He’s locked himself away...

Can Jemma find the key to his heart?

Working with Jemma Harrison on his novel is the last thing millionaire Nate Thornton wants. After his harrowing experience as a war reporter, Nate prefers to be alone. He certainly doesn’t want Jemma reawakening his desires—or his dreams! But soon Nate can’t deny the light Jemma brings to his life. Could she be the one woman to open his heart again?

BELLA BUCANNON lives in a quiet northern suburb of Adelaide with her soulmate husband, who loves and supports her in any endeavour. She enjoys walking, dining out and travelling. Bus tours or cruising with days at sea to relax, plot and write are top of her list. Apart from category romance she also writes very short stories and poems for a local writing group. Bella believes joining RWA and SARA early in her writing journey was a major factor in her achievements.

Also by Bella Bucannon

Bound by the Unborn Baby

A Bride for the Brooding Boss

Captivated by the Enigmatic Tycoon

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Unlocking the Millionaire’s Heart

Bella Bucannon

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07750-7

UNLOCKING THE MILLIONAIRE’S HEART

© 2018 Harriet Nichola Jarvis

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Thank you to family, friends and fellow writers, whose encouragement and support were invaluable during the highs and lows of this particular writing journey.

To my husband, always willing to brainstorm when I’m stuck for a word or idea, always reassuring.

To Kim for special insight.

To Victoria and Laurie for their advice and guidance.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Extract

CHAPTER ONE

NATE THORNTON SHOOK the rain from his hair with vigour before entering the towering central office block in Sydney’s city centre. He’d had to reschedule planned video meetings to make the train trip from Katoomba at Brian Hamilton’s insistence, and he’d been further frustrated by his evasive remarks.

‘It has to be Thursday the ninth. I think I’ve found a resolution for your hero and heroine interaction problem. And there’s a publisher who’s interested in seeing a revised copy of your book.’

Late-night research had shown Brian Hamilton to be one of the best literary agents in Australia. After initial contact he had asked for, and read, Nate’s synopsis and first three chapters, then requested the full manuscript. His brutal honesty on its marketability had convinced Nate he was the contract negotiator he wanted.

Attempts to rewrite the scenes he’d specified, however, had proved that particular aspect wasn’t his forte. And when he’d been tempted to suggest cutting them out, the feeling in his gut had told him it wasn’t that simple, and to ask if the agent could find a better solution.

It wasn’t the possibility of income that drove Nate to his computer. Astute investment of an inheritance and a significant part of his earnings while working abroad meant he was financially secure for years. Or, as his brother claimed, ‘filthy rich’—a phrase he detested. Although he envied Sam the satisfaction he’d achieved as a pilot in the air force, currently stationed at Edinburgh, north of Adelaide.

His compulsion to write had been driven by the need to put the hardships and traumas he’d witnessed as an international reporter where they belonged—in his past. Those harrowing images of man’s inhumanity to man were still in his head, though for the most part he managed to keep them buried.

There was nothing he could do regarding the way he now viewed life and interacted with new acquaintances. The walls he’d built for his own emotional protection were solid and permanent.

Frowning at the number of floors all six lifts had to descend before reaching him, he punched the ‘up’ button and tapped his fingers on his thigh. Okay, so he wasn’t so hot on the touchy-feely sentimental stuff. Hell, the rest of his hundred thousand words were damn good, and his target readers weren’t romantic females.

No disrespect intended.

The street doors sliding open drew his attention. The woman who came in brushing raindrops from her hair held it. He had a quick impression of black tights, then a flash of blue patterned fabric under a beige raincoat as she unbuttoned and shook it.

His mind registered long brown hair, a straight nose and red lips above a cute chin—great descriptive characterisation for an author, Thornton—then, as their eyes met, he felt a distinct jolt in his stomach.

Dark blue eyes framed by thick lashes stared, then blinked. Her smooth brow furrowed, and she swung away abruptly to study the board on the wall. He huffed in wry amusement at having been dismissed as un-noteworthy—not his usual first reaction from women.

The lift pinged and he moved aside to allow an exiting couple room. Another quick appraisal of the stationary figure of the woman, and he stepped inside.

* * *

Brian’s personal assistant had notified Brian of Nate’s arrival, and in less than the time it took her to hang his damp jacket on a stand in the corner the agent was greeting him with enthusiasm.

‘Punctual as always.’ He peered over Nate’s shoulder, as if expecting someone else. ‘Come on in. Coffee?’

‘Yes—if it’s going to be rough and take that long.’

Brian laughed. ‘It all depends on how determined you are to have a successful publication.’

He followed Nate into the well-appointed corner office, waved at the four comfy leather armchairs round a long low table and went to the coffee machine on a built-in cabinet.

‘Strong and black, right?’

‘Please.’

Nate sat and studied the view of nearby commercial buildings: hundreds of glass pane eyes, letting in sunlight while hiding the secrets of the people behind them. He’d need to be a heap of floors higher to get even a smidgeon of a harbour view.

‘How was the journey down? Ah, excuse me, Nate.’ Brian walked over to answer the ring from his desk phone, said ‘Thank you, Ella,’ then hung up and went to the door.

‘I won’t be a moment, then we can get started. Your coffee should be ready.’

Spooning sugar into the mug, Nate added extra, figuring he was going to need it. He heard Brian’s muted voice, and a quiet female answer. Distracted by the sounds, he drank too soon, letting out a low curse when the hot brew burnt his tongue. This day wasn’t getting any better.

‘Come in—there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

A second later he was experiencing the same reaction as he had a few moments ago on the ground floor. The woman who’d caused it stood in the doorway, her stunning eyes wide with surprise. And some other, darker emotion.

The absence of her raincoat—presumably hanging up with his jacket—revealed a slender form in a hip-length, blue-patterned, long-sleeved garment with no fastening at the front. The black tights drew his gaze to shapely legs and flat black laced shoes.

This close, he appreciated the smoothness of her lightly tanned skin, the blue of her irises and the perfect shape of her full lips. Not so acceptable was her hesitation and the glance behind her. An action that allowed him to make out the nuances of colour in her hair—shades of his teak table at home.

One look at his agent’s satisfied expression and his brain slammed into full alert. This young woman seemed more likely to be a problem for his libido than a resolution for his fictional characters’ relationship. What the hell did Brian have in mind?

* * *

With Brian urging her in, Jemma Harrison had no choice but to enter the room, pressing the tips of her left-hand fingers into her palm. The man from the lobby seemed no more pleased to see her than she felt about him. Down there, with the length of the foyer between them, his self-assured stance and the arrogant lift of his head had proclaimed his type. One she recognised, classified and avoided.

She’d dismissed the blip in her pulse as their eyes met, swinging away before her mind could process any of his features. Now, against her will, it memorised deep-set storm-grey eyes with dark lashes, thick, sun streaked brown hair and a stubborn jaw. Attractive in an outdoor, man-of-action way. The tan summer sweater he wore emphasised impressive pecs and broad shoulders. He’d teamed it with black chinos and sneakers, and she knew her socialite sister, Vanessa, would rate him as ‘cool.’

‘Jemma, meet Nate Thornton. Nate, Jemma Harrison.’ Brian grinned, as if he’d pulled off an impossible coup.

Jemma stepped forward as Nate placed his mug on the bench and did the same. His cool eyes gave no indication of his thoughts, and his barely there smile vanished more quickly than it had formed.

For no fathomable reason her body tensed as he shook her hand, his grip gentle yet showing underlying strength. A man you’d want on your side in any battle. A man whose touch initiated tremors across her skin and heat in the pit of her stomach. A man she hoped lived a long way from her home town.

‘Hello, Jemma. From your expression, I assume Brian didn’t tell you I’d be here, so we’re both in the dark.’

Against her will, she responded to the sound of his voice—firm and confident, deep and strong, with a hint of abrasion. The kind of voice that would stir sensations when whispering romantic phrases in a woman’s ear.

Oh, heck, now she was thinking like one of her starry-eyed heroines, and feeling bereft as he let go and moved away.

‘Brian invited me to come in any time I was in Sydney. He didn’t mention anyone else being here today.’

‘I’ll explain once you have a drink,’ Brian said. ‘Coffee, tea or cold?’

‘Flat white coffee with sugar, please.’

She settled into one of the chairs. Nate retrieved his mug and dropped into the one alongside. She was aware of his scrutiny as she scanned the office she’d been too nervous to admire during her first appointment here. It was furnished to give the impression of success with moderation—very apt for the occupant himself.

Average in appearance, and normally mild-mannered, Brian let his passion surface when speaking of books, of guiding authors on their journey to publication and the joy of sharing their triumphs. In assessment he was never condescending, highlighting the positives before giving honest evaluation of the low points, and offering suggestions for improvement.

Why had he invited Nate Thornton to join them? She’d bet he had no idea of the romance genre, and wouldn’t appreciate any relevant cover if she held it up in front of his face.

Brian placed a mug in front of her, sat down with his and smiled—first at her, then towards Nate.

‘We have here an agent’s dilemma: two writers with great potential for literary success, both with flaws that prohibit that achievement.’

Jemma turned her head to meet Nate’s appraising gaze and raised eyebrows and frowned. Why wasn’t he as surprised as she was at this announcement?

Brian regained her attention and continued.

‘Discussions and revision attempts haven’t been successful for either of you. But, as they say in the game, I had a lightbulb moment after Jemma told me she was coming to Sydney.’

He took a drink before going on, and Jemma’s stomach curled in anticipation—or was it trepidation? She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear any solution which meant involvement with this stranger by her side.

‘Nate has a talent for action storytelling—very marketable in any media. Regrettably, the interaction between his hero and heroine is bland and unimaginative.’

That was hard to believe. Any man as handsome as he would have no trouble finding willing women to date and seduce. She’d seen the macho flare in his eyes when they’d been introduced, and her body’s response had been instinctive.

‘Jemma’s characters and their interaction make for riveting reading. But the storyline between the extremely satisfying emotional scenes has little impact and won’t keep pages turning. So, as a trial, I’m proposing we combine your strengths in Nate’s manuscript.’

* * *

Nate’s protest drowned out the startled objections coming from the woman on his right. It took supreme effort not to surge to his feet and pace the room—a lifelong habit when agitated or problem solving.

‘Oh, come on, Brian. You know the hours and the effort—physical and mental—that I’ve put into that book. I can understand bringing someone else in...could even accept an experienced author...’

He struggled for words. Huh, so much for being a great writer.

‘You expect me to permit an unproven amateur to mess with my manuscript? Her hearts and flowers characters will never fit.’

‘Isn’t your “amateur status” the reason you’re here too, Mr Thornton? I doubt you’ve ever held a romance novel, let alone read the blurb on the back.’

The quiet, pleasant voice from minutes ago now had bite. He swung round to refute her comment, so riled up its intriguing quality barely registered.

‘Wrong, Jemma. Every single word of one—from the title on the front cover to the ending of that enlightening two-paragraph description—to win a bet. Can’t say I was impressed.’

Her chin lifted, her dark blue eyes widened in mock indignation and her lips, which his errant brain was assessing as decidedly kissable, curled at the corners. Her short chuckle had his breath catching in his throat, and his pulse booting up faster than his top-of-the-range computer.

‘Let me guess. It was selected by a woman—the one who claimed you wouldn’t make it through the first chapter, let alone to the happy ending.’

Shoot! His stomach clenched as if he’d been sucker-punched. Baited and played by his sister, Alice, he’d read every page of that badly written, highly sexed paperback to prove a point.

Brian cut in, so his plans for sibling payback had to be shelved for the future.

‘Relax, Nate. Your hero and heroine’s action stories are absorbing and believable. It’s their relationship that won’t be credible to the reader. I’m convinced Jemma can rectify that.’

‘You’re asking me to give her access? Let her delete and make changes to suit her reading preferences?’

No way. Not now. Not ever.

‘No.’

‘No!’

Their denials meshed.

Brian was the one who negated his outburst.

‘No one’s suggesting such a drastic measure. To start with I’d like the two of you to have lunch. Get to know each other a little. If you can reach a truce, we could start with a trial collaboration on two or three chapters.’

Lunch? Food and table talk with a woman who’d shown an adverse reaction to him on sight?

He sucked in air, blew it out and shrugged his shoulders. What did he have to lose? A book contract, for starters.

He matched the challenge in Jemma’s eyes, nodded and forced a smile.

‘Would you care to have lunch with me, Jemma?’

‘It will be my pleasure, Nate.’

Her polite acceptance and return smile alleviated his mood a tad, though the option he’d been given still rankled. He disliked coercion—especially if it meant having a meal with an attractive woman who was somehow breaching the barriers he’d built for mental survival. Another reason for not entering into a working relationship with her.

He avoided entanglements. One heart-ripping experience had been enough, and was not to be chanced again. It was only his fact-finding skill that had prevented his being conned out of a fortune as well. Any woman he met now had to prove herself worthy of his trust before it was given.

Brian had been straight and honest with him from the start. And Jemma had shown spirit, so she might be good company. He’d enjoy a good meal, and then...

Well, for starters he’d be spending a lot of time reading writing manuals until he’d mastered the art of accurately describing a relationship.

* * *

It was warming up as Jemma exited the building with Nate. The rain had cleared, leaving the pavements wet and steamy and the air clammy. With a soft touch to her elbow he steered her to the right and they walked in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

She was mulling over the recent conversation between the two of them and Brian, and assumed he was doing the same. Agreeing to Brian’s proposition would mean being in frequent contact—albeit via electronic media—with a man whose innate self-assurance reminded her of her treacherous ex-boyfriend and her over-polite and social-climbing brother-in-law.

But unlike those two Nate also had an aura of macho strength and detachment. The latter was a plus for her—especially with her unexpected response when facing him eye to eye and having her hand clasped in his. Throughout the meeting she’d become increasingly aware of his musky aroma with its hint of vanilla and citrus. Alluring and different from anything she’d ever smelt, it had had her imagining a cosy setting in front of a wood fire.

Other pedestrians flowed around them, eager to reach their destinations. Nate came to a sudden stop, caught her arm and drew her across to a shop window. Dropping his hand, he regarded her for a moment with sombre eyes, his body language telling her he’d rather be anywhere else, with anyone else.

‘Any particular restaurant you fancy?’ Reluctance resonated in his voice.

‘I haven’t a clue.’ She arched her head to stare beyond him. An impish impulse to razz him for his hostile attitude overrode her normal discretion and she grinned. ‘How about that one?’

He followed her gaze to the isolated round glass floor on the communications tower soaring above the nearby buildings. His eyebrows arched, the corner of his mouth quirked, and something akin to amusement flashed like lightning in his storm-grey eyes.

‘The Sydney Tower? Probably booked out weeks ahead, but we can try.’

‘I was joking—it’s obviously a tourist draw. If we’d been a few steps to the right I wouldn’t even have seen it. You decide.’

‘You’re not familiar with Sydney, are you?’

His voice was gentler, as if her living a distance away was acceptable.

‘Basic facts from television and limited visits over many years—more since some of my friends moved here.’

‘Darling Harbour’s not too far, and there’s a variety of restaurants there. We’ll take a cab.’

‘Sounds good.’ She’d have been content to walk—she loved the hustle and bustle of the crowds, the rich accents of different languages and the variety of personal and food aromas wafting through the air. Tantalising mixtures only found in busy cities.

She followed him to the kerb, trying to memorise every detail while he watched for a ride. Once they were on their way her fingers itched to write it all down in the notepad tucked in the side pocket of her shoulder bag—an essential any time she left home.

As a writer, he might understand. As a man who’d been coerced into having lunch with her, who knew how he’d react?

Erring on the side of caution, she clasped her hands together and fixed the images in her mind.

CHAPTER TWO

THE FORMAL ESTABLISHMENT Nate steered her towards was a pleasant surprise. She’d been expecting something similar to the casual restaurants she’d passed on her way to Brian’s office from the station. White and red linen, crystal glassware and elegant decor gave it a classy atmosphere, and made it look similar to her parents’ current venture in Adelaide. The difference was in the plush red cushioning on the seats and the backs of the mahogany chairs.

They received a warm welcome, and at Nate’s request were led to a corner table by the window. The view of moored yachts and the cityscape behind them was postcard-picturesque, and would be more so at night with the boats and buildings lit up. She made a mental note to return to the area after dark with Cloe, the friend she was staying with in North Ryde.

Occasionally taking a sip of the chilled water in her glass, she perused the menu options carefully. Having grown up experiencing different flavours and cuisines, she loved comparing the many ways different chefs varied tastes.

‘What would you like to drink, Jemma?’

Looking up, she encountered a seemingly genuine smile from Nate. Pity it didn’t reach his eyes. But at least he was giving her a choice—something her ex had rarely granted. She placed her menu down, food decision made, and flicked back the hair from her right cheek.

‘White wine, please. I’m having fish for both entrée and main courses.’

‘Any special kind?’

That impulsive urge to rattle his staid demeanour rose again: so not her usual behaviour.

‘I guess I should pick a local label—though our South Australian ones are superior.’ She raised her chin and curled her lips, daring him to dispute her statement.

She achieved her aim and then some.

His eyes narrowed, drawing his thick dark brows obliquely down, and his mouth quirked as he spoke in a mild tone. ‘We’ll save that war until later. For that quip, I’ll select.’

His flippant remark left her breathless, lips parted and with tingles scooting up and down her spine. She drained her water glass, incapable of forming a retort. He was smart—a fast thinker. A man not to be toyed with.

Her mind inexplicably recalled the adage Make love not war, and a hot flush spread up from her neck. Lucky for her, a young waiter arrived for their orders, and she ducked her head to read from the menu.

I’ll start with the smoked salmon with capers,’ she told him, ‘and have the barramundi with a fresh garden salad for my main.’

Nate chose oysters with chilli, coconut and lime as an entrée, followed by grilled salmon and steamed vegetables.

The wine he ordered was unknown to Jemma, and the hours she’d spent stacking refrigerators and racks had given her an extensive knowledge of labels. She’d also filled and emptied many a dishwasher, so figured she’d earned any offer to dine out for years to come.

‘You obviously enjoy seafood.’

Nate’s upper body leant forward over his crossed arms on the table, his intent to follow their agent’s suggestion of becoming acquainted evident in his posture. Pity there was little affability in his tone, and a suspicion there was more to his manner than giving her access to his writing began to form.

‘Barramundi is my mother’s specialty. I like to compare other offerings with hers.’

‘She’s a good cook, huh?’

Jemma laughed. ‘Don’t ever call her that if she has a knife in her hand—which, by the way, will always be sharp. Both she and Dad are qualified chefs, and live for their profession.’

A speculative gleam appeared in his smoky eyes, holding her spellbound, feeling as if he were seeking her innermost thoughts. His features remained impassive, his voice with its intriguing hint of roughness calm. The only sign of emotion was the steady tapping of two left-hand fingers on his right elbow, an action he seemed unaware of.

‘I’m guessing that didn’t leave much time for child-rearing.’

‘I didn’t mean—’

The waiter appeared with their wine, sending the next words back into her throat. She’d have to set him straight—hadn’t meant to give that impression. Yet as Nate sampled the small amount of wine poured into his glass she couldn’t deny the facts. There had been little time for any of the usual parent/child activities, though they’d encouraged and financed Vanessa’s modelling courses. They’d gained publicity, of course, when she’d won an international contract.

On Nate’s approval, her glass was filled. As she savoured the crisp, dry flavour he raised his glass to her without speaking, drank, then set it down.

‘This is good. I approve of your choice, Nate.’ She took another sip and let it linger on her tongue, waiting for him to continue the conversation about family. He didn’t.

I presume you don’t write full-time? Do you have another career?’

‘I paint pictures of Australian flora and fauna, mostly on small tiles, and work part-time in the gift shop where they’re displayed. I also sell them at local markets.’

‘Let me guess—koalas and wombats top the list?’

Hearing the hint of condescension in his voice, she clenched her teeth and felt her spine stiffen. She tightened her grip on the stem of her glass and held back the retort his words deserved.

‘They’re up there. Mother animals with babies are my bestsellers, along with bright native flowers.’

‘And where’s home?’

Firing questions seemed to be his idea of becoming acquainted. She obliged, giving him only the information she wished to reveal.

‘The Adelaide Hills.’

‘South Australian bushfire territory? I was there in 2015. The risks don’t worry you?’

* * *

Nate saw the flicker of pain in her eyes and the slight convulsion in her throat—heard the hitch in her voice when, after gazing out of the window for a moment, she answered.

‘That year was my first summer as a resident there. A close friend lost property, some sheep and their pets—a cat and two dogs. Meg and her family were devastated, yet they stayed, rebuilt and adopted from the animal shelter. They taught me how to minimise risks, and although the worry is there every year, it’s balanced by living with fresh air in a friendly, small-town atmosphere. Big cities are for holidays and shopping sprees. How about you?’

Sprung. He’d kept his questions basic, complying with the intent of Brian’s words if not the spirit. He hadn’t expected to hear a familiar story—one he’d heard a few times since he’d moved to the mountains. Given her parents’ profession, he’d pictured her living in Adelaide or one of its suburbs.

Bracing himself for her reaction, he answered.

‘The Blue Mountains.’

He was treated to a sharp intake of breath between parted lips, a delightful indignant expression and flashing eyes. Against his will, his gut tightened in response.

‘That’s the New South Wales equivalent. You have flare-ups every year.’

Stalled by the arrival of their entrées, Nate waited until they were alone before replying, surprising himself with an admission he didn’t normally disclose to strangers.

‘I know. I help fight them.’

She tilted her head as she scrutinised him, as if memorising every feature and nuance. He’d already achieved that in the office. He might not have her reputed eloquent descriptive powers, but her face was indelibly imprinted on his mind. Again, not intentionally.

‘You’re a volunteer firefighter?’

Her apparent admiration was gratifying, if not truly merited. He shrugged it off. Living in the country meant embracing its culture and values.

‘You live in the area—you should do your bit. The training keeps me fit, along with exercising at home.’

He scooped up an oyster and let it slide down his throat, savouring the spice and tang as he watched Jemma arrange salmon and capers on a cracker, and take a delicate bite. Her glossed lips fascinated him, conjuring up thoughts better left unsaid, and his sudden surge of desire was totally unexpected.

He knew the myth that oysters were an aphrodisiac, so maybe they’d been the wrong choice.

Risky selection or not, he ate another before asking, ‘How much writing have you done?’

It came out more curt than he’d intended—caused by his inability to curb her effect on his mind and body. If he was attracted to a woman his rules were not negotiable. Keep it simple, keep it unemotional and don’t get too involved. Strictly adhering to those rules since his short disastrous affair—never discussed with anyone, not even family—ensured mutually satisfying relationships with women of similar views.

Jemma wrote romance. She’d be a sentimental believer in happy-ever-after who deserved flowers—hell, she even painted them—and love tokens. She’d want commitment, and would no doubt one day be a devoted wife and mother.

He might fantasise about her, might desire her, but the pitfalls of sexual entanglement had taught him to maintain control. Whatever feelings she aroused now, they would pass once they’d parted company.

She sipped her wine and made a lingering survey of the room, before facing him with enigmatic features. Not one to open up willingly to someone she didn’t know. He waited patiently. As things stood now, his literary career wouldn’t be taking off any time soon.

‘Poems and short stories since childhood—most of the earlier ones consigned to the recycling bin. A computer file of thirty thousand-word partial manuscripts with varying degrees of potential, plus this finished one.’

‘Which Brian deems in need of drastic revision?’

‘Ditto, Mr Thornton. Is this your first effort, or are there others waiting for your help too?’

She gave a sudden stunning smile that tripped his pulse, shaking his composure.

She rattled it even more when she added, with unerring accuracy, ‘No, you’d see any project through to the bitter end before starting another.’ Leaving him speechless.

He scooped out the last oyster, trying to fathom why a woman so dissimilar from those who usually attracted him was pressing his buttons with such ease. Down to earth rather than sophisticated, she had that indefinable something he couldn’t identify.

Shelving it to the back of his mind, he pushed the tray of empty shells aside. ‘Point conceded. And the name’s Nate. Unless you’re trying to maintain a barrier between us?’

The soft flush of colour over her cheeks proved he was right. His own rush of guilt proved that his conscience knew his curtness was partly to blame.

He drained his wine glass, set it down, and thanked the waitress who cleared away the dishes. A new topic seemed appropriate.

‘How well do you know Brian?’

* * *

Jemma blinked as he switched topic again. This was almost like speed-dating—which she’d never tried, but she knew women who’d described it. Except she and Nate weren’t changing partners, and she definitely wasn’t in the market for one.

‘Mostly by email, but I trust him. He read my novel, then when I came to Sydney in December we met in his office. Not my happiest encounter ever, as he gave me an honest, concise appraisal of my writing proficiency. Unlike you, my inept storyline passages way outnumber the good scenes. You?’

‘Similar scenario. You’re not bothered that agreeing to his proposal means putting your novel on hold while you work on someone else’s?’

‘No, I’m dumbfounded by the offer, terrified of the implications if I fail, and thrilled that he believes I’m worthy of being part of something he seems keen to see published. If you’re as good as he’s implied, adapting those scenes yet keeping them true to your characters and story will be beneficial for my career too.’

‘Hmm.’

He appeared to be considering her declaration as their mains were served, pepper offered and accepted by Nate, and their wine glasses refilled. She waited for him to continue, but instead he began to eat.

The fish was delicious, and her mmm of pleasure slipped out. Glancing up, she found Nate watching her with a sombre expression.

‘How does this chef’s barramundi compare to your mother’s?’

‘As good as—though I’d never tell her. It’s different, and I can’t pick why. I prefer the natural taste of food, so I don’t use many herbs and spices and I can’t always identify their flavour. How’s your salmon?’

She hoped her answer would satisfy him, and save her from having to admit that her limited cooking knowledge came from her aunt and recipe books, because her parents claimed they didn’t have time to teach her.

‘Up to the usual excellent standard. I’ve never had a meal here that wasn’t.’

They ate in silence for a few minutes, with Jemma wishing she had her sister’s gift to attract and charm people of any age. Apart from when she was with close friends Jemma hid behind a façade of friendly courtesy. Though she had her moments when she couldn’t hold back—like when someone irked her as he had a few times. Or when her curiosity was aroused. Like now.

‘How do you make a living while you’re waiting for the book sale royalties to come flooding in?’

Nate’s head jerked up, his face a picture of astonishment. Instead of the comeback she’d assumed he’d give, he chuckled, and the deep sound wrapped around her, making her yearn for a time when trust had come easy.

‘I’ll let you know when they do and we’ll celebrate.’

The memory of a similar pledge slammed through her, taking her breath away and freezing her blood.

I’m expecting good news. When it comes we’ll have a special celebration.

Two days later she’d found out that the man she’d believed loved her and intended to propose was sleeping with a female colleague to gain promotion. He’d even gone to meet her after taking Jemma home that night.

‘Jemma, are you all right?’

She shook her head, dragged in air and looked into concerned grey eyes.

‘You’re white as a ghost.’

‘The ghost of a bad memory. Best forgotten.’ She managed a smile and he relaxed into his seat, keeping watch on her pale face. ‘Truly, I’m fine.’

‘I’m not so sure, but...’

He let out a very masculine grunt and she was totally back in the now, reaching for her wine, sipping it as he gave her a serious answer.

‘I was a reporter. Now I’m an investment advisor.’

‘A good one?’

‘Good enough to pay the bills.’

Jemma pondered on his succinct job description. She could visualise him investigating a story, chasing information to find the truth, but the switch to an office job didn’t gel.

‘Why the career move?’

She watched his chest expand under the tan sweater, hold then contract. He seemed to be deliberately assessing how much to disclose. Preparing to keep secrets and lie like her ex?

‘Things happen and you make choices. My gap year—travelling in Europe with a friend after we graduated from uni—became a rite of passage lasting seven years that made me who I am now.’

She empathised, and was convinced his matter-of-fact tone belied his true feelings. Her parents selling their house—her home—to invest in a restaurant, and her ex’s betrayal were the two events that had forced her to re-evaluate her future, and they had a continuing effect on her viewpoint and life choices.

‘Four years ago, my father had a health scare, prompting him to semi-retire and move with my mother to the south coast. It was my motivation for coming home for good—a decision I’ve never regretted in the slightest.’

She heard honest affection in his voice and envied that relationship. She couldn’t imagine her parents or sister giving up their careers for anyone—hoped she’d be more compassionate.

Sensing he’d divulged more than he’d intended when he’d agreed to lunch with her, she didn’t reply and finished eating her meal.

* * *

Nate had no idea why he’d revealed private aspects of his life he usually kept to himself. Or why he found it almost impossible to take his eyes off her enchanting, expressive face. His attraction to a woman had never been so immediate, so compelling. So in conflict with his normal emotionless liaisons.

A growing need for open space was compelling. He had to get away from her—away from her subtle floral perfume that had been tantalising him since he’d stepped near enough to greet her. Native rather than commercially grown city flowers, it was delicate and haunting.

He didn’t fight his urgent compulsion to pace and consider all the implications, including any legal ramifications, of collaboration. He needed to think and plan away from the distractions of other people, away from Jemma and his reactions to her, physical and mental.

Noting her plate was empty, he placed his cutlery neatly on his.

‘Do you want dessert or coffee here? Or we could take some time apart to consider our options and meet up later.’

This time her scrutiny was short. yet no less intense.

With an understanding smile he’d rather not have seen, she nodded. ‘That’s a good idea.’

Muscles he hadn’t realised were tight suddenly loosened.

‘I’ll need your phone number.’

Unease flickered in her eyes before she reached for her shoulder bag on the floor. Had it anything to do with her adverse opinion of him at first sight?

He held his mobile towards her, allowing her to input first.

Their empty plates removed, and anything else politely declined, she leant her elbows on the table and cupped her chin on her linked fingers as they waited for the bill.

‘Do you commute from the mountains every day?’ she asked.

‘Electronic media means I can do a fair amount from home. I come in when necessary, or for socialising.’

He hadn’t yet bowed to the pressure to commit to full-time employment with the family firm, wary of the daily sameness stretching into his future.

‘Like today?’

‘Like today.’

And he’d be staying until his flight overseas on Sunday morning.

He settled the account on the way out, irrationally torn between needing to be alone and reluctance to let her go. After saying goodbye, she headed for the railway station without glancing back. He watched for a moment, then strode towards the Harbour Bridge.

CHAPTER THREE

JEMMA TOOK NO notice of the world around her as the train sped to Central Station, and as she deliberated on which way to go when she alighted. Her brain buzzed at the compliments Brian had given her, coupled with the sensations from Nate’s few touches and her own responses to his looks and his voice.

Could she handle being in frequent contact with him? Even by email? How would she deal with someone who was averse to allowing her to read anything he’d written?

Consider our options.

Like heck. He oozed the authority of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and rarely settled for less. He’d given no indication of his point of view on their two-way deal, focussing only on his novel.

Brian’s appraisal of her work had been honest and unemotional, letting her know the downsides while still giving her hope of a satisfactory solution. Already aware of her weakness when she’d submitted to him, she was open to any suggestion for improvement.

Could Nate remain impartial to the romance genre when he read her work? How did he feel about helping to transform her inept storytelling? He’d been very forthright about his aversion to allowing her access to his manuscript. Her emotions wavered from exhilaration that she might achieve publication to apprehension that Nate’s expectations might be hard to satisfy.

She walked out of the station and turned towards Circular Quay. Window shopping in Pitt Street would pass the time and occupy her mind. If he didn’t call... She banished that thought. He’d phone—even if it was only to dash any foolish hopes she might have allowed to take seed.

A new dress and two fun presents for her friends later, she was watching the ferries dock and depart as she devoured a fruit and nut bar. She wandered over to where groups of excited people were dragging suitcases towards a huge cruise ship. A holiday to inspire a romance novel? Maybe one day she’d take one.

A brochure she’d picked up on the way showed it wasn’t far from here to the historic Rocks area. If she hadn’t heard from Nate by the time she’d explored the old buildings she’d catch the next train to North Ryde.

* * *

Did he like Jemma? Way too much. Nate had kept his emotions under tight restraint since he’d narrowly escaped being duped into a sham marriage, but he’d had trouble curbing them around her. She’d had doubts concerning him on sight, which had him wondering who he reminded her of.

Did he trust her? Not yet. Experience in dealing with the darker side of life had taught him that trust had to be earned rather than given freely.

Did he want her? His body’s response to any thought of her gave him an instant reply. But that didn’t mean he’d follow through.

Mental arguments for and against dual authorship had got him nowhere, and he was still uncommitted as he reached the waterside. Swinging left, he took the steps leading up to the bridge walkway. After skirting a group of photo-snapping tourists, he took a deep breath of salty air and began to run.

He maintained a steady pace until he reached the apartment block at North Sydney. His grandfather had bequeathed a twenty-third-storey unit jointly to him, Sam and Alice, and all three of them had lived there, alone or together, at various times. It was always available for family and friends when they came to the city.

A long, refreshing shower cooled his body, but didn’t clear his mind. Dressed in fresh clothes, and with a stubby of cold beer in his hand, he stood on the balcony, staring at the buildings around him. Not far away by foot was the office block housing the family brokerage firm, which had offered him a lucrative job for life.

Far away up in the mountains was the home he’d designed, with an architect’s help, to suit the lifestyle he planned to live. Mostly solitary, with occasional guests, pleasing only himself. Closing his eyes, he pictured the view as he woke in the morning, ate his meals and chilled out in the evenings. And in that instant his decision was made.

Somewhere in the thriving metropolis across the bay was the woman Brian believed could help him realise literary success. All he had to do was have faith and stay in command of his libido.

But before he committed to a trial partnership he needed to reinforce the life oath he’d made years ago, during the lowest point of his life. He took the dog-eared leather notebook he always travelled with, flipped it open to a coded page, and read the vow he’d made never to get involved out loud.

Then he phoned Jemma Harrison.

It took three rings for her to answer, and he heard traffic and the rattle of a train in the background.

‘Hi, Jemma, where are you?’

‘Taking photos from the Harbour Bridge.’

He surprised himself with a spontaneous burst of laughter.

‘What’s so funny?’ There was a spike in her voice, though she didn’t sound offended.

‘I ran over it on the way here. Which end are you nearest?’

‘Um... I guess I’m about a third of the way along from the quay.’

‘Keep coming north. Don’t rush. I’ll meet you at the steps going down to the road. We can sit in the park nearby. Would you like me to bring you a hot or cold drink?’

‘No, thanks. I have a bottle of water.’

‘Okay, see you soon.’

He grimaced at the screen after disconnecting, and then went to put on socks and sneakers. Having his pulse hiking and his mouth drying, even his palms itching, was something he might have to become accustomed to if they were going to be in regular communication.

Anticipation of seeing her had him moving faster than normal. It was not the way he wanted to feel.

* * *

Nate saw Jemma approaching as he reached the top of the steps so he waited, admiring the natural sway of her hips as she came towards him. The extra bag in her hand and the bulge in the one over her shoulder, proved she’d been shopping. Her smile as they met had him steeling his arms at his sides to prevent greeting her with a hug, and the sunglasses hiding the expression in her beautiful blue eyes was a disappointment.

‘Hi—would you like me to carry the bag?’

‘Thanks, I’m fine.’ She waved her arm in a wide sweep. ‘I’d love to sit and view all this on a stormy day—or preferably night.’

‘You like thunder and lightning?’

She laughed, causing an unfamiliar and yet not unpleasant effect over his skin. Causing him to take a quick breath. Causing him to fortify the reason he was meeting her. To get his book published.

‘From a safe vantage point—oh, yes.’

‘They can give you a spectacular display in the mountains—especially when watched from a heated room with a beer or glass of wine at your side.’

Berating himself for conjuring up an image of them sharing wine and nature’s dramatic show, he guided her down to the ground and across to the lawn area at the edge of the water. Partial images of the Opera House and the southern side of the bay were visible through the semicircle of palm trees. A small oasis of green surrounded by acres of concrete and buildings was behind them, and the expanse of deep water in front.

Jemma placed her bags on the ground, sat and curled her legs to the side. He joined her, leaning on his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him. For a moment or two there seemed no need for conversation. The serenity of the small area compensated for the traffic noise from the bridge.

Having resolved his mental conflict, and acutely aware of her beside him, he accepted that she’d now be a presence in his life. How prominent depended on how often they had to meet in person.

Few women he knew would wait so quietly, so patiently, for a man who’d told her he needed to consider his options, expected her to hike across the bridge, and then didn’t initiate conversation. Another difference from the women he dated.

Her profile was as appealing as her full face. Delicate smooth skin invited a caress, thick brown lashes enhanced the dark blue of her eyes, and her slender neck with its curtain of...

Where the heck had all that come from? And where the hell had it been when he’d tried to write such descriptions on the computer?

‘Jemma?’

His raspy tone came from the absence of moisture in his throat, exacerbated by the expectancy in her eyes as she faced him. He coughed, swallowed and retried.

‘Do you have full virus protection on your computer?’

Her chin lifted and her eyes narrowed in umbrage. ‘The best—and regularly updated.’

‘Would you be willing to send me some examples of those scenes Brian claims will improve my novel to a marketable level? I’m aware it means one-sided trust, but—’

Her laughter—natural, musical and matched by the sparkle in her eyes—cut him short.

‘My text is less than fifty thousand words, a fair proportion of which need cutting or rewriting. Most of your...’ She tilted her head and her eyebrows rose in query.

‘One hundred and ten thousand.’

‘Not only pass muster but have earned Brian’s praise. You have the right to be protective. How about I email three chapters?’

He puffed out what little air was left in his lungs. This could either be the start of a new career or the most turbulent phase of his life. Even seeing her face-to-face online would test his tenacity.

* * *

Jemma tried to hide the elation coursing through her. If he approved of her style of writing there was a chance he’d send her a partial to test her competence in blending with his. A limited partial, if she was any judge of men—a talent she could hardly claim, having had no inkling of her ex’s infidelity.

Nate Thornton, with his solemn expression and deep-set thoughtful eyes, was hard to read. He rarely smiled, but when he did he stirred feelings she’d sworn she’d never allow to rule her again. And his touch had her hankering for pleasures she’d renounced, tainted by betrayal. An electronic, detached co-author partnership would be the ideal answer.

‘You’ll need my email address.’ He pushed himself into a sitting position, and took out his mobile. She gave him her ever-present notebook and a pen, and had no trouble reading the neat script, wishing hers was as legible when she jotted something down so fast. He recorded hers in his phone—a much newer model than she owned. Something she might have to research and rectify in the coming weeks.

‘I’ve got a USB back-up with me, so I’ll send them tomorrow.’ She grinned at him; no use being precious about her failings. ‘Try to skim over the boring bits. Brian left me with no illusions on the quality of the storyline, but I hope to amend that failing by taking relevant courses.’

He returned the smile. ‘Maybe I should read them. They’re the reason he recommended you work with me instead of offering your novel to a publisher. I’ll do a print-out for my flight to Europe on Sunday morning—preferable to reading off a screen for me. I’ll get in touch on my return in a week or so.’

‘However long it takes.’

She couldn’t seem to break eye contact since he’d smiled at her, and wondered whether she ought to take the initiative and leave. Go home and start preparing dinner for her friends or watch some bad afternoon television. Even better, lose herself in the character charts and life histories of the hero and heroine of her next novel. One for which she intended to have Brian begging her to sign a solo contract.

Nate’s sudden rise to his feet broke her reverie and dulled her mood. Now the main issue had been settled he’d be anxious to go, and she understood—she truly did. Accepting his helping hand, she rose, taking her shoulder bag with her. He bent to pick up the other one, and maintained his hold.

‘How are you getting back?’

‘Walking over the bridge, of course. Who knows when I’ll have another chance?’

As he’d met her from this direction, she assumed he’d be staying in this area.

‘Suits me, Jemma. I’ll shout you coffee on the southern side.’

She had no right to feel elated, or for her heart to beat faster, but both happened as he spoke. And the air in her lungs seemed to have dissipated, making her sound breathy.

‘Your offer is accepted with gratitude, Nate.’

Since when had she spoken with such formality?

I don’t even allow my characters that uptown privilege. Maybe I will in a future book of mine, and their love interest will have a rougher background for conflict.

Her fingers itched to jot down notes on upbringing, and childhood environment. Instead she set the idea into her head as they returned to the walkway.

On her journey across it she’d become used to the noise of the traffic speeding past, separated from her by a steel and mesh safety fence. On the water side there were shoulder-and-head-high gaps in the corresponding mesh to allow for clear photography.

She stopped a short way along to take photos from this end, turning from Nate as she aimed her mobile upward, marvelling at the size and power of the metal beams and the majestic arches above their heads.

‘It’s so incredible—so powerful and strong.’

‘Walking up there is an entirely different experience. Keep it in mind for another visit.’

Swinging round, she bumped into his body as he stepped forward, pointing his finger to the top of the bridge. Her pulse surged as he caught her by the waist for support, and it didn’t ease off when he let go.

‘Not for me,’ she stated with emphasis.

His eyebrows rose and he grinned—a genuine magnetic smile, stirring butterflies in her stomach. Heat flooded her veins and her heart pounded. Such potency...she was glad he normally withheld it from her.

‘You’re toned and fit. What’s the problem? Fear of heights?’

He’d checked out her body? Fair was fair...she’d checked out his.

‘No, I just have no inclination to try anything I consider extreme.’

Or to become involved with the self-assured, super-confident men those activities attract.

‘Ah.’ He straightened his back and crossed his arms in mock umbrage. The quirk at the corner of his mouth and the gleam in his eyes belied his stance. A new personality was emerging—one that was engaging and amiable, much harder to keep at a distance. With luck it was only transient.

‘And that encompasses skydiving, mountain climbing and abseiling, huh?’

His words sounded deeper too, making the abrasion more appealing.

‘I’m not anti them. I can almost understand the compulsion to try them. But not the repeated temptation for disaster. Everyday life is challenging enough.’

‘Don’t you ever feel the need for an adrenaline rush?’

‘Mine come from seeing a koala with her new baby, or a rainbow appearing over the hills in a rainstorm.’

His soft chuckle evoked an alien feeling in her stomach, warm and exciting.

‘Oh, darling, you are so missing out on life.’

Her mood altered in an instant and she moved away towards the city. He walked by her side, seemingly oblivious to the word that had rendered her speechless and torn at her heart. It marked him as a man who used endearments as a matter of course, making them meaningless; it had been a habit of her ex.

Glancing at him, she caught his lips curling as if she’d amused him and the penny dropped. He’d listed the extreme sports he’d participated in, was prepared to risk his life for the so-called ‘rush’ she’d heard people rave about. Nothing they’d said had ever convinced her to try any, and she doubted reading about them—they had to be part of the action in his novel—would change her mind.

Was he even now classifying her as boring, doomed to fail in her attempt to revise some of the passages in his high-adventure book?

She stopped and swivelled to face him, square-on. ‘You’ve done all those activities?’

* * *

Nate couldn’t deny the accusation. He shrugged his shoulders and nodded. ‘Multiple times—plus a few others over the years, here and abroad.’

If they stayed in touch for a lifetime Nate figured he’d never get used to the way she breathed slow and even, her lips slightly parted and her eyes wide and focussed as they studied his face. It made him feel virile, yet vulnerable at the same time—a totally alien sensation.

Better she didn’t know that some of those activities had been to gain access to high-risk areas, following leads for stories. Others had been for the adrenaline rush—to prove he was capable of feeling after the sights he’d been exposed to had completely numbed all his emotions.

Racking his brain for something to divert her attention, he saw it over her shoulder. ‘Where does sailing qualify?’ he asked, gesturing towards the water.

She twisted to follow his gaze. A few yachts had emerged from under the bridge and were tacking from side to side, skilfully avoiding impact.

Moving to the mesh protection, she craned her neck to watch. ‘Mixed. My sister and brother-in-law in Melbourne own a yacht, and I’ve sailed with them. I love the wind in my hair, the smell of salt water and the sense of the ocean below us as we skim across the waves. Wearing life jackets. Ocean-racing in rough weather—like the Sydney to Hobart some years—is out.’

He’d bet any advance he might get on his book that she had no idea how captivating she looked: features animated, eyes sparkling and hands gesturing. Or how the inflections in her voice proved that she wasn’t immune to the thrill—no matter how much she said so.

CHAPTER FOUR

NATE DIDN’T DO YEARNING, or hankering for unattainable dreams. So why did the image of him standing on a boat, his arms on either side of her, guiding her hands on the wheel as they sailed along the coast, imprint itself into his mind?

There had been no conscious thought to move nearer. Had he shifted? Or had it been she who’d taken a step? He’d swear there’d been an arm’s length between them a moment ago.

The uneven breaths he took filled his nostrils with her subtle aroma. Time froze. Sounds blurred. And Jemma’s face filled his vision. The strong-minded man he believed he was might have fought the urge to kiss her. Here, in this moment, there was no option and he bent his head.

With a shudder she jerked away, remorse replacing the desire in her eyes. Guilt and wanting warred for prominence inside him. Neither won nor lost, and his mind was blank of any words to appease her.

Her gulp of air was followed by a short huff—an unsuccessful attempt at a laugh. ‘I don’t go there very often. They have full social lives, and I have my work and commitments.’

It was an addition to her last statement, spoken as if those few special moments hadn’t happened.

She glanced towards the city, took a step that way, and his regret was heightened at seeing her effort to regain composure.

He fell into step beside her, leaving extra space between them and taking up the conversation where she’d finished.

‘In the Adelaide Hills? Apart from the firefighting trip, the only time I’ve been to South Australia was in my teens, when my family holidayed on the South Coast. Great beaches and surfing. My brother Sam, who’s with the air force at Edinburgh, reckons it’s a cool place to be stationed.’

‘I like it. Oh!’

She gasped and he turned his head in time to see a speedboat and a yacht come close to colliding.

‘Does that qualify as extreme?’ he asked as the vessels swung away from each other.

‘Only the attitude of whoever’s steering the motorboat.’

‘If the yacht’s skipper reports him he’s in trouble. If not, I hope he’s had a sobering scare.’

She didn’t reply, and he let the conversation lapse, thinking about their near-kiss and cursing himself for his moment of weakness. It might have screwed up any possible co-writing deal, and that was what this was about.

He presumed Jemma was a stay-at-home girl—painting and writing syrupy love stories, never taking any chances outside her comfort zone. But, no, not quite. It took guts and willpower to send a manuscript to a stranger for assessment and possible negative feedback.

Submitting had been his intention from the moment the characters and plot had first formed in his head. How long had Jemma dithered before pressing ‘send’? And why this strong attraction when there were gulfs of difference between them?

* * *

Jemma opted for a café with outdoor seating near the quay. She ordered a banana and caramel ice cream sundae and a glass of water—well-earned by all the walking she’d done today. Nate opted for sultana cake and coffee.

Having him hold the seat she chose, and adjust the umbrella to shade her, was flattering and she thanked him.

‘My pleasure.’

He sat on her left, shuffled along until their knees bumped, then pulled back. The contact sent a tremor up her leg, spreading to her spine. It didn’t seem to affect him at all.

He’d told her he’d run over the bridge after lunch, which explained his damp hair when they’d met, and his change of clothes. It also signified that he was staying somewhere on the North Shore. With friends? A girlfriend? She didn’t want or need to know, but would be amazed if there wasn’t one. He didn’t wear a wedding ring, although... Not going there—it implied personal interest.

‘You run regularly? Apart from the bushfire training?’ An acceptable question as he’d initiated the topic.

‘I like to run or swim every day—sometimes both. There are some great hiking tracks near my home.’

His phone rang. He turned his head and held it to his left ear. She averted her gaze to allow him privacy, concentrating on the passing pedestrians.

‘Hi, Dave.’ He listened for a while. ‘No, we’re good. Tess will be there Saturday night, so we’ll arrange it then.’ A shorter pause, then he said goodbye and tapped her arm.

One side of his lips quirked as he peered over her shoulder ‘This looks positively evil, Jemma.

* * *

Leaning away to allow her dessert to be placed on the table, Jemma felt her eyes widen at its size. And Nate apparently found her dilemma amusing.

She flashed him a fake warning glare and then, with a honeyed tone, thanked the waitress and asked, ‘Could we please have an extra spoon for sharing?’

‘Of course. I’ll bring one out.’ She set Nate’s plate in front of him and walked away.

‘Don’t worry about your figure, Nate, you can always run over the bridge again.’

Her laughter slipped back into her throat as their eyes locked and the amusement in his slowly morphed into something deeper. Something perplexed and conflicted. Or was she transferring her own feelings?

He blinked, and she found herself facing the sombre features he’d shown at their initial introduction, as if he’d reverted to his distrust of her. How could he switch so fast? And why?

* * *

Nate’s jaw tightened and his stomach clenched as Jemma’s mirth abated and her eyes softened and glowed, mesmerising him. He’d allowed his guard to slip, had forgotten how easily a woman could deceive with her inviting glances and enticing lips.

He’d paid a life-changing price once, and wouldn’t ever risk the pain and humiliation again. This relationship must be kept casual and friendly—nothing more. Proximity had to be the reason for the desire Jemma aroused, and that would end when she returned home.

‘Water, a long black and another dessert spoon. Enjoy.’

The waitress broke the spell and was gone in the time it took him to refocus. Jemma bent over as she picked up a spoon, her long hair falling forward to hide her face. She didn’t brush it away.

They needed to set ground rules and fix boundaries for their own protection. Nate reached across the table and covered the hand dipping to scoop up ice-cream. Ignoring its trembling, he held on until she raised her head, her expression wary.

‘Trust me, Jemma, I don’t want you to have any regrets for the decisions either of us make.’

Her lips parted and her eyelids fell, concealing her emotions, and her chest rose as she breathed in, drawing his attention, threatening his resolve. Her fingers fisted under his, and he became aware of his thumb caressing her knuckle.

Then, with a sudden loosening of her fingers, a deep intake of air and a challenging message in her dark blue eyes, she replied in a clear, steady tone, ‘I won’t commit unless I understand exactly what’s required of me, and I’m sure I can deliver to your satisfaction.’

Sensation akin to a lightning bolt shot through him at her ambiguous statement. Innocent or deliberate, it created mental images that would keep him awake tonight. Or give him memorable dreams.

He released her hand, tore open two sugar sachets and stirred sugar into his coffee, his mind searching for a topic to discuss that would avoid personal revelation.

‘How do you rate a visit to Sydney against Melbourne?’

Her hand froze centimetres from her parted lips and her eyes grew bigger, highlighting their colour. Hell, she was alluring—even when caught unawares. And she was smart, cottoning on to his diversionary tactic in an instant.

‘That depends on the season and the reason for going there.’

A discussion followed, with inputs about Adelaide from Jemma, centred on the city’s central attractions and the entertainment value of international musical celebrities.

Nate ate the remainder of her sundae without mentioning that he wasn’t fond of such sweet offerings. Nor did he protest when she checked her watch and said she needed to leave. He insisted on escorting her to the station, told her he’d be in touch, and shook her hand for slightly longer and with slightly more pressure than convention dictated.

As he climbed the steps up to the bridge he remembered her gentle goad. Setting a steady-paced jog, he recalled their meetings, her reactions to the things he’d said and done and his own to her.

A seagull flew past, soaring upward, and he followed its flight to the top curved girders. If the chance arose in the future, maybe he’d persuade her to take that climb.

* * *

Jemma had the electric jug boiling and an open packet of biscuits waiting on the kitchen table for Cloe’s homecoming after work. She’d missed the closeness she shared with her best friend since her wedding and move to Sydney. Somewhere in her future there had to be a man who’d love her as faithfully as Mike loved Cloe.

The one secret she’d kept from her was the love stories that she’d expanded into full novels. Brian’s review had proved her judgement to be right. But if she was ever offered a contract Cloe would be the first to know.

‘So how did you spend your day?’ Cloe arched her back to relieve the kinks of the day and sipped her tea.

‘Window shopping, exploring The Rocks area and walking over the bridge. Plus two meetings that are confidential at the moment. Oh, and I did have lunch with someone who’ll be involved if the project goes ahead.’

She tried for nonchalance, not mentioning Nate, but heard the new inflection in her tone and felt her cheeks flush.

Cloe jerked upright, scanned her face with narrowed eyes, then clapped her hands. ‘You like him.’ A delighted grin split her face. ‘You’re blushing, Jemma! You like him a lot. Come on—give.’

‘Nothing to tell. He was at the morning meeting and we had lunch together. He lives here, and as far as I know may have a wife or girlfriend. I live in South Australia, and am not interested in a relationship.’

She told herself it was the truth, attributing her reaction to him as natural in the presence of a ruggedly attractive man. So why hadn’t it happened when her friends had set her up for dates in the three years since her break-up?

The back door opened, distracting Cloe. Jemma had often witnessed Mike’s loving kisses for his wife, so why the blip of her heartbeat and the sharp wrench in her abdomen this time?

* * *

That night, after an evening of reminiscing and lively conversation, she snuggled into her pillow, mulling over the past. Her initial reaction to finding out that the man she’d contemplated marriage with was cheating on her had been gut-wrenching anguish. She’d hidden away and cried, cursing them both to the walls of her bedroom, and had deleted every image of him—even shredding printed copies.

A few weeks later a koala with a baby clinging to her back had trundled across in front of her on a photo-taking walk in the hills. She’d stopped, her hand over her mouth in awe, silently watching their progress into the scrubland. Being that close to an active mother and her joey had been awesome. Inspiring.

She’d laughed out loud, realising that life went on and that it was only her pride and self-esteem that had suffered damage. Her heart might have cracked a little, but it wasn’t broken and it would heal with time.

That was the moment she’d decided to move from the city.

Later she’d become aware that her ability to trust had been the thing most affected.

Deep inside she still harboured a dream that there was someone out there who would love her as Mike loved Cloe, and would show it proudly and openly. She’d know him the moment he gazed into her eyes, held her in his arms and kissed her.

Nate Thornton intrigued her, and she’d felt a physical reaction to his smile and touch that was normal for any mature female. It could be a sign that she was ready to move on—though not to trust on sight.

She woke in the morning with a smile on her lips, ready for a day of shopping with Cloe and their friends, plus a lunchtime meet-up which would last all afternoon.

Sunday afternoon at the airport, Cloe hugged her and whispered in her ear. ‘Let me know if your meetings lead to anything. Of any kind. Your happiness is my greatest wish.’

* * *

Some time in the early hours of Friday morning Nate jerked upright in bed, throwing the sheet away from his sweat-soaked body. Heart pounding, he swung his feet to the floor and bent over, dragging great gulps of air into his lungs.

The details of the nightmare—his first for over a year—were already fading apart from occasional vague shadowy images, but the aftermath stayed. He strode to the wardrobe, dragged on a pair of shorts and went out onto the balcony, to look at the welcoming view of the city lights.

Why now? Long ago he’d accepted that images of the horrific sights he’d seen in war zones and wherever terrorists preyed on the innocent would have a lasting effect on him. Others reported the sickening acts—he’d chosen to write about the indomitable spirit of the victims and their families, keeping a tight control on his own feelings.

He’d got past the initial bad memories and traumatic dreams when he’d written the novel, repeating the mantra, These are only words on a page. Nothing had changed, except...

He gripped the railing as a shiver ran down his spine—always a danger sign.

Jemma. Caught unawares when he’d first seen her, he’d let her slip past his guard, triggering emotions he’d tamped down, refused to acknowledge unless for family.

Fetching a cold bottle of beer from the fridge, and a chair from the dining room, he straddled the latter, leant on the back and drank slowly. He’d joined a tight-knit trauma support group overseas, kidding himself that it was to give help rather than receive. Only when Phil and Dave had cornered him in a bar late one night, had he admitted he needed counselling. It was the hardest decision he’d ever made. And the smartest.

As the sun rose he retrieved his mobile from his bedroom and paced the balcony as he accessed a number, not wanting to wait until the group meeting Saturday night.

‘Hi, Phil. No, Tess is fine. It’s me. Are you free to talk? Yeah, another nightmare...out of the blue.’

The following evening he walked into the back room of a city hotel, thankful for a restful night and willing to admit to the episode in front of the group.

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