Then as if fate stepped in, her eyes snagged on the lower half of a man descending from a pretty spiral staircase that she’d not noticed earlier.

Even if men weren’t a priority for Olivia, a little blip of pleasure registered on her radar. Black-trouserscovered legs that went all the way up—and up—the fabric lovingly clasped around muscled thighs, a firm, rounded, super-hero-in-tights butt. Nice.

A girl deserved a little lust blip every now and then and this blip was brightening by the second.

His gaze met hers as if she’d summoned him to look her way. And he didn’t look pleased about that. His eyebrows lowered, his mouth firmed and a muscle clenched in his jaw.

Steely black eyes with the power to tempt. To persuade. A shiver rippled down her spine. The power to take her will and flex it between his long slender fingers like so much overcooked spaghetti.

And Olivia felt hot, like she did when standing on the steaming deck of her yacht on a mid-summer’s day in Barbados. In the eye of a tropical storm even, because her usually strong sea legs were wobbly.

She was still looking at him and he was still looking at her and she swore she saw him mouth, ‘Trouble’.

Praise for Anne Oliver

‘This sweet and sexy story has engaging characters

that will captivate readers from the very first page.’

—RT Book Reviews on There’s Something About a Rebel

‘Quick paced, this story has a sensitive hero that readers

will easily fall in love with.’

—RT Book Reviews on Her Not-So-Secret Diary

‘This attraction-at-first-sight story has just the

right blend of adventure, passion and heartfelt

emotion to make you want to spend time

with this terrific twosome.’

—RT Book Reviews on Hot Boss, Wicked Nights

Mistletoe

Not Required

Anne Oliver

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ANNE OLIVER was born in Adelaide, South Australia, with its beautiful hills, beaches and easy lifestyle. She’s never left.

An avid reader of romance, Anne began creating her own paranormal and time travel adventures in 1998, before turning to contemporary romance. Then it happened—she was accepted by Mills & Boon in December 2005. Almost as exciting, her first two published novels won the Romance Writers of Australia’s Romantic Book of the Year for 2007 and 2008. So, after nearly thirty years of yard duties and staff meetings, she gave up teaching to do what she loves most—writing full time.

Other interests include animal welfare and conservation, quilting, astronomy, all things Scottish, and eating anything she doesn’t have to cook. She’s travelled to Papua New Guinea, the west coast of America, Hong Kong, Malaysia, the UK and Holland.

Sharing her characters’ journeys with readers all over the world is a privilege and a dream come true. You can visit her website at www.anne-oliver.com.

This and other titles by Anne Oliver are available in eBook format—check out www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to anyone whose lives have been

touched by breast cancer—mums, daughters, sisters,

aunts, grandmothers. And the men who support them.

That’s pretty much everyone really.

With thanks to Wendy for making my time in

beautiful Tasmania even more enjoyable.

With thanks to my editor, Suzanne Clarke, for

putting in the hard work on my hero.

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

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

ONE

Olivia Wishart slicked ruby gloss on her lips, then checked her strapless cocktail dress in the mirror and frowned. ‘Red lips, red dress, red hair.’ She reached for her standby little black dress. ‘I don’t care if everyone’s decked to the halls in Christmas finery, it’s—’

‘Lovely, but not for tonight.’ Her best friend, Breanna Black, whipped the garment from her hand. ‘And not another word—you look sensational.’ She eyed the cleavage on display and nodded. ‘Wise choice—men will look.’

‘So long as they listen.’ Olivia wasn’t a fancy dress fan but the opportunity to talk up her charity to her fellow competitors in this year’s Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race was too good to pass up. And a little flesh never failed to get attention.

‘Try to remember, it is Christmas.’ Brie shimmied into a short mulberry all-in-one playsuit with a fur-trim neckline then tossed Olivia a white feather boa. ‘Here. It’ll put you in the mood.’

Olivia’s lips twitched as she slung the silky feathers around her neck. ‘I assume you’re referring to the festive mood.’

‘That’d be a start,’ Brie suggested, brightly.

Raising the Pink Snowflake Foundation’s profile was the reason for Olivia’s entry into the race. Being invited by yachting royalty to celebrate the festive season at the mega-million-dollar mansion overlooking Sydney Harbour was a bonus, but anything else...well, it wasn’t going to happen.

Brie unravelled a luscious strand of silver tinsel. ‘You’re sure you don’t mind if Jett shares our suite?’ she asked for the umpteenth time.

‘This mysterious brother you’ve managed to keep out of the way for— How long’s it been?’ Stepping into red stiletto sandals, Olivia reassured her, ‘I told you I don’t mind. I’m interested to meet him actually.’

Brie paused in her task of twisting the tinsel into her hair. ‘Half-brother. And it’s a slow, fraught process. Jett’s a hard guy to get to know. I’m not sure he even likes me.’

Olivia smiled. ‘What’s not to like? And he accepted your invitation, didn’t he?’

‘Only because his initial plans fell through.’

‘You don’t know that for sure.’ But Olivia was pretty sure she did. Classic irresponsible, egocentric male behaviour. Yes, she was absolutely interested to meet him, even if it was only to make certain he knew how much he meant to Brie.

Sighing, Brie flipped her reef of long black hair over her shoulder. ‘It makes me feel bad that I’m going away for New Year’s Eve now, but he told me not to alter my plans on his account.’

‘And why should you? If you’re right about his plans, he’s the one who changed his mind and decided to come at the last minute.’

It was obvious Brie cared but apparently the lost sibling she’d spent three years looking for didn’t give a toss. Even though they were as close as sisters, Olivia had decided it was a sensitive issue and none of her business unless Brie opened up to her. ‘When’s his flight due in?’

‘Any time. I’ll let the front desk know to expect him before I leave—’ Brie’s mobile buzzed and she checked caller ID. ‘That’s him now. Hi, Jett...’

Olivia saw her friend’s smile fade, and the temptation to snatch the phone and give him a piece of her mind was overwhelming. She had to turn away. None of your business, remember.

‘Oh... Uh-huh. Okay. You’ve got the party’s address? I’ll meet you there. Text me when you’re here,’ Olivia heard her say before she disconnected. ‘His flight’s been delayed. Christmas rush; he hasn’t even left Melbourne yet.’ She flicked through the contacts on her phone, her smile returning. ‘Which gives me a spare couple of hours to meet the Horizon Three’s sexy skipper for a drink downstairs at the bar after all.’

‘Good for you,’ Olivia enthused, reserving judgement on Jett—for now. She slipped a wad of business cards into her evening purse, handing one to Brie. ‘Give him this and highlight our cause. And just remember, sexy skipper or not, he’s the enemy come Boxing Day.’

Brie nodded, mobile attached to her ear, obviously waiting for Mr Sexy Skipper to pick up. ‘Don’t get smashed or pick up any strange men before I get there.’

As if. Olivia preferred to wake up with a clear head and no regrets. Brie, not so much. Differences aside, they made a good team, trusted and looked out for each other. She flipped the end of the boa over her shoulder. ‘I promise not to get smashed.’

‘And...?’

‘Hey, it’s a party for yachties, there’ll be men. And I don’t care if they’re strange so long as they’re rich and I can persuade them to part with large sums of money. It’s Christmas Eve and I’m hopeful.’

‘Good luck, then, and be careful, okay? Hi, Liam...’ Brie’s voice instantly switched to smooth sensuality.

‘Back at you,’ Olivia murmured as she slipped out of their suite and headed downstairs to summon the driver they’d organised exclusively for the entire evening.

As the chauffeured vehicle made its way across the bridge, Olivia’s thoughts weren’t so much on the harbour’s glittering light show, but on the session she’d attended as a mandatory part of the genetics testing she’d undergone last week.

Her counsellor had said it could take weeks before she had the results. A chill ran deep through her bones. She’d never have taken the test if her mother hadn’t made her promise to have it before her twenty-sixth birthday—the age her maternal grandmother had been when she’d been diagnosed with breast cancer.

So she’d done it. Two months late, but she’d done it. Fulfilled her mother’s death-bed request. She’d been so busy, it had been easy to push aside her own needs—or as Brie had said, to bury her head in the sand—but now it was real and she could no longer deny the probability that she’d inherited the same mutant gene.

She wrapped her boa tighter around her shoulders. At least the result, whatever the verdict, would bring relief from the uncertainty she’d lived with as long as she could remember. And she’d deal with it in her own way—she had control of that at least.

Until then she refused to think about it. It was Christmas, she had a yacht race to win, a charity to run.

A life to live.

* * *

He was late but Jett Davies skirted the massive gold Christmas tree dominating the black marble foyer as he made his way up yet another sweeping staircase. The third level was an outdoor entertainment area and he caught a waft of briny harbour and freshly mown grass. Winking party lights cast a muted kaleidoscopic blush over the elite guests wearing anything and everything from a token nod to the festive season to the full Christmas get-up.

The guest list included the Who’s Who of the yachting world from all over the globe, along with their glammed-up wives, lovers and/or mistresses. Seemed anyone with money to throw at Australia’s prestigious Sydney to Hobart, one of the world’s top and most difficult off-shore yacht races, was partaking of the evening’s merrymaking.

A force-field of inquisitive eyes found him as he took a beer from a circulating waiter’s tray. Eyes dead ahead, he cut straight to an antique spiral staircase he’d spotted in the corner. He hoped its steep and winding steps would discourage stiletto-heeled females from venturing up. He wasn’t looking for an available woman. He was looking for his sister. Or had been until she’d texted him ten minutes ago to say she’d been caught up. Car problems, she’d told him—she’d let him know when she was on her way.

The stairs opened up onto a small viewing platform above the main outdoor entertainment area. Deserted—the way he liked it. Leaning on the rail, he watched the ferries track across the twinkling harbour.

Car problems. Breanna. He didn’t know her well but he knew her well enough—there was no car and a man was definitely involved. He chugged back on his beer. Perhaps they had more in common than he’d thought.

The band below fired off a set of rocking Christmas tunes and his head throbbed. He didn’t do the festive season—all that Kris Kringle nonsense, mistletoe madness and nostalgia.

So why had he agreed with Breanna’s suggestion to meet her here instead of the hotel bar? Or them as it happened, because Breanna was sharing the suite with a girlfriend. Which had him wondering about the wearer of the strawberry lace panties and matching D-cups hanging over the shower rosette in the second bathroom...

Don’t even think about it. He shook trouble away, checked the time. Ten more minutes, Breanna, and I’m gone.

* * *

Guests were starting to leave when Olivia finally found a moment alone and a semi-secluded spot to sit. She sucked on the straw of her Christmas Jones cocktail—her first alcoholic beverage for the evening—and leaned towards the balcony watching the incandescent candles amongst the garden shrubbery.

Hurry up, Brie.

She’d networked all evening to promote Snowflake and was delighted with the responses and promises for donations. But she and her crew had just come off five days’ intensive training on the harbour, her feet were killing her and she was ready for some shut-eye.

Except Brie wasn’t answering her phone—but she’d texted a winky face.

Did that mean she’d forgotten their arrangement to be there for each other at the end of the evening or what? Pushing up from her plastic party chair, she considered texting a response to say she was leaving but they’d made a promise to watch out for each other years ago and that had never changed.

Then, as if fate stepped in, her eyes snagged on the lower half of a man descending a pretty spiral staircase that she’d not noticed earlier. Even if men weren’t a priority for Olivia, a little blip of pleasure registered on her radar. Black trousers covered legs that went all the way up—and up—the fabric lovingly clasped around muscled thighs, a firm, rounded, superhero-in-tights butt. Nice. A girl deserved a little lust blip every now and then and this blip was brightening by the second.

He reached the bottom step and the full-frontal, full impact hit with a wow. It was as if a flashbulb went off and Olivia blinked. There he was. A fully formed, three-dimensional, reach-out-with-both-hands-and-touch example of prime masculinity.

The stranger she’d not promised Brie she’d stay away from.

A mouth-watering stranger with bronzed olive skin that tempted any woman with a pulse to lick her way across that shadowed chin and linger awhile at the perfectly sculpted mouth.

His gaze met hers as if she’d summoned him to look her way. And he didn’t look pleased about that. His eyebrows lowered, his mouth firmed and a muscle clenched in his jaw.

He looked kind of familiar but she’d totally have remembered a guy like him. She’d revelled in that initial instant of feminine power but now somehow he’d reversed the situation and that cool control she could always count on, and was so proud of, was disappearing like ice on a barbecue grill.

Steely black eyes with the power to tempt. To persuade. A shiver rippled down her spine. The power to take her will and flex it between his long slender fingers like so much overcooked spaghetti.

And Olivia felt hot, as she did when standing on the steaming deck of her yacht on a midsummer’s day in Barbados. In the eye of a tropical storm even, because her usually strong sea legs were wobbly.

She was still looking at him and he was still looking at her and she swore she saw him mouth, ‘Trouble’.

Oh yeah, absolutely. Double trouble in flashing neon lights. She’d never met a man who’d affected her this way—this hot, itchy, melty way. Not that they’d met... Had they?

Her pulse took off and her heart raced to catch up. He’d moved so subtly she hadn’t noticed that he stood between her and the only route to the lower levels via the marble staircase. Intentional or not—she couldn’t be sure and the anticipation hummed through her body like a build-up of static electricity.

Fight or flight? In yachting there was only one option. Unexpected and dangerous situations were dealt with in a calm, rational manner. Dealing with men was no different. Whatever happened, she would not run away.

With feigned indifference, she tossed her bedraggled twist of feathers over one shoulder, a silky strand catching on her lip as she drew in a wheezy breath to say, ‘Hi.’

* * *

Jett knew it was time to leave when Trouble with the most eye-catching, reddest hair he’d ever seen spoke to him in that husky, breathless voice. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the feather stuck to her pouty lower lip as she made little puh-puh noises to try and blow it off. He had the weirdest image of her blowing those little noises on his belly while her fingernails raked over his nipples and her hands swirled over his chest, his hips. Lower.

Damn.

Just say hi back and walk away. Fast. But his feet obeyed only that rapidly hardening part of his anatomy, and before he knew it he’d crossed the space between them, reached out and plucked the feather from what was a very pretty mouth. He felt a sensation of warm static before he snatched his fingers back.

‘Thanks.’ Eyes the colour of his signature Blue Mint Lagoon cocktail sparkled.

He curled tingling fingers into a fist. Another damn. Trouble with a sense of humour.

He saw...something...behind the fun and she looked away quickly, as if she hadn’t meant to share. Her gaze flicked upwards and behind him. ‘Anything interesting up there?’

There could be—if you want. ‘Nope.’

‘There has to be something, or why the staircase?’

He shrugged at her logic, stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘Just a couple of telescopes.’

‘Really? I love stargazing.’

Even in the dimness he could see the fairy lines fanning out from the corners of her eyes and a splash of freckles over her nose. She enjoyed the outdoors whereas he rarely had the time for such indulgence. No doubt another spoiled socialite with plenty of time to waste. ‘Too much light pollution in the city,’ he told her, rocking back on his heels. ‘I’d say they’re for watching the harbour.’

‘Oh, yes, why didn’t I think of that?’

She walked to the bottom of the spiral stairs and peered up, one slender hand on the rail. Sun-kissed skin. Neat unvarnished nails. A nice flash of abundant cleavage. Man, he had to stop staring like some pre-pubescent teenager—

‘Did you sneak a peek?’

‘What?’ His guilty gaze shot somewhere over her shoulder, then he realised she was talking about telescopes. ‘Ah...no.’

She cast him an unreadable look then started up. ‘Why not?’

‘Because— Hey, you won’t want to go up like that.’ In one stride he was there, his fingers closing firmly over hers. The contact sent a zing up his forearm. All that static build-up discharged in one hit.

She must have felt it too because her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. ‘Like...what?’

He yanked his hand away. ‘Those heels—you’ll break your neck.’

‘Only if I—’ On cue, one stiletto slipped and caught in the iron lace doyley tread. She yanked it free. ‘Cripes. I see your point.’

He shook his head. ‘Why don’t you—?’

‘Okay...’ On the third tread, she toed off her shoes. And groaned lustily—a sound that did dangerous things to his already wide-awake libido. ‘Relief at last. Why didn’t I think of that earlier?’ She handed them to him over the rail, avoiding skin contact. ‘Hold these till I get back.’

‘I...’ Siren-red patent, they were warm from her feet and smelled of new leather. Dangling them from one hand, he watched her climb, toenails painted to match, strong toned calves. Smooth, golden thighs disappeared beneath the shadows of her dress’s short hemline. She moved fast and without effort, as if she worked out a lot. A yachtie’s woman?

If Jett were the skipper, he’d keep her below decks and all to himself for the entire journey. Yep, naked and barefoot—he could get creative with feet, a little warm brandy and sweet ripe apricots—

Hell. He shook his head to clear it. Now was not the time to be coming up with new recipes.

He wasn’t looking for a woman, dammit. He had to remind himself again because his mind seemed to have forgotten. He was waiting for Breanna, half-sister, who was doing whatever, with whomever. Everything, it seemed, except checking in with him. He should go back to the hotel, catch up on some sleep. Away from trouble in a red dress.

But he had her shoes. He could hardly just abandon them here. And he didn’t want to leave without one more glimpse of her. Which wasn’t quite true because he wanted more than a glimpse. A lot more.

He placed one foot on the bottom step and made an instant decision. Forget Breanna; she hadn’t answered his call. Instead, a little up-close and personal might just be on the menu for tonight. No trouble, he assured himself; he didn’t want or need to know who she was. A hot lick of anticipation stroked down his body and his steps quickened while his stomach tightened and his mouth watered. One sweet taste. The perfect dessert to end the evening.

* * *

Olivia hoped the sound of her heart pounding its way out of her chest wasn’t audible. Hearing his footsteps on the metal treads, she turned as the guy appeared on the platform behind her. And was blown away again by the sight of all that blatant masculinity. Which was unsettling because she’d relegated men to the bottom of her list of priorities a long time ago.

Determined not to let him see how much he was affecting her, she moved to the larger telescope and adjusted it for a view of the party-goers milling around Circular Quay to distract herself and give her time to think what to do next.

She could feel his gaze stroking heat down her spine and the backs of her thighs. His musky masculine scent wafted her way. As diversions went, the impromptu viewing idea was an epic fail—she had no idea if the lens was in focus or not. As for coming up with what to do next, heck, all she could think was how his lips would taste... ‘Amazing,’ she murmured.

‘Have to agree with you there.’

She turned to him but he wasn’t looking at the twinkling carpet of lights on the harbour, he was watching her and screwing with her equilibrium again. She deflected with, ‘Are you sailing in the race?’

‘Not me.’

She noticed he didn’t ask the same of her. No doubt the women he associated with were willowy, fragile types who were afraid of breaking a fingernail or a sweat. ‘Sailing’s not your thing?’

He shrugged, his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘In case you’re wondering, I’m here for the free food.’

She laughed spontaneously. ‘Ah, it was you who demolished all the prawns.’ She gestured to the crowd on the dance floor below who were swaying their hips and waving their little gold bells to ‘Jingle Bell Rock’. ‘So, were you getting your groove on down there on the dance floor tonight?’

He shook his head, a smile on his lips. ‘I’m not the prawn thief and since you didn’t ask me to dance, no, I wasn’t.’ And oh, my, in the shadowy light, the cutest, innocent-little-boy dimples flirted at the corners of his mouth. It kick-started some sort of weird maternal instinct when what it should have been doing was to warn her to run in the opposite direction.

Between talking up Snowflake to anyone who’d listen, she’d danced her feet to death—and had continued to promote Snowflake while bopping. ‘I didn’t see you...’ Men never joked with her, but this one was—at least she thought he was—and she trailed off, feeling awkward.

‘Haven’t been here long,’ he told her at last. ‘Anyway the Macarena’s not really my thing.’

‘Not even the Christmas Macarena with the jingle bells and reindeer antlers to wiggle along with?’

‘I don’t do Christmas.’ He walked to the railing, gazed at the harbour.

‘No?’ she said to his back. ‘What, like, you don’t do the whole mistletoe, eggnog, Secret Santa thing—or is it a personal belief?’

‘Two words: Christmas commercialism.’ When he turned to her, his eyes had lost their spark.

She wasn’t buying it—something had happened in his past that had nothing to do with Christmas commercialism.

‘It doesn’t have to be,’ she said. ‘Unless you let it.’

He shrugged. ‘Anyway, who needs mistletoe? If you want to kiss someone you should go ahead and kiss them, wouldn’t you agree?’ He seemed to lean towards her. ‘Why wait for Christmas?’

Why, indeed? He had leaned towards her. ‘It depends on whether that person wants to be kissed.’ She told herself she didn’t. She wished she didn’t but, oh, she really did. Every muscle in her body tightened and softened and her lips were practically puckering up in anticipation. ‘But a little festive smooch beneath the mistletoe’s always fun.’ And infinitely safer than shadowed, secluded corners.

Dark brows rose. ‘Always?’ Somehow, as if she’d willed it, he was within touching distance. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, like runaway power from a nuclear reactor. His eyes seared her with dark intensity.

‘Usually,’ she amended with a laugh that sounded nervous to her own ears. ‘With a few Christmas drinks under one’s belt and everyone bursting with good cheer, it’s harmless enough.’ Unlike that nuclear reaction approaching critical mass in the narrowing space between them.

Had she said harmless? It was a foregone conclusion; this virtual stranger was going to kiss her and she was going to let him and excitement tingled through her body like a swarm of hungry fire ants.

‘So convince me Christmas is worth all the fuss,’ he murmured, reaching out and fingering the ends of her hair.

She wondered that she couldn’t smell the singe in the air and had to fight for her composure again. ‘Where do you want me to begin?’

‘Refresh my memory and run that Secret Santa bit by me again. Is it the same as Kris Kringle?’

‘Not necessarily,’ she decided, and ventured into uncharted waters. ‘First off...’ she reached up on tiptoe, slid her boa around his neck then stepped backwards, letting it slide through her fingers until she was holding the very ends ‘...and most importantly...’ she met his eyes boldly even though her legs felt as though they were stumbling through sand ‘...it has to be a secret.’

‘Trust me, I won’t tell a soul.’ His voice was silk seduction, sliding over her and all but stealing away any sense she might have had.

‘Trust you? Where are my shoes, by the way?’

‘Safe.’ He glanced down between their bodies then back to her face. ‘I like you barefoot.’

‘So do I, it’s so liberating, don’t you think?’ Something danced behind his smouldering gaze and her feet tickled—as if he were sucking them right into his mouth. One toe at a time. ‘You’d be my Secret Santa?’

‘For you...’ he ran one lazy fingertip over her left collarbone, making her shiver ‘...I could be persuaded. Are you sleeping with anyone?’

The question came out of nowhere and he spoke casually, as if he were asking whether she liked sugar in her coffee. A tugging sensation she’d never experienced unfurled low in her belly and her cheeks burned with fire. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’ Confusion warred with irritation at his smooth, almost lazy arrogance.

‘It is if I’m going to kiss you the way I want to kiss you.’ His fingertip moved from her collarbone to skim across her lower lip.

Her lips burned and the low tugging sensation pulled into a tight knot. Her habitual defensiveness evaporated. What was it about this man that she’d throw away any sense of caution?

She’d obviously been struck by some random insanity.

Over the years, she’d grown accustomed to guys accusing her of being intimidating or closed off. Snowflake and her studies had taken her focus and consumed her energy for so long it hadn’t left time for anything else, particularly any fleeting and indulgent liaisons with the opposite sex. She had more important things on her agenda, such as making a difference for people with serious and terminal illness.

But it was Christmas Eve and random insanity had indeed struck because right now on the top of this year’s Christmas list was his lips on hers. Her Secret Santa—dark as midnight, and an exciting mystery to unravel and enjoy. Just for tonight.

He watched her, reading her thoughts. Knowing she was going to say yes. But then he said, ‘When a woman tells me it’s none of my business, it’s usually because she wants me to kiss her regardless of the man she’s sleeping with.’

Oh, he was cocky, arrogant, full of himself. An irate breath caught in her throat. ‘Of course I’m not sleeping with anyone or I wouldn’t be standing here with you.’ She drew herself up tall. ‘And if you think I’m that kind of woman then you have very poor taste and we have nothing in common.’

‘On the contrary, I have very discerning taste when it comes to women. If I thought you were lying you wouldn’t see me for dust.’

She relaxed a bit, if you could call letting out a slow breath and sucking in another relaxing. ‘Good, then. Because...because I want you to kiss me...that way.’

His mouth quirked and he touched the ends of her hair again as the band struck up their version of ‘All I Want for Christmas’. ‘Glad we cleared that up.’

‘Me too.’

‘Now, where were we?’

She licked dry lips. ‘Secret Santa.’

‘Ah...’ The devil with a smile lurked in his black eyes as his hands slid up her bare arms to her shoulders.

The hairs on her arms rose in response and she shivered and met his gaze. ‘Except you look like more of a sinner than a Santa.’

He pulled the top half of her body into stunning and breath-stealing contact, his lips tantalisingly close to hers. ‘Which do you want me to be?’

TWO

Of course the guy was a mind-reader as well because he knew her instant preference for sin over safe and his body hardened against hers and his fingers tightened on her arms. Up close Olivia could see gold stardust in his irises and her own desire reflected back.

And heaven help her, wild and wicked was exactly what she needed tonight. She wanted to lose herself to oblivion. To dive headlong into those dark depths and surrender to the promised pleasure she saw there—

Except...this whole scenario was straight out of her private fantasies but now it was real and happening and moving too fast and she couldn’t catch her breath.

‘Wait.’ She dragged a hand up between them, pushed it against his chest. Hard as concrete. But warm and sculpted, and to her dismay her fingers spread over the undulating surface of their own volition. ‘Just. Wait.’

‘Are you okay?’ He loosened his hold and leaned back. ‘Because if you’re not s—’

‘I’m fine.’ She sucked in air. ‘Absolutely fine.’ Or would be if she could establish the same footing with this godlike, devilishly attractive being in front of her. Not surrender, she told herself. Equality.

‘Tell you what,’ he said, slowly. ‘Why don’t we—?’

‘Yes. Why don’t we?’ And before she changed her mind again she wound her fingers around the ends of her boa for a firm hold. Here was a rare chance to grab life and living with both hands and reel him in. She saw the glimpse of surprise in his dark eyes as she reached up on tiptoe, yanked him close and planted her mouth on his.

And oh, this man didn’t disappoint. As their lips connected she was sure she heard a hiss. More of a sizzle, actually. Heat met heat and that smouldering spark that had been arcing between them since they’d first laid eyes on each other ignited. She felt it catch, deep down inside, sending showers of sparkles to every extremity.

He pulled back a fraction. ‘Is control your thing, darling?’ A rogue’s smile danced over his lips and his eyes lit with amusement.

In a different situation his condescending darling would have annoyed her, but she didn’t have time to be annoyed because he was already moving his lips over hers once more and playing the game—his way. He was mayhem and magic and completely irresistible.

Determined to keep up, she matched his enthusiasm, leaning in and arching her body against his. Their lips softened and parted. Merged. His flavour invaded her mouth as breath mingled, tongues met and entwined.

She tasted wealth and power and persuasion. Danger in a will that matched her own. And for the first time in her life she wondered if a man—specifically, this man—might be more than she could handle.

But this was just a little harmless flirtation on a balcony. And Christmas Eve was about midnight madness and whimsical delights.

With eager hands she acquainted herself with his body. Hard slabs of muscle, the soft indent below his Adam’s apple. The springy masculine hair that sprouted from the V of his open-necked shirt. He was a gift and she was a kid on Christmas morning.

His hands were busy too, warm and firm on her shoulders, beneath her hair, down her back, toying with the top of her zipper. She gave an involuntary shiver—the tiny metal teeth were the only things holding up her dress and preventing her from standing here in nothing but red lace bikini panties.

On a balcony metres away from a hundred or more guests.

With a man she didn’t know.

Someone had so spiked that cocktail.

Or maybe it was time to live on the edge for once.

* * *

Damn. Jett managed, with difficulty, to pry his lips from hers. ‘I knew it.’ He leaned back and searched her face through a fog of lust. ‘Was that a fun shiver of delight and anticipation or do we need the festive foliage?’

‘Definitely fun.’ She smiled, those effervescent starlight eyes sparkling. ‘No mistletoe required.’

‘Thank God for that, then; I’ve no idea where to find any.’

‘What did you mean by: you knew it?’ she asked.

He hadn’t intended to say it aloud and blamed it on working all day after last night’s all-hours drink-fest. He slid his hands over lush feminine curves, lingering on her hips. ‘That you’d be a refreshing surprise at the end of a very ordinary day.’

Her hands covered his. ‘Not trouble?’

He touched his nose to hers. ‘You’re big trouble.’

‘I can live with that.’ Unrepentant, she entwined their fingers and rubbed her lips over his. ‘How about you?’

He sucked her sweet taste from his lips. ‘Mmm...’ Strawberries and pineapple with a dash of vodka. ‘So can I,’ he murmured before leaning down for a second helping.

More of this out-of-control feeling he’d not experienced since his teens. His erection throbbed and ached and burned as if it were his first time. His head spun with the fragrance of her skin, her hair and the way she shifted against him—breasts, belly, thighs all aligned perfectly, as if she’d been made to order. It wasn’t his lack of sleep sending him slightly insane—it was her.

Crazy was good—so were her lips: warm and pliant and mobile. He’d been working manic hours for months now; he needed a change of pace and didn’t everyone need a bit of wholesome crazy now and then? As she said, it was Christmas. It wasn’t called the silly season for nothing. ‘Maybe there’s something in this Secret Santa business after all,’ he murmured into her ear.

Her cheek lifted into a smile against his. ‘Definitely,’ she agreed, winding slender arms that smelled of sun-warmed apricots and cool cucumber around his neck.

With a growl, he walked her backwards until she butted up against the wall. He might have stopped a moment to admire the Titian-haired picture of perfection before him but patience had never been one of his strengths when it came to beautiful, willing women. He ground his pelvis against her and was rewarded when she arched her hips in response and sent up a little whimper of longing and capitulation. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders and she moaned.

‘Yes, darling, I’ve got what you want.’ One hand cupped the back of her head to hold her in place while he continued to savour the sweet delight of her mouth, the other glided over a breast, finding a taut little bead that hardened instantly beneath his touch.

He rolled it between his fingers through the fabric and she moaned again—the soft yielding sound compelling him to put his lips there. His teeth. To nip at the silk, to close his mouth over the bud and suck. To soothe her while he tortured himself with what he couldn’t do. At least, not here.

But the sounds of the party below seemed muted and irrelevant in the shadows. He looked into her desire-drenched eyes while he smoothed his palms over her dress, sliding the skin-warmed silk up her thighs. Up, over her hips. ‘You like what I’m doing to you.’

She pressed her lips together but a little mewing sound escaped.

‘There’s more,’ he promised, his fingers finding and exploring the smooth flesh of her inner thighs. Her head rolled back against the wall and her eyes darted towards the stairs. ‘No one’s going to come up here,’ he reassured her in his best persuasive tone. ‘Trust me.’

Wide-eyed, she looked back at him, disbelief etched between her slim brows. Her arms slid down to her sides, apparently incapable of holding on any longer.

Satisfaction rolled through him. She was his. Or would be, before the night was done.

‘Hey,’ he murmured, inching his hand higher, drawing tiny circles with his fingertips and feeling her legs start to tremble. ‘You chose sinner over Santa, work with me here.’

She shook her head. ‘I...’

‘A good choice.’ His fingers found satin and lace. Hot and damp satin and lace, and he knew they were halfway to where they both wanted to go.

But then she tensed. Sucked on her bottom lip.

‘Hey, it’s Christmas,’ he teased gently.

‘But—’

He cut off her protest with a slow, soothing kiss until he felt her soften once more. ‘Okay, forget sinner,’ he said against her lips. ‘We’ll play Secret Santa instead, and he won’t do anything you don’t want him to. You’re in the driver’s seat, and a few dozen guests within earshot over the balcony will tell you the same.’

In the driver’s seat? Olivia might have laughed but she was half out of her mind. Delirious and blinded by a desire and an urgency she’d never experienced.

A mistake, that cocktail, because she should have been able to resist. She’d never had a problem resisting men. But this man wasn’t just any man. He was wicked and persuasive and clever, and his hand was inside her panties, touching her—thrilling her—with just one flick of his finger over her most sensitive place and any second now she was going to shatter into a million pieces and she knew she’d never be the same ever again.

‘Come for me.’ The voice at her ear transported her to undiscovered realms, lifting her higher to some pinnacle just beyond her reach—

The distinctive beat of Coldplay jolted her back to some vague resemblance of reality. Brie. With trembling fingers she yanked her phone from the jewelled bag slung over one shoulder. Brie’s picture smiled at her. She glared back, found her voice. ‘Now you call.’

His fingers stilled but his hand remained, hot and arousing and slippery, inside her panties. ‘Is it an emergency?’

‘I don’t think so, b—’

‘Then get rid of whoever it is.’

His dictatorial tone irritated. ‘No.’ However tempting, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—ignore her friend until she knew she was okay. ‘I have to get this.’

Reluctantly, she tried to push his hand away. It didn’t budge. In the end she had no choice but to answer—breathlessly. ‘Hi...’ She closed her eyes as if not seeing him would somehow make him disappear. Resisted squirming against his fingers—for all of three seconds or so. ‘You all right?’

‘I’m great. Fabulous. What took you so long to answer?’

Brie wasn’t the only one feeling fabulous. ‘I’m...’ what the hell, Brie would be happy for her ‘...being seduced by a man in black. He’s my Secret Sinner-Santa.’

‘Believe it,’ he whispered into her ear.

She pressed her lips together to stop the urge to smile and squeal at the same time and felt the scrape of his bristled jaw against her neck.

Pause at the other end of the phone. ‘Oh. Okay. Sorry I’m late but I’m here now. Are you still at the party? I’ve looked everywhere.’

Not quite everywhere, Brie. ‘Yes...’ Omigod... His thumb was doing something amazing. How could she think, let alone carry on any semblance of intelligent conversation while he manipulated her with such devastating expertise? Darts of pleasure were shooting through her body and lights were coalescing and swirling in front of her eyes. ‘Still...here. Already told you...’

‘Where?’ Irritated impatience.

‘I’m...not...good company right now.’

‘I disagree,’ murmured the muffled voice, this time against the top of her breasts.

‘What?’ Brie’s voice, confused. ‘Is there someone with you?’

‘Must be...the hand—the band.’ A breeze with scent of summer and sex cooled the raging inferno in her cheeks while Secret Sinner-Santa assumed control and drove her to a rising crescendo of delight and desire and sheer desperation with every manic beat of her pulse.

‘And what do you mean not good company? Ken’s waiting, stay right where you are, wherever it is, I’m coming to get you.’

‘No... I’m coming...’

And she was. Right now. Right here. Awareness narrowed down to a pinpoint of sparkling sensation and the hand holding her phone slid from her ear as the world receded like the tide before a tsunami.

She heard the disembodied moan—part plea, all pleasure—sprint up her throat as the crescendo peaked and rolled, sending her tumbling over the silvery crest and showering her body with gold.

A slow sigh escaped her lips. Sweet, sugar-coated bliss. Sagging against his hard-packed stomach and an impressive erection, she floated down, her feet still not quite touching the ground. She wasn’t exactly a virgin but no guy had ever done it for her the way he had. Now she understood how sinfully, devastatingly irresistible the right man’s touch could be.

On the downside, it reduced even the most rational, self-disciplined person to a quivering, mindless mass. It had changed a sane sensible woman with a mind and opinion of her own—and an ability to say no—to someone she didn’t recognise.

She flopped her head back against the wall and looked up at him, committing his face to memory, then kissed her fingers and pressed them to his lips. ‘Merry Christmas.’

From somewhere near her left elbow, she heard Brie’s voice. ‘Olivia, are you drunk?’

‘No.’ Just not herself. Without taking her eyes off him—the way a sailor wouldn’t take her eyes off an approaching storm front—she raised the phone to her ear. ‘Meet you on the driveway. Two minutes.’

She disconnected and began sidestepping along the wall. Away. Now she’d had a moment to come to her senses, all she wanted was to be by herself and think about what she’d done. What he’d done. Oh my God. Her inner muscles clenched in fond remembrance. Casual sex on a balcony was not who she was. She didn’t know what to say, so she went with, ‘Thanks.’

He caught her arm, his dark, almost familiar eyes a cool shade of cynical. ‘So that’s it? Thanks?’

‘Yes. What else do you want me to say?’

His nostrils flared and a muscle twitched along his jaw. ‘We haven’t finished.’

Oh. She couldn’t help it; her gaze flicked down between them and her whole body felt weak and fizzy at the tempting display of manly magnificence outlined in fine black fabric. Pity she wasn’t going to see it in all its glory. ‘Sorry. I am, truly.’ You’ll never know how much. ‘But my friend’s waiting.’

He remained where he was, expression dangerously impassive. ‘Better hurry, then. And watch your step.’

A shiver ran down her spine but she realised he hadn’t meant it as a threat but a warning to take care on the stairs. Hiding his annoyance that she was running off without so much as a name uttered between them. Or was he relieved, as she was, that this had just been a little harmless Christmas Eve flirtation? No, she very much doubted he felt relieved.

Coldplay started up again, making her jump. ‘Thirty seconds, Brie, and I’m there,’ she said to the phone. ‘Have you met up with Jett yet?’ She was proud of her casual question and breezy voice as she all but stumbled to the stairs, scrambling for the handrail and tripping over her feet on her way down, a pair of eyes following her every move. She could feel them, dark and intense down her spine.

‘Forget Jett,’ Brie told her in a tight-lipped voice. ‘He’s obviously forgotten me. He can damn well find his own way back.’

Olivia slowed her mad dash when she saw Brie pacing the circular drive beside their chauffeured car. But not soon enough, because Brie had caught sight of her first. One slim eyebrow hiked and a smile played around her lips. Taking in Olivia’s no-doubt ravished and guilty-as-sin appearance.

‘Let’s go,’ Olivia said, pulling her evening bag off her shoulder and crushing it between her fingers.

Brie didn’t move. ‘Sinner-Santa, Liv. You weren’t kidding after all.’

‘It’s Christmas.’ The car was idling, the door was open and Olivia moved fast. ‘What are we waiting for?’

‘Such a hurry.’ Brie stepped into her path, sharp eyes scanning Olivia’s bare feet. ‘Cinderella only lost one shoe.’

Oh. Crap. ‘Never mind.’ She darted around Brie, muttering, ‘Thanks, Ken,’ and sweeping past their driver as if the hounds of hell were about to catch up with her. ‘What’s a pair of shoes?’

She piled into the back seat, her pesky observant friend settled in beside her, and Ken closed the door. Brie pressed a button and the privacy screen rose. As the vehicle progressed sedately towards the gates she picked a feather off Olivia’s shoulder, held it up as evidence. ‘And where’s the rest of my boa?’

Leaning back against the head rest, Olivia closed her eyes, which only drew attention to the riot happening inside her. ‘There was a wink in those words, Brie. And a nudge. And I’m warning you now they won’t get you anywhere.’

She felt the seat dip as Brie shifted towards her. ‘BFFs share.’

‘There’s nothing to share.’ Blood rushed to Olivia’s cheeks. ‘Not a thing.’

‘Well, fa-la-la-la-la!’ She punctuated each meaningfully loaded syllable with an exclamation mark. ‘Not a thing, hmm?’

She blew out a resigned breath. ‘Okay, not quite not a thing.’

‘Not quite?’

‘No. Yes. No. Doesn’t matter.’

‘What’s his name and are you seeing him again?’

‘No to both.’

‘Oh.’ Brie sounded disappointed. Olivia’s emotions were so all over the place she didn’t know how she herself felt. ‘And if I did know his name, I wouldn’t tell you. Big fat huh to BFFs. You haven’t talked to me about Jett, so we’re even.’

‘Jett’s my brother, not my lover, it’s hardly the same. And if you must know, I haven’t talked about Jett because he asked me not to.’

‘Why? Oh, Brie, he’s not done something, like, really bad, has he?’ She remembered Brie talking about his reluctance to open up and dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Like, has he been in prison...?’

‘No.’ Brie laughed. ‘Nothing like that. But he’s in the media—’

‘Famous?’ Olivia nodded slowly. ‘I’d know him.’

‘Livvie, you’ve been so focused on your work and studies and getting Snowflake up and going these past few years, I doubt it. And you really know how to deflect the conversation away from you.’

‘I told you. Okay, I didn’t tell you.’ She lowered the window to let the breeze cool her face. ‘We didn’t... But he... I...’ She smiled—she couldn’t help it. ‘It truly was an orgasmic experience.’

‘Wow.’

‘Totally.’ But Olivia’s buoyancy faded and something not so cheerful hooked in her chest. She pushed it away hard and joked, ‘Sinner-Santas are strictly for Christmas Eve. They disappear in a twinkle of Santa’s sleigh bell at midnight. And...’ she checked her watch ‘...Christmas Eve’s over.’

It was officially Christmas Day. The two of them were supposed to be having Christmas lunch with the mysterious brother—if he bothered to turn up. And Boxing Day it was all hands on deck, meaning if he didn’t show Brie wouldn’t catch up with him for days. ‘You’ve heard nothing from Jett?’

She gave a tight shrug. ‘He texted he was on his way to the party. Since then, nothing.’

‘He knows you’re in the race, doesn’t he?’

‘Yeah. He was coming to Sydney anyway, so I suggested we could celebrate the festive day together. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea.’

‘He’ll turn up, Brie. And I can’t wait to meet him.’

* * *

Well, if that didn’t take the celebration cake. Jett watched her flee, red hair flying, relieved he hadn’t gone any further. Still, it could’ve been an even hotter night in the city—if he hadn’t found out who she was. He shifted his stance to accommodate the swelling in his trousers that wasn’t likely to subside any time soon.

Trouble in strawberry lace D-cups. In the flesh.

And there’d been an abundance of that. Smooth and creamy and damn. Dragging off the feathers she’d left around his neck, he stuffed them in his back pocket. He could smell her skin—apricots and cucumber.

He might have followed, if only to return her shoes—then persuade her that the festivities should be extended a few hours because it was still Christmas Eve somewhere in the world—until he’d heard her mention his name. His name.

He’d been fooling around with Breanna’s friend.

A harsh bark of laughter escaped. What were the odds? Walking to the balcony, he searched out the driveway mostly hidden by a corner of the house. He caught sight of Breanna in the car’s headlights. He didn’t have to wait long to see a flash of red zip past her and disappear into the car.

The car accelerated down the drive and he turned away, facing into the breeze blowing up from the harbour. He needed to cool off. One minute without an audience—he shifted again—better make that five minutes. The excruciating pity of it all was she’d had no idea who he was and he might have enjoyed an evening—and a hell of a lot more—with someone who wasn’t out for his name and fame.

Breanna’s friend.

Sexy.

Available.

Not a good idea.

He scowled at the wall where she’d come apart beneath his hand, dress hiked, thighs quivering and her moans of pleasure sobbing on the air. The scent of her arousal lingered. Hell. He’d be lucky if he slept a wink tonight.

He’d known she was trouble the instant he’d clapped eyes on her.

But—he couldn’t help but grin—trouble had never come in such a tempting package.

THREE

‘This is the life.’

After five days of hard slog on the harbour, Olivia was enjoying a traditional Christmas Day breakfast of champagne, strawberries and Danish pastries while a little light Christmas music played in the background. She wasn’t accustomed to inactivity but two days of R and R were well deserved and a necessary break before the hard work, both mental and physical, that the next few days would demand of them.

Brie, looking as boneless as Olivia felt on the other recliner, studied the forest-green lacquered toenails as she wiggled them in front of her. ‘This is so not the life; you’d be bored to distraction in a couple of days.’

‘True. I should wander down to the gym in a bit.’

‘Nuh-uh.’ Brie nibbled on a croissant. ‘No workouts allowed today.’

Olivia flopped back, almost relieved. She’d barely slept after all. ‘If you say so.’

Jeez, she was so easily seduced. Seduced. Workout... Hot, steamy, sweaty— ‘The pool, then. A quick twenty laps.’

Brie lifted her sunglasses off her nose to stare at her. ‘After this feast? I don’t think so. You’re just feeling the twitchy after-effects of last night’s indulgence with Secret Sinner-Santa.’

A shiver of remembered delight danced down her spine and settled low and warm between her thighs. ‘You are so right. I never knew sinning was that much fun.’

‘Woo-hoo, now you do.’

She’d been involved short-term with a guy a long time ago and it had been more about a loss of innocence than sinning—or even enjoyment, because with Jason there hadn’t been much enjoyment, for her at least. But since she and Brie had met at the hospice where Brie’s dad and Olivia’s mum were dying, she’d been so focused on getting Pink Snowflake up and running and her plans for a retreat, she’d had no time for guys, relationships. Sex.

But last night... Olivia smiled. He’d whetted her appetite. It was as if that dormant part inside her had finally woken up and demanded breakfast.

‘He was good, then?’

She sighed. ‘The man had the best hands. And he knew how to use them.’ She smiled, lost for an instant, reliving the pleasure. Heat spurted through her lower belly and she reached for her glass of sparkling mineral water. ‘The fact that he was built like a god was a bonus. He had these eyes...’ She blinked the images—him—away. He was long gone.

And switched topics. ‘So Jett made it back here eventually.’ She’d heard him come in after she and Brie had said goodnight and had been tempted to go pour herself a glass of water from the kitchenette, just to sneak a peek. But she’d changed her mind when she heard their muffled voices through her closed door. She’d not wanted to intrude. ‘Was he lost?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Brie stirred her coffee. ‘What I can’t work out is that he said he’d made it to the party late and all would become clear.’

‘That’s cryptic,’ Olivia said.

‘Good morning.’

The deep male voice had Olivia pushing upright and turning to the open doorway. ‘Hi...’ As she spoke her smile dropped away; her entire body started to dissolve.

How had he known where to find her? What are you doing here? But the words never passed her frozen lips because even as she asked the question she knew the answer.

Jett.

Her not-so-secret Sinner-Santa.

One and the same and ambling away from the door as if he’d been leaning casually against it. Listening in. Laughing at her. Looking so, so smug. Every indignant hair on the back of her neck rose and she pushed suddenly sweaty hands over her trembling thighs and down the skirt of her festive emerald-trimmed white sundress.

He wore khaki shorts and a white polo shirt and brown sandals. Plenty of bare leg sprinkled with dark masculine hair. Then she caught sight of a pair of red stiletto sandals set neatly on the floor beside the door frame.

Brie didn’t notice the incriminating evidence and rose. ‘Jett, glad to see you’re awake at last. Did you sleep well?’

‘Not bad.’ His eyes flicked to Olivia. ‘Considering.’

The eyes. Brie’s eyes, Olivia realised, seeing the pair of them close together. How had she missed that? Both tall and equally stunning with their bronzed complexions and midnight gazes. Brie leaned in and pecked him on the cheek. ‘Merry Christmas.’ She turned to Olivia. ‘Jett, I want you to meet my best friend, Olivia Wishart. Liv, this is Jett Davies. My brother.’

He nodded to Olivia and a corner of his mouth quirked. ‘Already had the pleasure.’

At the mention of pleasure, fingers of guilty heat stroked her belly and lower. How outrageous and inappropriate of him to mention it. Aware of the height disadvantage, she forced herself to stand. Almost eye to eye. Give or take a good six inches. But her legs felt like wet seaweed and the sun shimmered on all that bronzed masculine skin. Sliding on her sunglasses, she snapped out, ‘It’s always helpful to put a name to the face.’

‘You two know each other?’ Brie’s gaze darted between the two of them then settled on Olivia, puzzled.

‘Last night.’ Jett fired the two words across the patio like an accusation or a challenge, then reached down beside him and swung the shoes on two fingers. ‘You left these behind. Cinderella.’

She watched, appalled. Those same fingers had wrought wicked and unimaginable pleasure on her most intimate and private parts. When Olivia made no attempt to step forward and take them, he set them back by the door with a lazy grin, his eyes stroking down her body as if reacquainting himself with her shape, stopping at her bare feet. ‘I’m sorry, were these your only shoes?’

‘No.’ She drew in a breath, embarrassed beyond belief, furious at his attitude. If Brie hadn’t been there Olivia would have told him exactly where to put those shoes. ‘Of course they’re not. It’s easy to forget—I’m a barefoot tragic.’

His lips pulled wide at that as if enjoying some private joke. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

‘Whatever for?’ She clenched her hands behind her back so he wouldn’t see how they shook. Those little-boy dimples mocked her. And annoyed her—she doubted he’d ever been innocent in his life. ‘Why are you smirking?’

Still grinning, he shrugged, lifting his arms to waist height, palms up. ‘Why are you so uptight?’

‘Olivia?’ Brie’s voice broke into their conversation. ‘Can you help me in the kitchen a moment?’

‘We don’t have a kitchen here,’ she reminded her, not taking her eyes off Jett. ‘We have a private butler.’ And a problem. She snatched up the magazine she’d been intending to read. ‘Why don’t you two catch up? I’m going to take that dip in the pool, then I’m going to shower and get ready for our yummy traditional Christmas feast. I expect you’re looking forward to sharing Christmas lunch with Brie, Jett, as much as she’s looking forward to sharing it with you.’

The force of her killer glare and unsubtle reference to Christmas luncheon rocked Jett back on his heels. ‘You bet.’ Still grinning, he watched her pick up her shoes, enjoying the rear view of touchable bottom and lightly honeyed thighs as she bent over. She stepped past the glass doors, into the entertainment area, skirted a low table where she dropped her magazine beside her boa, which he’d left there, then crossed the room and disappeared from view.

Man, she was hot. ‘I guess she’s mad at me. Must be the Christmas thing.’

‘Christmas thing?’ Brie murmured, following his gaze. ‘Oh, you mean Secret Sinner-Santa—she mentioned it.’

That too.

‘You didn’t introduce yourselves?’

‘Why would we? It was just a...’ He trailed off. Probably not the wisest thing to say to the best friend. ‘Should I try to—?’

‘No. Sinner-Santas are for Christmas Eve—so I heard. I think if I was her, I’d want a little alone time. How long were you standing there?’

‘Long enough.’

‘Okay, here’s the thing, Jett.’

She got real serious. It was always an unnerving experience with Breanna to be looking at his own eyes, and right now his sister’s were clear and cool.

‘Olivia’s my best friend. She’s also the most generous, caring person I know. She’s been too busy studying and setting up her own charity and a dozen other activities over the past few years to have any sort of social life—and goodness knows she needs it. I can’t remember the last time she—’

‘What we get up to is between me and Olivia.’

‘And that’s fine with me. You’re my brother, Jett, and I care about you. Whether or not you believe it, whether or not you want it, it’s there and it’s unconditional. But I care about Livvie too. She’s like a sister to me. So be careful, okay?’

He felt awkward around sentimental words when they were directed his way and shrugged them off. ‘Hey, it’s cool. I don’t need your care and concern, but thanks anyway.’

Her expression switched instantly and regret brimmed in eyes that looked at him as if he were a sick puppy. ‘I can’t forgive Dad for what he did.’

Ah. No. No way in hell was he getting into deep and meaningfuls with Breanna about their shared parentage. ‘Forget it,’ he muttered. He strode to a table sheltered by an umbrella. Ice clinked as he picked up a jug of chilled water.

‘So as part of our familial connection,’ she continued, while he poured himself a tall glass, and another for Breanna, ‘I keep up with the press goings-on and your social-media updates. I know your fast and loose reputation with sophisticated women who know what the game’s all about. A girl in every port.’

He held out one glass to Breanna and threw the contents of the other down his suddenly dry throat. She’d kept tabs on him for the past three years? Hell. ‘So?’ he said, meeting her gaze.

‘Olivia’s not like that.’

‘You saying last night she wasn’t herself, then?’

She waved her hands about her, unsure. ‘I don’t know about last night, I wasn’t there. I’m just telling you what I know about who she is. How she is. Usually.’

‘She’s hardly talking to me as it is. Don’t worry, I won’t lay a finger on her. Or anything else.’

Unless she asks me to. He grew hard just thinking about last night and where his fingers had been. He refilled his glass and sat on one of the recliners to hide the incriminating evidence building a bonfire in his shorts. Yeah, any glimmer of reciprocation on the best friend’s part and all bets were off.

Breanna took the other recliner. ‘I’m not saying don’t have a good time, Jett. She deserves some fun. She’s in desperate need of some fun. But...’ She shrugged, seemed to consider. ‘Fine. You’re both adults, I’ll leave it up to you. And her.’

He nodded. ‘It’ll be okay,’ he reassured her. ‘You’re racing tomorrow. I take it she’s sailing with you?’

‘Livvie’s the reason I’m going. We’ve sailed together heaps.’ She hugged her shoulders and smiled. ‘I can’t wait. It’s turning out to be such a great Christmas.’

‘Yeah.’ His gaze flicked to the harbour, filled with myriad different craft on the white-flecked water, some decked with tinsel or coloured streamers. He’d never tell his sister he always spent the twenty-fifth of December doing anything so long as it wasn’t related to Christmas.

When his trip to Thailand with a couple of mates had been cancelled at the last minute, he’d decided, on the spur of the moment, to accept Breanna’s invitation to meet up in Sydney. He’d not realised he’d accepted the full Christmas Day deal until too late. She’d sounded so damn thrilled about it, he just hadn’t been able to bring himself to disappoint her.

But she looked as if she was settling in for a bit of a sisterly chat so he said, ‘Reckon I’ll lie here and snooze for a bit.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Didn’t get much sleep last night.’

She cleared her throat. ‘Right. I’m going to take a shower.’

‘Okay.’ Which reminded him he’d been disappointed the pretty strawberry underwear had disappeared when he’d used the second bathroom this morning.

The air was warm and muggy and he was dozing within moments...

* * *

...Hurry up, Mummy. She was always late to pick him up from school. Jett had got himself there this morning because he hadn’t been able to wake her up. Again. He’d been so hungry he’d asked his teacher if he could have a Vegemite sandwich from the canteen, cos they did that sometimes when his mum didn’t give him food cos she’d run out of money.

But then strangers came and took him away to another house and told him his mum had passed away. He wasn’t sure what that meant but he knew he wouldn’t be seeing her again and he cried heaps cos she’d told him she loved him and promised him that one day they’d go and live with his father in a big house and there’d be everything he’d ever wanted.

The lady that had picked him up told him he’d be living with other kids like him and he’d have lots of fun and make new friends. And he tried. But he didn’t have fun and they picked on him cos he was smaller. So he fought back. And then they told him he was a trouble-maker and moved him to another place, then another. Who needed dumb friends anyway? He was waiting for the day his father came to get him, then everything would be okay.

And while he waited he dreamed how it was going to be. His father would laugh and open his arms and fold Jett in close like his mum used to do on her good days and tell him he’d been waiting for this day too.

Then one day they said his father wanted him to come for Christmas Day. He was overcome with breathless anticipation. Filled with wonder and excitement; his first proper Christmas with a real turkey and a tree and presents and stuff. His father might’ve got him a bike and he’d take him outside after lunch to teach him how to ride it and then he’d tell him he loved him and wanted him to stay for ever and that he had his own bedroom with a pirate bed and a pirate night light, cos he really liked pirates.

But when he got there, the man he’d dreamed about had sad eyes and didn’t smile like how he’d imagined. He took him inside and there was a lady there too. Jett didn’t understand why the lady wouldn’t look at him or why she left the room with wet eyes. Then his father showed him a tiny bundle of baby with dark hair and eyes just like his own and told him her name was Breanna. His very own sister. And he forgot the man had looked sad cos now he was smiling and he let Jett touch the baby’s skin and it felt like his mum’s silk pillow case that she used to let him sleep on sometimes, only even softer. Today was the best day in the world.

But then the lady came and took the baby out of the room and his father told him that Jett couldn’t be a part of his new family. Ever.

* * *

Jett stirred, rasped a hand over his stubble but kept his eyes closed. Christmas—and the old bad still followed like a dark shadow.

But his sister—the baby who’d ousted him from his rightful place in the family—was a bright light and not what he’d expected. He was still amazed that Breanna had come looking for him after their father had died and she’d learned she had an older brother. She’d been the sole heir to their father’s estate but didn’t seem to want anything from him but his friendship.

‘You,’ muttered a curt female voice. Just sharp enough to cut through the air and ensure he was listening, followed by the sound of fingertips drumming impatiently on the balcony rail.

His lips curved but his eyes remained closed. ‘Hello, Trouble. Taking a few moment’s down-time. Didn’t get much sleep last night.’

‘It’s not your sleeping habits I’m bothered about.’

Her fresh apricot and cucumber scent wafted to his nostrils and he cracked open one eye. She’d showered; her gloriously red hair was damp and kissed elegant bare shoulders. A short black-and-white geometrically patterned dress hugged her curves. Curves he’d been getting intimately acquainted with not twelve hours ago. Curves he might have got even more intimate with if Breanna hadn’t phoned Olivia and cut his plans for the rest of the evening short.

Breanna had phoned him too. Checked up on him. Left messages of concern, then annoyance. Which he probably should have answered but simply hadn’t got around to.

Who the hell ever checked up on Jett Davies?

He caught Olivia glancing at him from beneath auburn lashes. She turned a pretty shade of watermelon pink when she saw him admiring her physical assets, then looked away and became preoccupied with counting the vehicles crossing the Harbour Bridge.

‘You sure about that?’ he said to her profile, his smile widening when he saw the increasing tension in her shoulders. ‘My sleeping habits could be a good conversation starter. Why don’t you sit down and we can discuss them?’

He’d half expected her to decline but she took a chair opposite him. ‘As I was saying...it’s your typical irresponsible male behaviour.’

‘I am male,’ he pointed out. ‘I thought you’d have noticed last night. And yes, I’m pretty sure it was typical male behaviour when in the company of a sexy woman who wants the same thing he does. What I’m not sure about is the word irresponsible. I have heard of safe sex.’

She inhaled sharply, poured herself a glass of water from the table beside her. ‘You really have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?’

‘But you’re going to tell me.’

‘Last night...’

‘Last night...’ He trailed off suggestively and the sultry images hung heavy in the air between them. He had an erection most men would be jealous of and nowhere to use it—damned if he was going to make it easy for her.

She cleared her throat, downed half the contents of her glass. ‘It never occurred to you that Brie would be waiting to hear if you were okay, did it.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘You never bothered to ring and let her know where you were.’

He flipped a hand. ‘See, that’s exactly why I don’t keep women around long-term.’ But he had to admit he saw her point.

‘Brie’s not just any woman, she’s your sister. And I don’t care what you do with your groupies, but you told Brie you were on your way to the party and that’s the last she heard. While you were getting it on with some random woman she was worried about what might have happened to you.’

His brows rose. ‘That woman was you.’

‘And she felt let down because she’d been looking forward to sharing the evening with her brother. The fact it was me is irrelevant, Jett. Just because you’re a famous chef-slash-food-writer-slash-critic—yes, Brie filled me in moments ago, and no, I didn’t recognise you, which must be a blow to your over-inflated ego—doesn’t mean you treat people who care about you that way. Accountability’s obviously not a word you’re familiar with and—’

‘You sure have a lot to say.’ Crikey, she was red hot when she was mad. Fiery. Filled with a vibrant energy to rival his own. It matched her hair and made him want to reach up, wind it around his fingers and pull her down so he could put that tongue to better use.

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