for the week might be logical for business, but having to deal with his natural charm around the clock was not good.

‘Anything I can do to sweeten the deal?’

Great—he was laying the charm on thick. Her gaze snapped to his in time to catch his damnably sexy mouth curving at the corners. Her lips tingled in remembrance of how he’d smile against her mouth when he had her weak and whimpering from his kisses.

Furious at her imploding resistance, she eyeballed him with the glare that had intimidated the manager at her mum’s special accommodation into giving her another extension on payment.

‘Yeah, there is something you can do to sweeten the deal.’ She stabbed at an envelope with a fingertip and slid it across the desk towards him. ‘Sign off on my new rates. Your PA hasn’t responded to my last two e-mails and I need to get paid.’

His smile faded as he took the envelope. ‘You’re having financial problems?’

If he only knew.

‘No. I just like to have my accounts done monthly, and you’ve always been prompt in the past...’

Blessedly prompt. The Torquay Tan account had single-handedly launched her business into the stratosphere and kept it afloat. If she ever lost it...

In that moment the seriousness of the situation hit her. She shouldn’t be antagonising Archer. She should be jumping through whatever hoop he presented her with—adding a somersault and a ta-da flourish for good measure.

She had to secure this new campaign. CJU Designs would skyrocket in popularity, and her mum would continue to be cared for.

She had no other option but to agree.

‘Just so we’re clear. If I accompany you to Torquay, the surf school campaign is mine?’

His mocking half salute did little to calm the nerves twisting her belly into pretzels.

‘All yours, Cal.’

She didn’t know what unnerved her more. The intimate way the nickname he’d given her dripped off his tongue or the way his eyes sparked with something akin to desire.

She should be ecstatic that she’d secured the biggest campaign of her career.

Instead, as her pulse ramped up to keep pace with her flipping heart, all she could think was at what price?

* * *

Archer didn’t like gloating. He’d seen enough of it on the surf circuit—arrogant guys who couldn’t wait to glory over their latest win.

But the second Callie’s agreement to accompany him to Torquay fell from her lush lips he wanted to strut around the office with his fists pumping in a victory salute.

An over-the-top reaction? Maybe. But having Callie by his side throughout the Christmas Eve wedding festivities—even if she didn’t know it yet—would make the event and its guaranteed emotional ra-ra bearable.

He’d suffered through enough Torquay weddings to know the drill by now. Massive marquees, countless kisses from extended rellies he didn’t know, back-slapping and one-upmanship from old mates, and the inevitable matchmaking between him and every single female under thirty in the whole district.

His mum hated the dates he brought home each year, and tried to circumvent him with less-than-subtle fix-ups: notoriously predictable, sweet, shy local girls she hoped would tempt him to settle down in Torquay and produce a brood of rowdy rug-rats.

It was the same every wedding. The same every year, for that matter, when he returned home for his annual visit. A visit primarily made out of obligation rather than any burning desire to be constantly held up as the odd one out in the Flett family.

It wasn’t intentional, for his folks and his brothers tried to carry on as if nothing had happened, but while he’d forgiven them for shutting him out in the past the resultant awkwardness still lingered.

He’d steadily withdrawn, stayed away because of it, preferring to be free. Free to go where he wanted, when he wanted. Free from emotional attachments that invariably let him down. Free to date fun-loving, no strings attached women who didn’t expect much beyond dinner and drinks rather than an engagement and a bassinet.

His gaze zeroed in on Callie as she fielded an enquiry on the phone, her pen scrawling at a frenetic pace as she jotted notes, the tip of her tongue protruding between her lips.

Callie had been that girl once. The kind of girl who wanted the picket fence dream, the equivalent of his ultimate nightmare. Did she still want that?

The finger on her left hand remained ringless, he saw as he belatedly realised he should have checked if she was seeing anyone before coercing her into heading down to Torquay on the pretext of business when in fact she’d be his date for the wedding.

Then again, she’d agreed, so his assumption that she was currently single was probably safe.

Not that she’d fallen in with his plan quickly. She’d made him work for it, made him sweat. And he had a feeling her capitulation had more to do with personal reasons than any great desire to make this campaign the best ever.

That flicker of fear when she’d thought he might walk and take his business with him... Not that he would have done it. Regardless of whether she’d wanted to come or not CJU would have had the surf school campaign in the bag. She’d proved her marketing worth many times over the last few years, and while he might be laid back on the circuit he was tough in his business.

Success meant security. Ultimately success meant he was totally self-sufficient and didn’t have to depend on anyone, for he’d learned the hard way that depending on people, even those closest to you, could end in disappointment and sadness and pain.

It was what drove him every day, that quest for independence, not depending on anyone, even family, for anything.

After his folks’ betrayal it was what had driven him away from Callie.

He chose to ignore his insidious voice of reason. The last thing he needed was to get sentimental over memories.

She hung up the phone, her eyes narrowing as she caught sight of him lounging in the doorway. ‘You still here?’

‘We’re not finished.’

He only just caught her muttered, ‘Could’ve fooled me.’

As much as it pained him to revisit the past, he knew he’d have to bring it up in order to get past her obvious snit.

He did not want a date glaring daggers at him all night; his mum would take it as a sure-fire sign to set one of her gals onto him.

‘Do we need to clear the air?’

She arched an eyebrow in an imperious taunt. ‘I don’t know. Do we?’

Disappointed, he shook his head. ‘You didn’t play games. One of the many things I admired about you.’

Her withering glare wavered and dipped, before pinning him with renewed accusation. ‘We had a fling in the past. Yonks ago. I’m over it. You’re over it. There’s no air to clear. Ancient history. The next week is business, nothing more.’

‘Then why are you so antagonistic?’

She opened her mouth to respond, then snapped it shut, her icy façade faltering as she ran a hand through her hair in another uncertain tell he remembered well.

She’d done it when they’d first met at a beachside vendor’s, when they’d both reached for the last chilled lemonade at the same time. She’d done it during their first dinner at a tiny trattoria tucked into an alley. And she’d done it when he’d taken her back to his hotel for the first time.

In every instance he’d banished her uncertainty with practised charm, but after the way they’d parted he doubted it would work in this instance.

‘Cal—’

‘Us being involved in the past complicates this campaign and I’m not a huge fan of complications.’

She blurted it without meeting his eye, her gaze fixed on her laptop screen.

He wished she’d look at him so he could see how deeply this irked, or if she was trying to weasel out of the deal.

‘You said it yourself. It’s in the past. So why should it complicate anything?’ He didn’t want to push her, but her antagonism left him no choice. ‘Unless...’

‘What?’ Her head snapped up, her wary gaze locking on his, and in that instant he had his answer before he asked the question.

The spark they’d once shared was there, flickering in the depths of rich brown, deliberately cloaked in evasive shadows.

‘Unless you still feel something?’

‘I’m many things. A masochist isn’t one of them.’

She stood so quickly her chair slid backward on its castors and slammed into the wall. The noise didn’t deter her as she stalked towards him, defiant in high heels.

With her eyes flashing warning signals he chose to ignore, he stepped back into the office, meeting her halfway.

Before he could speak she held up her hand. ‘I’m not a fool, Archer. We were attracted in Capri, we’re both single, and we’re going to be spending time together on this campaign. Stands to reason a few residual sparks may fly.’ Her hand snagged in her hair again and she almost wrenched it out in exasperation. ‘It won’t mean anything. I have a job to do, and there’s no way I’ll jeopardise that by making another mistake.’

He reached for her before he could second-guess, gripping her upper arms, giving her no room to move. ‘We weren’t a mistake.’

‘Yeah? Then why did you run?’

He couldn’t respond—not without telling her the truth. And that wasn’t an option.

So he did the next best thing.

He released her, turned his back, and walked away.

‘And you’re still running,’ she murmured.

Her barb registered, and served to make him stride away that little bit faster.

CHAPTER THREE

CALLIE strode towards Johnston Street and her favourite Spanish bar.

Some girls headed home to a chick-flick and tub of ice-cream when they needed comfort. She headed for Rivera’s.

‘Hola, querida.’ Arturo Rivera blew her a kiss from behind the bar and she smiled in return, some of her tension instantly easing.

Artie knew about her situation: the necessity for her business to thrive in order to buy the best care for her mum. He knew her fears, her insecurities. He’d been there from the start, this reserved gentleman in a porkpie hat who’d lost his wife to the disease that would eventually claim her mum.

She hadn’t wanted to attend a support group, but her mum’s doc had insisted it would help in the disease’s management and ultimately help her mum.

So she’d gone along, increasingly frustrated and helpless and angry, so damn angry, that her vibrant, fun-loving mother had been diagnosed with motor neurone disease.

She’d known nothing about her mum’s symptoms until it had been too late. Nora had hidden them well: the stumbling due to weakness in her leg muscles, her difficulty holding objects due to weak hands, her swallowing difficulties and the occasional speech slur.

The first Callie had learned of it was when her mum had invited her to accompany her to see a neurologist. Nora hated needles, and apparently having an electromyograph, where they stuck needles in her muscles to measure electrical activity, was worse to bear than the actual symptoms.

The diagnosis had floored them both—especially the lack of a cure and mortality rates. Though in typical determined Nora fashion her mum had continued living independently until her symptoms had made it impossible to do so.

Nora had refused to be a burden on her only daughter, so Callie had found the best care facility around—one with top neurologists, speech, occupational and physiotherapists, psychologists, nurses and palliative care, while trying not to acknowledge her mum’s steady deterioration.

It was as if she could see the nerve cells failing, resulting in the progressive muscle weakness that would eventually kill her mum.

So she focussed on the good news: Nora’s sight, smell, taste, sensation, intellect and memory wouldn’t be affected. Nora would always know her, even at the end, and that thought sustained her through many a crying jag late at night, when the pain of impending loss crowded in and strangled her forced bravery.

To compound her stress she’d had to reluctantly face the fact she had a fifty-fifty chance of inheriting it too. She hadn’t breathed all through the genetic testing consultation, when the doctors had explained that Nora’s motor neurone disease was caused by mutations in the SOD1 gene. That tiny superoxide dismutase one gene, located on chromosome twenty-one, controlled her fate.

Insomnia had plagued her in the lead-up to her testing, and the doctor’s clinical facts had been terrifying as they echoed through her head: people with the faulty gene had a high chance of developing MND in later life, or could develop symptoms in their twenties.

Like her.

She’d worried herself sick for days after the test, and even though it had come back clear—she didn’t carry the mutated gene—she’d never fully shaken the feeling that she had a swinging axe grazing the back of her neck, despite the doc’s convincing argument that many people with the faulty gene didn’t go on to develop MND.

Then the worry had given way to guilt. Guilt that she was the lucky one in her family.

During this time the support group had been invaluable. Artie had been there, just as frustrated, just as angry. He’d lost his wife of forty years.

They’d bonded over espresso and biscotti, gradually revealing their bone-deep resentment and helpless fury at a disease that had no cure. Those weekly meetings had led to an invitation to Rivera’s, a place that had instantly become home.

She loved the worn, pockmarked wooden floor, the rich mahogany bar that ran the breadth of the back wall, the maroon velvet embossed wallpaper that created a cosy ambience beckoning patrons to linger over delicious tapas and decadent sangria.

This was where she’d started to thaw, where the deliberate numbness enclosing her aching heart at the injustice of what her mum faced had melted.

This was where she’d come to eat, to chat and to dance.

She lived for the nights when Artie cleared the tables and chairs, cranked up the music, and taught Spanish dances to anyone eager to learn.

Those nights were the best—when she could forget how her life had changed that momentous day when she’d learned of her mum’s diagnosis.

She nodded at familiar faces as she weaved through tables towards the bar, her heart lightening with every step as Artie waved his hands in the air, gesturing at her usual spot.

‘You hungry, querida?’

Considering the knot of nerves in her stomach, the last thing she felt like doing was eating, but if she didn’t Artie would know something was wrong.

And she didn’t feel like talking about the cause of her angst. Not when she’d spent the fifteen-minute walk to the bar trying to obliterate Archer from her mind.

‘Maybe the daily special?’

Artie winked. ‘Coming right up.’

As he spooned marinated octopus, garlic olives, banderillas, calamares fritos and huevos relleños de gambas onto a terracotta platter, she mentally rummaged for a safe topic of conversation—one that wouldn’t involve blurting about the blackmailing guy who had once stolen her heart.

He slid the plate in front of her, along with her usual espresso. ‘So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong before your coffee or after?’

She opened her mouth to brush off his astute observation, but one glance at the shrewd gleam in his eyes stalled her. She knew that look. The look of a father figure who wouldn’t quit till he’d dragged the truth out of her.

‘It’s nothing, really—’

He tut-tutted. ‘Querida, I’ve known you for more than seven years.’ He pointed to his bald pate and wrinkled forehead. ‘These may indicate the passage of time, but up here...?’ He tapped his temple. ‘As sharp as Banderas’s sword in Zorro.’

She chuckled. If Artie had his way Antonio Banderas would be Spain’s president.

He folded his arms and rested them on the bar. ‘You know I’m going to stay here until you tell me.’

‘What about your customers?’

‘That’s what I pay the staff for.’ He grinned. ‘Now, are you going to tell, or do I have to ply you with my finest sangria?’

She held up her hands. ‘I’m starting work early tomorrow, so no sangria.’

How tempting it sounded. What she wouldn’t give to down a jug of Artie’s finest, get blotto, and forget the fact she had to accompany Archer to Torquay tomorrow.

‘Fine.’ She pushed a few olives around her plate before laying down her fork. ‘CJU Designs scored its biggest account ever today.’

Artie straightened and did a funny flamenco pirouette. ‘That’s brilliant. Well done, querida.’

‘Yeah, it’ll take care of mum’s bills for the next year at least, thank goodness.’

Artie’s exuberance faded. ‘How is Nora?’

‘The same. Happy, determined, putting on a brave face.’

Something she was finding increasingly hard to do when she visited and saw the signs that her mum’s condition was worsening. While Nora coped with her wheelchair, relaxed as if she was lounging in her favourite recliner, Callie watched for hand tremors or lapses in speech or drifting off.

She couldn’t relax around her mum any more. The effort of hiding her sadness clamped her throat in a stranglehold, taking its toll. She grew more exhausted after every visit, and while she never for one second regretted spending as much time as possible with her mum, she hated the inevitability of this horrid disease.

Artie patted her hand. ‘Give her my best next time you see her.’

‘Shall do.’

That was another thing that bugged her about this Torquay trip. She’d have to give all her attention to the account in the early set-up—and to the account’s aggravating owner—which meant missing out on seeing her mum for the week before Christmas or long drives to and from the beachside town. Which would lead to Archer poking his nose into her business, asking why she had to visit her mum so often, and she didn’t want to divulge her private life to him.

Not now, when things were strictly business.

‘If this account has alleviated some of your financial worries, why do you look like this?’ Artie’s exaggerated frown made her smile.

‘Because simple solutions often mask convoluted complications.’

‘Cryptic.’

‘Not really.’ She huffed out a long breath. ‘The owner of the company behind this new account is an old friend.’

‘Ah...so that’s it.’

She didn’t like the crafty glint in Artie’s eyes much—his knowing smile less.

‘This...friend...is he a past amor?’

Had she loved Archer? After the awful break-up, and in the following months when she’d returned to Melbourne and preferred reading to dating, she’d wondered if the hollowness in her heart, the constant gripe in her belly and the annoying wanderlust to jump back on a plane and follow him around the world’s surfing hotspots was love.

She’d almost done it once, after seeing a snippet of him at the Pipeline in Hawaii three months after she’d returned from Europe. She’d gone as far as logging on, choosing flights, but when it had come to paying the arrow had hovered over ‘confirm’ for an agonising minute before the memory of their parting had resurfaced and she’d shut the whole thing down.

That moment had been her wake-up call, and she’d deliberately worked like a maniac so she could fall into bed at the end of a day exhausted and hopefully dream-free.

Her mum had been diagnosed four weeks later, and as a distraction from Archer it had been a doozy.

Now here he was, strutting into her life, as confident and charming and gorgeous as ever. And as dangerously seductive as all those years ago. For, no matter how many times she rationalised that their week together would be strictly business, the fact remained that they’d once shared a helluva spark. She’d better pack her fire extinguisher just in case.

Artie held up his hands. ‘You don’t have to answer. I can see your feelings for this old amor written all over your face.’

‘I don’t love him.’

Artie merely smiled and moved down the bar towards an edgy customer brandishing an empty sangria jug, leaving her to ponder the conviction behind her words.

* * *

While Callie would have loved to linger over a sangria or two when the Spanish Flamenco band fired up, she had more important things to do.

Like visiting her mum.

Nora hated it when she fussed, so these days she kept her visits to twice weekly—an arrangement they were both happy with.

The doctors had given her three years. The doctors didn’t know what a fighter Nora Umberto was. She’d lasted seven, and while her tremors seemed to increase every time Callie visited the spark of determination in her mum’s eyes hadn’t waned.

After the life she’d led, no way would Nora go out without a bang. She continued to read to the other residents and direct the kitchen hands to prepare exotic dishes—dishes she’d tried first-hand during her travels around the world, during which she’d met Bruno Umberto.

Callie’s dad might not have stuck around long in his first marriage—or any of his subsequent three marriages, for that matter—but thankfully Nora’s love of cosmopolitan cuisine had stuck. Callie had grown up on fajitas, ratatouille, korma and Szechuan—a melting pot of tastes to accompany her mum’s adventurous stories.

She’d never really known her dad, but Nora had been enough parent and then some. Dedicated to raising her daughter, Nora hadn’t dated until after she’d graduated high school and moved out. Even then her relationships had lasted only a scant few months. Callie had always wondered if her mum’s exuberance had been too much for middle-aged guys who’d expected Martha Stewart and ended up with Lara Croft.

As she entered the shaded forecourt of Colldon Special Accommodation Home she knew that made it all the harder to accept—the fact her go-get-’em mother had been cut down in her prime by a devastating illness no amount of fighting could conquer.

She signed in, slipped a visitor’s lanyard over her neck and headed towards the rear of the sandstone building. As she strolled down the pastel-carpeted corridor she let the peace of the place infuse her: the piped rainforest sounds, the subtle scent of lemon and ginger essential oils being diffused from air vents, the colours on the walls transitioning from muted mauve to sunny daffodil.

Colldon felt more like an upmarket boutique hotel than a special home and Callie would do whatever it took to ensure her mum remained here.

Including shacking up with Archer Flett for a week to work on his precious campaign.

She shook her head, hoping that would dispel the image of her agreeing to his demands. It didn’t, and all she could see was his startling aquamarine eyes lighting with a fire she remembered all too well when she’d said yes.

She’d been a fool thinking she had the upper hand: she’d known his identity; he hadn’t known the woman behind CJU Designs. However, the element of surprise meant little when he’d been the one who ended up ousting her from her smug comfort zone.

Her neck muscle spasmed and she rubbed it as she entered Nora’s room. She didn’t knock. No one knocked. Her mum’s door was perpetually open to whoever wanted to pop in for a chat.

Vibrant, sassy, alive: three words that summed up Nora Umberto.

But as she caught sight of her mum struggling to zip up her cardigan that last word taunted her.

Alive. For how much longer?

She swallowed the lump of sadness welling in her throat, pasted a smile on her face and strode into the room.

‘Hey, Mum, how you doing?’

Nora’s brilliant blue eyes narrowed as she gestured at the zip with a shaky hand. ‘Great—until some bright spark dressed me in this today.’

Her defiant smile made Callie’s heart ache.

‘Buttons are a pain, but these plastic zips aren’t a whole lot better.’

Need a hand? The words hovered on Callie’s lips but she clamped them shut. Nora didn’t like being treated like an invalid. She liked accepting help less.

Instead, Callie perched on the armchair opposite and ignored the increasing signs that her mum was struggling.

‘I’ll be away next week.’

Nora instantly perked up. If Callie had to sit through one more lecture about all work and no play she’d go nuts. Not that she could blame her mum. Nora loved hearing stories of Rivera’s and dancing and going out, living vicariously through her.

Callie embellished those tales, making her life sound more glamorous than it was. Her mum had enough to worry about without concern for a daughter who dated only occasionally, went Spanish dancing twice a week, and did little else but work. Work that paid the hefty Colldon bills.

‘Holiday?’

Callie shook her head. ‘Work. In Torquay.’

She said it casually, as if heading to the beachside town didn’t evoke visions of sun, surf and sexy guys in wetsuits.

Particularly one sexy guy. Who she’d been lucky enough to see without a wetsuit many years ago on another sun-drenched beach.

‘You sure it’s work?’

Nora leaned so far forward in her wheelchair she almost toppled forward, and Callie had to fold her arms to stop from reaching out.

‘You’ve got a glow.’

‘It’s an “I’m frazzled to be going away the week before Christmas” glow.’

Nora sagged, her cheekiness instantly dimming. ‘You’ll be away for Christmas?’

Callie leaned forward and squeezed her mum’s hand, careful not to scratch the tissue-thin skin. ‘I’ll be back in time for Christmas lunch. You think I’d miss Colldon’s cranberry stuffing?’

Nora chuckled. ‘You know, I wouldn’t mind if you missed Christmas with me if your trip involved a hot young man. But work? That’s no excuse.’

Ironic. Her trip involved a hot young man and work, and she had a feeling she’d need to escape both after a long week in Torquay.

She stood and bent to kiss her mum’s cheek. ‘Sorry it’s a flying visit, but I need to go home and pack. I’m leaving first thing in the morning.’

To her surprise, Nora snagged her hand as she straightened, holding on with what little strength she had.

‘Don’t forget to have a little fun amid all that work, Calista.’ She squeezed—the barest of pressure. ‘You know life’s too short.’

Blinking back the sudden sting of tears, Callie nodded. ‘Sure thing, Mum. And ring me if you need anything.’

Nora released her hand, managing a feeble wave. ‘I’ll be fine. Go work, play, have fun.’

Callie intended to work. As for the fun and play, she didn’t dare associate those concepts with Archer.

Look what had happened the last time she’d done that.

* * *

Archer didn’t jerk women around, and after the way Callie had reacted to him yesterday he shouldn’t push her buttons. But that was exactly what he’d done in hiring the fire-engine red Roadster for their trip to Torquay.

She’d recognise the significance of the car, but would she call him on it?

By the tiny crease between her brows and her compressed lips as she stalked towards him, he doubted it.

The carefree, teasing girl he’d once known had disappeared behind this uptight, reserved shadow of her former self. What had happened to snuff the spark out?

‘Still travelling light?’ He held out his hand for her overnight bag.

She flung it onto the back seat in response.

‘Oo-kay, then. Guess it’s going to be a long trip.’

He glimpsed a flicker of remorse as she slid onto the passenger seat, her rigid back and folded arms indicative of her absolute reluctance to be here. To be anywhere near him.

It ticked him off.

They’d once been all over each other, laughing and chatting and touching, a hand-hold here, a thigh squeeze there. When she’d smiled at him he’d felt a buzz akin to riding the biggest tube.

But you walked away anyway.

That was all he needed. For his voice of reason to give him a kick in the ass too.

But she hadn’t been forthcoming during their meeting yesterday, and he’d be damned if he’d put up with her foul mood for the next week.

If he showed up at Trav’s wedding with her in this snit his mum would know Callie was a fake date and be inquisitive, effectively ruining his buffer zone.

Yeah, because that was the only reason he minded her mood...

He revved the engine, glanced over his shoulder and pulled into traffic. ‘You know it’s ninety minutes to Torquay, right?’

‘Yeah.’

Her glance barely flicked his way behind Audrey Hepburnesque sunglasses that conveniently covered half her face.

‘You planning on maintaining the long face the entire way? Do I need to resort to I-spy and guess the numberplate to get a laugh?’

‘I’m here to work—’

‘Bull.’

He swerved into a sidestreet, earning momentary whiplash and several honks for his trouble.

‘What the heck—?’

He kissed her, pouring all his frustration with her frosty behaviour into the kiss.

She resisted at first, but he wouldn’t back off. He might have done this to prove a point, but once his lips touched hers he remembered—in excruciating detail—what it had been like to kiss her.

And he wanted more.

He moved his mouth across hers—light, teasing, taunting her to capitulate.

She remained tight-lipped—until his hand caressed the nape of her neck and slid into her hair, his fingertips brushing her scalp in the way he knew she liked.

She gave a little protesting groan and he sensed the moment of surrender when she placed her palm on his chest and half-heartedly pushed. Her lips softened a second later.

He didn’t hesitate, taking advantage of her compliance by deepening the kiss, sweeping his tongue into her mouth to find hers, challenging her to deny them, confident she wouldn’t.

For what seemed like a glorious eternity they made out like a besotted couple. Then he eased his hand out of her hair, his lips lingering on hers for a bittersweet second before he sat back.

What he saw shocked him more than the rare times he’d been ragdolled by a gnarly wave.

The old Callie was back.

Her brown eyes sparkled, her lush mouth curved smugly at the corners and she glowed.

Hell, he’d wanted to get her to lighten up. He hadn’t counted on the winded feeling now making his lungs seize.

Being wiped out by a killer wave was easier than this.

But in the few seconds it took him to come up with something casual to say Callie closed off. Her glow gave way to a frown and shadows effectively cloaked the sparkle.

‘Happy you sneaked a kiss for old times’ sake? Did you want to prove something?’

He shook his head, still befuddled by the strength of his reaction to a kiss that should have meant nothing.

‘I wanted to make a mockery of your “just work” declaration.’

She quirked an elegant brow. ‘And did you think one little kiss would do that?’

He hadn’t. Been thinking, that was. Like feeling the overwhelming rush he got from riding the perfect set on a huge swell he’d done the spontaneous thing. And now he had to live with the consequences: working alongside Callie for the next seven days while trying to forget how incredible she looked all mussed and vulnerable, and how she tasted—like chocolate and coffee.

‘I guess I’m just annoyed by your attitude and I wanted to rattle you.’

As much as it turned out she still rattled him.

He expected her to bristle, to retreat behind a mask of cool indifference. He didn’t expect her to unravel before his eyes.

‘Hell, are you crying?’

He reached out to hold her, but stopped when she scooted away.

She dashed a hand across her eyes before turning to stare out of the window, her profile stoic and tugging at his heartstrings.

‘It’s not you. I’m just juggling some other stuff, and it’s taking a toll even though I have a handle on it.’

He’d never heard her sound so soft, so vulnerable, and he clamped down on the urge to haul her into his arms. Mixed messages be damned.

‘Anything I can do to help?’

‘Keep being a smartass. That should make me laugh.’

The quiver in her voice had him reaching across, gently cupping her chin and turning her towards him.

‘I can back off if you’re going through stuff. Cut the jokes. No kissing. That kind of thing.’

She managed a watery smile. ‘No kissing’s a given while we work together. The jokes I can handle.’

As she gnawed on her bottom lip realisation slammed into him as if he was pitching over the falls.

She probably had boyfriend troubles.

‘Is it another guy? Because I can kick his ass—’

‘Not a guy.’

Her smile morphed into a grin and it was like surfacing for air after being submerged underwater for too long.

She held a hand over her heart. ‘I promise to lighten up. I’m just...overworked and tired and grumpy in general.’

‘That seventh dwarf had nothing on you,’ he mumbled, eliciting the expected chuckle—the first time he’d heard her sound remotely light-hearted since yesterday. ‘Maybe you should thank me for kissing you. Because you’ve had an epiphany and—’

‘Don’t push your luck,’ she said, tempering her growl with a wink, catapulting him back to Capri, where she’d winked at him in a tiny dinghy the moment before they’d entered the Blue Grotto, warning him to be careful because the cave was renowned for proposals and he might succumb.

She’d been teasing, but it had been the beginning of the end for them: no matter how carefree their fling, he’d wondered if Callie secretly harboured hopes for more.

And Archer had already learnt that the price paid for loving wasn’t one he was willing to pay.

‘Okay, so if kissing’s off the agenda, work it is,’ he said, holding her gaze for several long, loaded moments, daring her to disagree, hoping she would.

‘Just work,’ she echoed, before elbowing him and pointing at the road. ‘If we ever get to Torquay, that is.’

As he reversed out of the sidestreet he knew he should be glad he’d cracked Callie’s brittle, reserved outer shell.

But now he’d seen the woman beneath—the same warm, lush woman who’d almost snared his heart eight years ago—he wondered if he should be glad or scared.

CHAPTER FOUR

OKAY, so Callie hadn’t been thinking straight since Archer had strolled into her office yesterday.

She’d been caught off guard by the gorgeous familiarity of him, by his outlandish suggestion to live with him for a week while they work, by his demand to agree or lose the account.

She’d also been worried about leaving Nora for the seven days before Christmas once she’d given in to secure the campaign—a worry that hadn’t eased despite seeing her mum yesterday.

Her head had been filled with stuff. That was the only explanation for why she hadn’t seen that kiss coming.

He’d done it out of frustration. She could see that now. He’d wanted to snap her out of her funk, to prove a point.

So what was the rationale behind her responding?

She’d assumed she could handle their cosy living arrangements for business’s sake.

She hadn’t counted on this. This slightly manic, out-of-control feeling because despite her vow to remain platonic he could undermine her with one itty-bitty kiss.

Damn.

She’d been silent for most of the trip, jotting fake notes for the campaign, needing to concentrate on something other than her tingling lips. Thankfully he’d respected her need for silence until about twenty miles out of Torquay.

They’d arrived, and she hadn’t been able to believe her eyes.

As he’d steered up the winding, secluded street and pulled up outside Archer had called it his beach shack.

Massive understatement. Huge. Considering she now stood in a glass-enclosed lounge room as big as her entire apartment, with floor-to-ceiling glass and three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views of the Tasman Sea.

This place was no shack.

The pale blue rugs on gleaming ash floorboards, the sand-coloured suede sofas, the modern glass coffee tables—all screamed class, and were nothing like the mismatched furniture in the log cabin shack she’d imagined.

Archer had never been into material things when they’d first met. It looked as if being a world pro five years running changed a guy.

‘I put your bags in the first guest room on the right,’ he said, his bare feet barely making a sound as he padded up behind her.

Another thing she remembered: his dislike for footwear. It hadn’t mattered much in Capri, when they’d spent many hours on the beach, and she’d hidden a smile as he’d unlocked the door here, dumped their bags inside and slipped off his loafers.

She liked him barefoot. He had sexy feet. They matched the rest of him.

‘Thanks.’

He wiggled his eyebrows. ‘Right next to my room, in case you were wondering.’

‘I wasn’t.’ Her heart gave a betraying kick.

‘Liar,’ he said, snagging a strand of hair and winding it around his finger, tugging gently.

She knew what he was doing—flirting to keep her smiling. But she sooo wasn’t going to play this game. Not after that dangerous kiss in the car.

‘You still feel the buzz.’ His gaze strayed to her lips and she could have sworn they tingled in remembrance.

The smart thing to do would be to lie, but she’d never been any good at it. That was how they’d hooked up in the first place—because of her complete inability to deny how incredibly hot she’d found the laid-back surfer.

He’d romanced her and she’d let him, fully aware that their week in Capri was nothing more than a holiday fling. Pity her impressionable heart hadn’t caught up with logic and she’d fallen for him anyway. Her feelings had made it so much harder to get over him—especially after the way he’d ended it.

She’d do well to remember their break-up, not how his kiss had zapped her synapses in the car and reawakened a host of dormant memories she’d be better off forgetting.

‘As I recall, didn’t we have a conversation in the car about focussing on work?’

His finger brushed her scalp as he wound the strand all the way and she suppressed a tidal wave of yearning.

‘You didn’t answer my question.’ His finger trailed along her hairline, skirting her temple, around her ear, lingering on the soft skin beneath it and she held her breath.

He’d kissed her there many times, until she’d been mindless with wanting him.

‘That kiss you sprung on me in the car? Out of line. Business as usual this week. That’s it.’

‘Protesting much?’

‘Archer, don’t—’

‘Go on, admit it. We still share a spark.’

His mouth eased into a wicked grin and she held up a hand to ward him off. ‘Doesn’t mean we’ll be doing anything about it.’

She expected him to ask why. She expected him to undermine her rationale with charm. Instead he stopped touching her, a shadow skating across his eyes before he nodded.

‘You’re right; we’ve got a ton of work to do. Best we don’t get distracted.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ she said, struggling to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

But something must have alerted him to the raging indecisive battle she waged inside—flee or fling—because he added, ‘But once work is out of the way who knows what we’ll get up to?’

She rolled her eyes, not dignifying him with a response, and his chuckles taunted her as she headed for the sanctity of her room.

She needed space. She needed time out. She needed to remember why getting involved with a nomad charmer again was a bad idea.

Because right now she was in danger of forgetting.

* * *

After what he’d been through with his family, Archer hated dishonesty.

Which made what he was doing with Callie highly unpalatable. He needed to tell her about being his date for the wedding pronto.

They’d arrived at the house three hours ago, and she’d made herself scarce on the pretext of unpacking and doing some last-minute research.

He knew better.

That impulsive kiss in the car might have been to prove a point but somewhere along the way it had morphed into something bigger than both of them.

He’d been so damn angry at her perpetual iciness he’d wanted to shock the truth out of her: the spark was still there.

Oh, it was there all right, and interestingly his little experiment had gone awry. He’d been shocked too.

He’d asked her to accompany him here for work—and the wedding. Nothing more, nothing less.

That kiss? Major reality check.

For there was something between them—something latent and simmering, just waiting to ignite.

Hell.

Way to go with complicating matters.

Best to take a step back and simplify—starting with divulging his addendum to her week-long stay.

He knocked twice at her bedroom door. ‘Lunch is ready.’

The door creaked open and she stuck her head around it. What did she think? He’d catch sight of the bed and want to ravish her on the spot?

Hmmm...good point.

‘Raincheck?’

He exhaled in exasperation. ‘I need my marketing manager in peak form, which means no skipping meals—no matter how distasteful you find my company.’

‘It’s not that.’ She blushed. ‘I tend to grab snatched meals whenever I remember, so I don’t do a sit-down lunch very often.’

‘Lucky for you we’re not sitting down.’ He snagged her hand, meeting the expected resistance when she pulled back. He tugged harder. ‘It’s no big deal, Cal. Fish and chips on the beach. You can have your head buried behind your computer again in thirty minutes.’

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