Deserted Island, Dreamy Ex
Nicola Marsh
Kristi’s Stranded Diary: Day 1Being shipwrecked on an idyllic deserted island for reality TV show Stranded sounded blissful. Until I discovered my Man Friday for the week was Jared Malone (aka he-who-broke-my heart! ). I mean, of course I’ll be fine. I don’t feel anything for him any more.Female viewers might swoon over Jared’s tanned gorgeousness, but I know he’s just an arrogant, over-muscled heartbreaker! The cameras are rolling, so I’m off to the beach to face Jared. I just hope I look OK in this bikini!
Praise for Nicola Marsh
‘Sterling characters … and crackling sexual tension make for a great read.’
—RT Book Reviews on A Trip with the Tycoon
‘A sizzling tale of lust developing into love …’
—RT Book Reviews on Princess Australia
‘This lovers-reunited tale is awash in passion, sensuality and plenty of sparks. The terrific characters immediately capture your attention, and from there the pages go flying by.’
—RT Book Reviews on Marriage: For Business or Pleasure?
‘Marsh does an admirable job of challenging her characters to confront their innermost fears and find love in the process.”
—RT Book Reviews on Overtime in the Boss’s Bed
About Nicola Marsh
NICOLA MARSH has always had a passion for writing and reading. As a youngster she devoured books when she should have been sleeping, and later kept a diary whose content could be an epic in itself! These days, when she’s not enjoying life with her husband and son in her home city of Melbourne, she’s at her computer, creating the romances she loves in her dream job.
Visit Nicola’s website at www.nicolamarsh.com for the latest news of her books.
Deserted Island, Dreamy Ex
Nicola Marsh
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Also by NicolaMarsh
Three Times a Bridesmaid…
A Trip with the Tycoon
The Billionaire’s Baby
Wild Nights with her Wicked Boss
Marriage: For Business or Pleasure?
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
This one’s for all my newfound friends on Twitter. Tweeting with you is a blast!
CHAPTER ONE
Stranded Survival Tip #1
Your past is only a line call away.
KRISTI WILDE picked up the single blush-pink rose, twirled it under her nose, closed her eyes and inhaled the subtle fragrance.
She should call Lars and thank him but … Her eyes snapped open, landed on the trite card he’d probably sent to countless other women, and she promptly tossed the store-bought, cellophane-wrapped rose in the bin.
The only reason she’d agreed to a date with Sydney’s top male model was to gain a firsthand look at a rival promotions company’s much touted coup in landing the Annabel Modelling Agency as a client.
The fact Lars was six four, ripped, tanned and gorgeous had merely been added incentive.
Walking into Guillaume hand in hand with a guy like Lars had been an ego trip. But that was about as exciting as things got for the night.
Lars had the looks but his personality could put a bunch of hyperactive kids to sleep. While she’d scoped out the opposition, feasted on fabulous French food and swilled pricey champagne, Lars had droned on about himself … and on … and on.
She’d faked interest, been the epitome of a dewy-eyed, suitably impressed bimbo hanging on his every word. She’d do anything for a promotion these days. Excluding the horizontal catwalk, which was exactly what Lars had had in mind the moment they’d stepped into the elevator at the end of the night.
The rose might be an apology. Then again, considering his smug assuredness she’d succumb to his charms next time, he was probably hedging his bets.
Wrinkling her nose, she nudged the bin away with her Christian Louboutin fuchsia patent peep-toes and darted a glance at her online calendar.
Great, just enough time to grab a soy chai latte before heading to the Sydney Cricket Ground for a football promotion.
She grabbed her bag, opened the door, in time for her boss to sweep into the room on four-inch Choos, a swathe of crushed ebony velvet bellowing around her like a witch’s cloak, a cloud of Chanel No 5 in her wake.
‘Hey, Ros, I was just on my way out—’
‘You’re not going anywhere.’
Rosanna waved a wad of paper under her nose and pointed at her desk.
‘Sit. Listen.’
Kristi rolled her eyes. ‘The bossy routine doesn’t impress me so much any more after watching you dance the tango with that half-naked waiter at the Christmas party last year. And after that romp through the chocolate fountain at the PR awards night. And that incident with the stripper at Shay’s hen night—’
‘Zip it.’
Despite her being a driven professional businesswoman, Rosanna’s pride in her wild side endeared her to co-workers. Kristi couldn’t imagine speaking to any other boss the way she did to Ros.
‘Take a look at this.’
Rosanna’s kohled eyes sparkled with mischief as she handed her the sheaf of documents, clapping her hands once she’d delivered her bundle.
Kristi hadn’t seen her boss this excited since Endorse This had snatched a huge client out from under a competitor’s nose.
‘You’re going to thank me.’
Rosanna started pacing, shaking her hands out, muttering under her breath in the exact way she did while brainstorming with her PR team.
Curious as to what had her boss this hyped, Kristi scanned the top document, her confusion increasing rather than di min ish ing.
‘What’s this reality show documentary about?’
It sounded interesting, if you were crazy enough to want to be stranded on an island with a stranger for a week. ‘We doing the PR for it?’
Rosanna shook her head, magenta-streaked corkscrew curls flying.
‘No. One better.’
Flipping pages, Kristi spied an entry form.
‘You thinking of entering?’
Rosanna grinned, the evil grin of a lioness about to pounce on a defenceless gazelle.
‘Not me.’
‘Then what …?’
Realisation dawned as Rosanna’s grin widened.
‘Oh, no, you haven’t?’
Rosanna perched on the edge of her desk, studying her mulberry manicured talons at length.
‘I entered your details for the female applicant.’ She gestured to the flyer, pointed at the fine print. ‘You’ve been chosen. Just you and some hot stud on a deserted island for seven days and seven long, hot, glorious nights. Cool, huh?’
There were plenty of words to describe what her boss had done.
Cool wasn’t one of them.
Kristi dropped the entry form as if it were radioactive waste, tentatively poked it with her toe, before inhaling deep, calming breaths. Rosanna might be tolerant but there was no point getting wound up to the point she could happily strangle her boss.
‘I want you to turn Survivor for a week.’
This had to be a joke, one of Rosanna’s bizarre tests she spontaneously sprang on employees at random to test their company loyalty.
Clenching her fist so hard the documents crinkled, she placed them on the desk, desperately trying to subdue the buzzing in her head to form a coherent argument to convince her boss there wasn’t a chance she’d do this.
Only one way Rosanna would listen to reason: appeal to her business side.
‘Sound’s interesting, but I’m snowed under with jobs at the moment. I can’t just up and leave for a week.’
Rosanna sprang off her desk as if she hadn’t spoken, snapped her fingers.
‘You know Elliott J. Barnaby, the hottest producer in town?’
Kristi nodded warily as Rosanna picked up a flyer, waved it under her nose. ‘He’s making a documentary, based on the reality-show phenomenon sweeping the world. Two people, placed on an island, with limited resources, for a week.’
‘Sounds like a blast.’
Rosanna ignored her sarcasm. ‘Prize money is a hundred grand.’
‘What?’
Kristi tried to read over Rosanna’s shoulder. ‘You never told me that part.’
‘Didn’t I? Perhaps I didn’t get around to mentioning it, what with your overwhelming excitement and all.’
Kristi stuck out her tongue as she speed-read the prize details.
A hundred big ones. A heck of a lot of money. And if she was crazy enough to go along with her boss’s ludicrous scheme, she knew exactly what she’d do with it.
For an instant, the memory of dinner with her sister Meg last night flashed into her head.
Meg’s shabby, cubbyhole apartment in outer Sydney, the sounds of ear-splitting verbal abuse from the quarrelling couple next door interspersed with the ranting of rival street gangs outside her window. The threadbare furniture, the stack of unpaid bills on the kitchen counter, the lack of groceries in the fridge.
And Prue, her adorable seven-year-old niece, the only person who managed to draw a smile from her weary mum these days.
After what she’d been through, Meg was doing it tough yet wouldn’t accept a cent. What if the money wasn’t part of her savings that Meg refused to touch? Would that make a difference to her sister’s pride?
‘Healthy prize, huh?’
Kristi didn’t like the maniacal gleam in Rosanna’s astute gaze. She’d seen that look before. Ros lived for Endorse This; the company wasn’t Sydney’s best PR firm for nothing. While a fun and fair boss, she was a corporate dynamo who expected nothing short of brilliance from her employees.
And every time she got that gleam, it meant a new client was up for grabs, someone whose promotion would add another feather to Endorse This’s ever-expanding cap.
Deliberately trying to blot out the memory of Meg’s apartment and the unnatural hollows in her niece’s cheeks, Kristi handed the flyer back.
‘Sure, the money’s impressive, but not worth shacking up with some stranger for a week, and having the whole disastrous experience filmed.’
Rosanna’s injected lips thinned, her determined stare brooking no argument.
‘You’re doing this.’
Kristi’s mouth dropped open and her boss promptly placed a finger under her chin and shut it for her.
‘I had a call from Channel Nine last week. They’re checking out PR firms for a new island reality show, Survivor with a twist, they said. That’s why I entered you. If you do this, we’re set!’
Oh, no. No, no, no!
If the gleam in Rosanna’s eyes had raised her hackles, it had nothing on the sickly sweet smile reminiscent of a witch offering Hansel and Gretel a huge chunk of gingerbread.
‘And, of course, you’ll be in charge of that whole account.’
‘That’s not fair,’ she blurted, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut when Rosanna’s smile waned.
‘Which part? The part where you help Endorse This score the biggest client this year? Or the part where you’re virtually assured a promotion because of it? Discounting the chance to win a hundred grand, of course.’
Kristi shot Rosanna a death glare that had little effect, Ros’s smugness adding to the churning in the pit of her stomach.
She had no choice.
She had to do this.
If the promotion wasn’t incentive enough, the chance to win a hundred grand was. Meg deserved better, much better. Her sweet, naïve, resilient sister deserved to have all her dreams come true after what she’d been through.
Forcing an enthusiastic smile that must’ve appeared half grimace, she shrugged.
‘Fine, I’ll do it.’
‘Great. You’ve got a meeting with the producer in a few hours. Fill me in on the details later.’
Rosanna thrust the flyer into her hands, glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll get back to Channel Nine, let them know the latest.’
As Rosanna strutted towards the door Kristi knew she’d made the right decision, despite being shanghaied into it.
She’d worked her butt off the last six months, desperate for a promotion, and landing Channel Nine as a client would shoot her career to the stars.
As for the prize money, she’d do whatever it took to win it. No way would she accept anything less than Meg using every last brass razoo of it.
The promotion and the prize money; sane, logical reasons to go through with this. But a week on an island with a stranger? Could it be any worse?
As she rifled through the paperwork, Rosanna paused at the door, raised a finger.
‘Did I mention you’ll be stranded on the island with Jared Malone?’
CHAPTER TWO
Stranded Survival Tip #2
Be sure to schedule your mini-meltdown for off-camera.
JARED strode into North Bondi’s Icebergs and headed for Elliott’s usual table, front and centre to the glass overlooking Sydney’s most famous beach.
His mango smoothie was waiting alongside Elliott’s double-shot espresso, his mate nothing if not predictable.
When he neared the table, Elliott glanced up from a stack of paperwork, folded his iron-rimmed glasses, placed them next to his coffee and glanced at his watch.
‘Glad you could eventually make it.’
Jared shrugged, pointed at his gammy knee. ‘Rehab session went longer than anticipated.’
Elliott’s eyes narrowed. ‘Hot physio?’
‘Hot cruciate ligament, more like it.’
The familiar pinch of pain grabbed as he sat. ‘The cruciate healed well after the reconstruction but the ongoing inflammation has the medicos baffled.’
Elliott frowned. ‘You’re seeing the best, right?’
Jared rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Putz.’
‘The putz that’s going to win you another of those film gongs you covet so much.’
Jared jerked a thumb at the pile of documents in front of him.
‘Let me guess. The usual disclaimers that anything I say or do on TV, you won’t be held responsible.’
‘Something like that.’
Elliott pulled the top document, slid it across the table towards him.
‘Here’s the gist of it.’
Jared barely glanced at the fine print, having already heard Elliott extol the virtues of his documentary at length.
Stranded on an island with a stranger for a week was the last thing he felt like doing, but if it convinced Sydney’s disadvantaged kids the Activate recreation centre was the place for them, he’d do it.
He’d spent the bulk of his life in the spotlight, his career and private life under scrutiny, providing fodder for the paparazzi. He’d hated it. Time to put all that intrusion to good use, starting with a week’s worth of free publicity money couldn’t buy.
Elliott’s award-winning documentaries were watched by millions, his cutting-edge work discussed by everyone; around water coolers, at the school gates, on the streets, everyone talked about Elliott’s topical stuff.
With a prime-time viewing slot, free advertisements would cost mega bucks so when Elliot had proposed his deal, he’d jumped at it. He’d much rather spend a billion on the centre and equipment than publicity.
Millions would see the centre on national TV, hear about what it offered, and hopefully spread the word. That was what he was counting on.
It was a win-win for them both. Elliott scored an ex-tennis pro for his documentary; Jared scored priceless advertising to tout the kids’ rec centre he was funding to the entire country.
‘So who’s the lucky lady?’
Elliott glanced towards the door, his eyebrows shooting skywards.
‘Here she comes now. And wow. You always were a lucky dog.’
Jared turned, curious to see who he’d be stuck with on the island. Not that he cared. He’d socialised on the tennis circuit for years, could fake it with the best of them. Easy.
But as his gaze collided with a pair of unusual blue eyes the colour of the cerulean-blue ocean of Bondi on a clear day, their accusatory gaze cutting straight through him, he knew spending a week on a deserted island with Kristi Wilde would be far from easy.
‘I’ll deal with you later,’ Jared muttered at a confused Elliott as Kristi strutted towards the table on impossibly high heels.
She’d always had a thing for shoes, almost as much as he’d had a thing for her.
‘Good to see you—’
‘Did you know about this?’
Though she’d cut his intro short, she had no hope of avoiding his kiss and as he ducked down to kiss her cheek the familiarity of her sweet, spicy scent slammed into him with the power of a Nadal serve, quickly followed by a host of memories.
The exhilaration of climbing the Harbour Bridge eclipsed by a laughing, exuberant Kristi falling into his arms, and his bed later that night.
Long, sultry summer nights lingering over seafood platters at Doyles on Watson’s Bay, snuggling close in a water taxi afterwards, heading back to his place, desperately trying to rein in their limited self-control.
Best of all, the easy-going, laid-back, fun-filled relationship they’d shared.
Until she’d started clinging, demanding, and he’d bolted.
With good reason. His tennis rankings had been shooting for the stars at the time, he’d had no choice but to repay the people who’d invested their time in him. He’d never wanted to be a user, someone who took their birthright for granted; like his parents.
Ironic, that what had started out as a babysitting exercise, a place the snooty Malones could offload their only child for a few hours a day, had turned into a lucrative career filled with fame, fortune and more women than any guy knew what to do with.
Strangely, only one woman had ever got close enough to see the real him, the guy behind the laid-back smile.
And he was looking straight at her.
While his career hadn’t been the only reason he’d left, seeing her here, now, just as vibrant, just as beautiful, reinforced exactly how much he’d given up by walking away from her.
His lips wanted to linger, but she didn’t give him time, stepping away with a haughty tilt of her head that might’ve worked if he hadn’t seen the softening around her mouth, the flash of recognition in her eyes.
‘Well? Did you know about this?’
Placing a hand in the small of her back to guide her to a chair, unsurprised when she stiffened, he shook his head.
‘I just learned my partner in crime’s identity in this fiasco a second before you walked through the door.’
‘Fiasco is right.’
He smiled at her vehement agreement as Elliott held out his hand.
‘Pleased to meet you. Elliott J. Barnaby, the producer of Stranded. Glad to have you on board.’
‘That’s what we need to discuss.’
Gesturing to a waiter, she placed an order for sparkling mineral water with lime, before squaring her shoulders, a fighting stance as familiar as the tilt of her head.
‘Before we begin this discussion, let me make a few things clear. One, I’m here under sufferance. Two, I’m doing this for the money.’
She held up a finger, jabbed it in his direction. ‘Three, this island better be big enough for the both of us because I’d rather swim back to the mainland than be cooped up with you for a week.’
Elliott’s head swivelled between them, curiosity making his eyes gleam.
‘You two know each other?’
She jerked her head in his direction. ‘Didn’t his lordship tell you?’
Elliott grinned. ‘Tell me what?’
‘We know each other,’ Jared interjected calmly, well aware Elliott would want to know exactly how well they knew each other later. ‘Old friends.’
Kristi muffled a snort as he shot her a wink. ‘Getting reacquainted is going to be loads of fun.’
‘Yeah, like getting a root canal,’ she muttered, her glare mutinous.
After another dreary rehab session with Madame Lash, the physio from hell, Jared had trudged in here, ready to talk business with Elliott, not particularly caring who he’d be stuck with for a week.
Now, the thought of battling wits with a sassy, smart-mouthed Kristi for seven days brightened his morning considerably.
Struggling to keep a grin off his face, he folded his arms, faced Elliott.
‘Us knowing each other shouldn’t be a problem?’
Elliott shook his head. ‘On the contrary, should make for some interesting interaction. The documentary is about exposing the reality behind reality TV. How you talk, react, bounce off each other, when confined for a week without other social interactions should make for good viewing.’
Elliott paused, frowned. ‘Old friends? That didn’t mean you lived together for any time?’
‘Hell, no!’
The flicker of hurt in Kristi’s memorable blue eyes had him cursing his outburst, but in the next instant she’d tilted her chin, stared him down, making him doubt he’d glimpsed it at all.
‘Cohabiting with a child isn’t my idea of fun,’ she said, her hauteur tempered with the challenging dare in her narrowed eyes.
She wanted him to respond, to fight back, to fire a few taunts. Well, let her wait. They had plenty of time for that. An entire seven days. Alone. With no entertainment other than each other. Interesting.
Oblivious to the tension simmering between them, Elliott rubbed his hands together.
‘Good. Because that would’ve changed the status quo. This way, your reactions will be more genuine.’
He plucked a folder filled with documents from his pile and slid it across the table towards Kristi.
‘I’m aware your boss put your name forward for this, so you need to look over all the legalities, sign the forms where asterisked, we’ll go from there.’
She nodded, flipped open the folder, took the pen Elliott offered and started reading, the pen idly tapping her bottom lip. A bottom lip Jared remembered well; for its fullness, its softness, its melting heat as it moulded to his …
Having her read gave him time to study her, really study her. She’d been a cute, perky twenty-one-year-old when they’d dated, her blonde hair wild and untamed, her figure fuller, her clothes eclectic. She’d always been inherently beautiful and while her nose might be slightly larger than average, it added character to a face graced by beauty.
Now, with her perfect make-up, perfectly straight blow-dried hair, perfect streamlined body and perfect pink designer suit, she intrigued him more than ever.
He liked her tousled and ruffled and feisty, and, while her new image might be all corporate and controlled, he’d hazard a guess the old Kristi wouldn’t be lurking far beneath the surface.
‘All looks okay.’
She signed several documents and, with a heavy sigh, handed them to Elliott. ‘Everything I need to know in here?’
Elliott nodded. ‘Do you know anything about Stranded??
She shook her head. ‘My pushy boss didn’t go into specifics.’
Jared leaned across, held his hand up to his mouth, his loud conspiratorial whisper exaggerated. ‘Now you’re in for it. He’ll give you the hour-long spiel he gave me.’
Her mouth twitched before she returned her attention to Elliott, who was more than comfortable to elaborate on his favourite topic.
‘While it’s basically a competition for the prize money, which will go to the participant who nails the challenges and gains the most hits on their Internet networking sites, I want this documentary to make a social statement on our TV viewing and the way we network today.’
While her heart sank at the conditions imposed on winning the prize—she’d always been lousy at sports and no way could she beat Jared in the popularity stakes on the Net—Elliot continued.
‘There’s a glut of reality TV at the moment. Cooking, dating, singing, dancing, housemates, you name it, there’s a reality show filming it. I want Stranded to be more than that. I want it to show two people interacting, without social distractions, without direct interference, without the fanfare, without judges, and see how they get along. I want honest feedback.’
She nodded, gestured to her folder. ‘That’s where the daily blog and Twitter updates come in?’
‘Uh-huh. It’ll give the public instant access to your immediate feelings, build anticipation for when I screen the documentary a week after you return. Building hype and viewer expectation makes for more interesting viewing.’
‘So we’re filmed all the time?’
She screwed up her nose, as enthralled with the idea as he was.
Elliott steepled his fingers like a puppet master looking forward to yanking their strings.
‘No, the cameras are motion-activated, and only situated on certain parts of the island. If you want privacy or time out, there are designated areas.’
Her relief was palpable, as Jared wondered what would make her desperate enough to do this. Sure, she’d said the money, but she’d never been money-driven so there had to be more to it. Then again, it had been eight years. How well did he really know her?
It was different for him. His life had been laid out for public consumption the last seven years, what he ate, where he went, what car he drove, all open to interpretation.
He’d learned to shut off, to ignore the intrusion, was now using it to his advantage for the rec centre.
But what did she get out of this apart from a chance to win the money?
‘Good to know.’ Jared tapped the side of his nose, leaned towards her. ‘Just in case you feel the urge to take advantage of me, you can do it off camera.’
‘In your dreams, Malone.’
‘There’ve been plenty of those, Wilde.’
To his delight, she blushed, dropped her gaze to focus on her fiddling fingers before she removed them from the table, hid them in her lap. He gave her five seconds to compose herself and, on cue, her gaze snapped to his, con fi dent, challenging.
‘You really want to do this here?’ he murmured, grateful when Elliott jerked his head towards the restrooms and made a hasty exit.
‘Do what?’
She was good, all faux wide-eyed innocence and smug mouth. Well, she might be good but he was better. He’d always lobbed back every verbal volley levelled his way, had enjoyed their wordplay as much as their foreplay.
She stimulated him like no other woman he’d ever met and the thought of spending a week getting reacquainted had him as jittery as pre-Grand Slam.
‘You know what.’
He leaned into her personal space, not surprised when she didn’t flinch, didn’t give an inch.
‘You and me. Like this.’ He pointed at her, him. ‘The way we were.’
‘Careful, you’ll break into song any minute now.’
‘Feeling sentimental?’
‘Hardly. I’d have to care to want to take a stroll down memory lane.’
‘And your point is?’
She shrugged, studied her manicured nails at arm’s length. ‘I don’t.’
He laughed, sat back, laid an arm along the back of his chair, his fingers in tantalisingly close proximity to her shoulder.
‘You always were a lousy liar.’
‘I’m not—’
‘There’s a little twitch you get right here.’ He touched a fingertip just shy of a freckle near her top lip. ‘It’s a dead giveaway.’
She stilled, the rebellious gleam in her eyes replaced by a flicker of fear before she blinked, erasing any hint of vulnerability with a bat of her long eyelashes. ‘Still delusional, I see. Must be all the whacks on the head with tennis balls.’
‘I don’t miss-hit.’
‘Not what I’ve seen.’
‘Ah, nice to know you’ve been keeping an eye on my career.’
‘Hard to miss when your publicity-hungry mug is plastered everywhere I look.’
She paused, her defiance edged with curiosity. ‘Is that why you’re doing this? Publicity for your comeback?’
‘I’m not making a comeback.’
The familiar twist low in his gut made a mockery of his adamant stance that it didn’t matter.
He’d fielded countless questions from the media over the last year, had made his decision, had scheduled a press conference. And while he’d reconciled with his decision months ago the thought of leaving his career behind, turning his back on the talent that had saved him, niggled.
Tennis had been his escape, his goal, his saviour, all rolled into one. While he’d originally resented being dumped at the local tennis club by his narcissistic parents, he’d soon found a solitude there he rarely found elsewhere.
He’d been good, damn good, and soon the attention of the coaches, the talent scouts, had made him want to work harder, longer, honing his skill with relentless drive.
He’d had a goal in mind. Get out of Melbourne, away from his parents and their bickering, drinking and unhealthy self-absorption.
It had worked. Tennis had saved him.
And, while resigned to leaving it behind, a small part of him was scared, petrified in fact, of letting go of the only thing that had brought normality to his life.
‘You’re retiring?’
‘That’s the plan.’
He glanced at his watch, wishing Elliott would reappear. Trading banter with Kristi was one thing, fielding her curiosity about his retirement another.
‘Why?’
Her gaze, pinpoint sharp, bored into him the same way it always did when she knew he was being evasive.
He shrugged, leaned back, shoved his hands in his pockets to stop them from rearranging cutlery and giving away his forced casual posture.
‘My knee’s blown.’
Her eyes narrowed; she wasn’t buying his excuse. ‘Reconstructed, I heard. Happens to athletes all the time. So what’s the real reason?’
He needed to give her something or she’d never let up. He’d seen her like this before: harassing him to reveal a surprise present, pestering him to divulge the whereabouts of their surprise weekend away. She was relentless when piqued and there was no way he’d sit here and discuss his real reasons with her.
‘The hunger’s gone. I’m too old to match it with the up-and-coming youngsters.’
‘What are you, all of thirty?’
‘Thirty-one.’
‘But surely some tennis champions played ‘til they were—?’
‘Leave it!’
He regretted his outburst the instant the words left his mouth, her curiosity now rampant rather than appeased.
Rubbing his chin, he said, ‘I’m going to miss it but I’ve got other things I want to do with my life so don’t go feeling sorry for me.’
‘Who said anything about feeling sorry for you?’
The relaxing of her thinned lips belied her response. ‘You’d be the last guy to pity, what with your jet-set lifestyle, your homes in Florida, Monte Carlo and Sydney. Your luxury car collection. Your—’
‘You read too many tabloids,’ he muttered, recognising the irony with him ready to capitalise on the paparazzi’s annoying scrutiny of his life to boost the rec centre’s profile into the stratosphere.
‘Part of my job.’
He laughed. ‘Bull. You used to love poring over those gossip rags for the hell of it.’
‘Research, I tell you.’
She managed a tight smile and it struck him how good this felt: the shared memories, the familiarity. He knew her faults, she knew his and where that closeness had once sent him bolting, he now found it strangely intriguing.
‘We need to get together before we leave for Lorikeet Island.’
Her smile faded, replaced by wariness.
‘Why?’
‘For old times’ sake.’
He leaned closer, crooked his finger at her. ‘Surely you don’t want to rehash our history in front of the cameras?’
With a toss of her hair, she sipped at her mineral water, glancing at him over the rim.
‘The only thing happening in front of the cameras is me pretending to like you.’
Laying a hand on her forearm, pleased when she stiffened in awareness, he murmured, ‘Sure you need to pretend? Because I remember a time when—’
‘Okay, okay, I liked you.’
She snatched her arm away, but not before he’d seen the responsive glimmer darkening her eyes to sapphire. ‘It was a phase in my early twenties that passed along with my passion for leg warmers and spiral perms.’
Not backing off an inch, he shifted his chair closer to hers.
‘Didn’t you hear? Leg warmers are making a comeback.’
‘You aren’t.’
Her stricken expression showed him exactly how much she still cared despite protestations to the contrary. ‘With me, I meant. Not your career. Sorry. Damn …’
‘It’s okay.’
Her discomfort, while rare, was refreshing. ‘So, about our pre-island catch up?’
She sighed. ‘I guess it makes sense.’
‘Eight, tonight?’
‘Fine. Where?’
Not ready to divulge all his secrets just yet, he said, ‘You’ll find out.’
CHAPTER THREE
Stranded Survival Tip #3
Pack all your troubles in your old kit bag; but don’t forget protection … just in case.
‘YOU owe me an ice cream for making me wait in the car.’
Kristi grabbed Meg’s arm and dragged her away from the all-seeing front window of Icebergs. ‘You weren’t in the car, you were strolling on the beach.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I saw you craning your neck to get a squiz at Jared and me through the window.’
‘I wasn’t craning. I was trying to stand on tiptoe.’ Meg shook her head, disgusted. ‘Still couldn’t see a darn thing.’
Perking up as they neared the ice-cream stand, Meg grinned. ‘So, is he still as gorgeous in real life as all those dishy pictures in the papers?’
‘Better,’ Kristi admitted reluctantly, her head still reeling with the impact of twenty minutes in Jared’s intoxicating company, her body buzzing with recognition.
She hadn’t expected such an instantaneous, in-your-face, overwhelming awareness of what they’d once shared, the memories bombarding her as fast as his quips.
Every time he looked at her, she remembered staring into each other’s eyes over fish and chips on Manly beach.
Every time he laughed, she remembered their constant teasing and the resultant chuckles.
Every time he’d touched her, she remembered, in slow, exquisite detail, how he’d played her body with skill and expertise, heat flowing strong and swiftly to every inch of her.
‘I could strangle Ros for putting me in this position.’
‘And which position would that be? Stranded on an island with Jared? Or maybe back in his arms or—’
Kristi gave her sister a narrowed look.
‘If Ros hadn’t dangled the promotion, I never would’ve gone through with this.’
‘Even for a chance to win a hundred grand?’
‘Even for that.’
A lie, but she didn’t want to tip Meg off to her plans for the prize money. Her little sister hated pity, hated charity worse.
When her no-good son-of-a-gun fiancé fled upon hearing news of her pregnancy, it wasn’t enough he took her self-respect, her trust, her hopes and dreams of an amazing marriage like their parents had shared.
Oh, no, the low-life scumbag had to take every last cent of her money too, leaving Meg living in a one-bedroom hellhole in the middle of gangland Sydney, footing bills for their cancelled wedding and working two jobs to save enough money to take a few months off after the baby was born.
Life sucked for her pragmatic sister and, while Meg pretended to be upbeat for the sake of the adorable little Prue, she couldn’t hide the dark rings of fatigue circling her eyes or the wary glances she darted if any guy got too close.
Trusting the wrong guy had shattered Meg’s dreams, her vivacity, her hope for a brilliant future, and Kristi would do anything—including being holed up with her ex for a week—to bring the sparkle back to her sister’s eyes.
‘What are you going to do with the moula if you win?’
‘You’ll find out.’
Stopping at the ice-cream stand, Kristi placed an order for two whippy cones with the lot, her gaze drifting back to Icebergs.
She’d left Jared sitting there, all tanned, toned, six four of tennis star in his prime. He’d always been sexy in that bronze, outdoorsy, ruffled way many Aussie males were, but the young guy she’d lusted after wasn’t a patch on the older, mature Jared.
Years playing in the sun had deepened his skin to mahogany, adding character lines to a handsome face, laugh lines around his eyes. He’d always had those, what with his penchant for laughter.
Nothing had fazed Jared; he was rarely serious. Unfortunately, that had included getting serious about a relationship, resulting in him walking away from her to chase his precious career.
He’d been on the cusp of greatness back then, had vindicated his choice by winning Wimbledon, the French Open and the US Open, twice. The Australian Open had been the only tournament to elude the great Jared Malone for the first few years of his illustrious career and she’d often pondered his apparent distraction in exiting the first or second round of the Melbourne-based tournament.
The ensuing pictures of him with some blonde bombshell or busty brunette on his arm went a long way to explaining his early departures and she gritted her teeth against the fact she’d cared.
Not any more.
She’d seen the evidence firsthand of what choosing the wrong man to spend your life with could do and, considering Jared had run rather than build a future with her, he had proved he wasn’t the man for her.
‘Your ice cream’s melting.’
Blinking, Kristi paid, handed Meg her cone and headed for the sand.
‘You’re walking down there in those?’
Meg pointed at her favourite Louboutin hot pink patent shoes with the staggering heel.
‘Sheesh, hooking up with tennis boy again must really have you rattled.’
‘I’m not “hooking up” with anybody, I’m just going to sit on the wall, take a breather before heading back to work.’
Meg licked her ice cream, her suspicious stare not leaving her sister’s face.
‘You two used to date. Stands to reason there is a fair chance of you hooking up again on that deserted island.’
‘Shut up and eat your ice cream.’
They sat in companionable silence, Kristi determinedly ignoring Meg’s logic. The sharp sun, refreshing ocean breeze, packed beach were reminiscent of countless other days they’d done this together as youngsters and, later, bonded in their grief over their parents’ premature death.
While their parents might have left them financially barren, they could thank them for a family closeness that had always been paramount, ahead of everything else.
‘What do you really think about all this, Megs?’
Crunching the last of her cone, Meg tilted her face up to the sun.
‘Honestly? You’ve never got over tennis boy.’
‘That’s bull. I’ve been engaged twice!’
Meg sat up, tapped her ring finger.
‘Yet you’re not married. Interesting.’
Indignant, Kristi tossed the rest of her ice cream in the bin, folded her arms.
‘So I made wrong decisions? Better I realised before traipsing up the aisle.’
Meg held up her hands. ‘Hey, you’ll get no arguments from me on that point. Look at the farcical mess my short-lived engagement turned into.’
A shadow passed over her sister’s face as Kristi silently cursed her blundering insensitivity.
‘Forget I asked—’
Meg made a zipping motion over her lips as she continued. ‘But Avery and Barton were both decent guys and you seemed happy. Yet the closer the wedding got both times, the more emotionally remote you were. Why’s that?’
Because she’d been chasing a dream each time, a dream she’d had since a little girl, a dream of the perfect wedding.
The dress, the flowers, the reception, she could see it all so clearly, had saved pictures in a scrapbook.
What she couldn’t see was the groom—discounting the magazine pic of Jared Meg had pasted there as a joke when they’d been dating—and while Avery and Barton had momentarily superimposed their images in her dream, they ultimately hadn’t fit.
Avery had entered her life six months after her parents died, had been supportive and gracious and non-pressuring. She’d been lost, grieving and he’d helped her, providing security at a time she needed it most.
It had taken her less than four months to figure out their engagement was a by-product of her need for stability after her parents’ death and she’d ended it.
Not that she’d learned.
Barton had been a friend, supportive of her break up and the loss of her parents, so supportive it had seemed natural to slip into a relationship eight months after Avery had gone.
While their engagement had lasted longer, almost a year, she’d known it wasn’t right deep down, where she craved a unique love-of-her-life romance, not a comfortable relationship that left her warm and fuzzy without a spark in sight.
She’d been guilt-ridden for months after ending both engagements, knowing she shouldn’t have let the relationships go so far but needing to hold onto her dream, needing to feel safe and treasured and loved after the world as she knew it had changed.
Her family had made her feel protected and when she’d lost that she’d looked for security elsewhere. She just wished she hadn’t hurt Avery and Barton in the process.
‘You know why you really didn’t go through with those weddings. It could do you good to admit it.’
Meg nudged her and she bumped right back. She knew what Meg was implying; after Jared, no man had lived up to expectations.
While she’d briefly contemplated that reasoning after each break-up, she’d dismissed it. Jared had been so long ago, had never entertained the possibility of a full-blown relationship let alone a lifetime commitment and he’d never fit in her happily ever after scenario.
Liar. Remember the day he walked in on you in your room-mate’s wedding dress while she was away on her honeymoon? The day you joked about it being their turn soon?
Not only had she envisioned him as her perfect groom, she’d almost believed it for those six months they’d dated.
Until he’d dumped her and bolted without a backward glance.
‘I guess the closer the weddings came on both occasions, the more I realised Avery and Barton didn’t really know me. Sure, we shared similar interests, moved in similar social circles, had similar goals but it was just too … too …’
‘Trite.’
‘Perfect …’ she shook her head, the familiar confusion clouding her brain when she tried to fathom her reasons for calling off her much-desired weddings. ‘… yet it wasn’t perfect. It was like I had this vision of what I wanted and I was doing my damnedest to make it fit. Does that make sense?’
‘Uh-huh.’
Meg paused, squinted her eyes in the Icebergs’ direction. ‘So where does tennis boy fit into your idea of perfection?’
‘Malone’s far from perfect.’
As the words tripped from her tongue an instant image of his sexy smile, the teasing twinkle in his eyes, the hard, ripped body, flashed across her mind, taunting her, mocking her.
Crunching loudly on the tip of her ice-cream cone, Meg sat up, dusted off her hands.
‘You need to do this.’
When Kristi opened her mouth to respond, Meg held up a finger. ‘Not just for the promotion or the possibility of winning all that cash. But for the chance to confront tennis boy, finally get some closure.’
The instant denial they’d had closure eight years ago died on her lips.
He’d walked in on her in that dress, had reneged on their dinner plans and avoided her calls afterwards. Except to call her from the airport before boarding his plane for Florida; and she preferred to forget what had transpired during that gem of a phone call.
Meg was right. While the promotion and prize money were huge incentives to spend a week with Jared stranded on an island, getting closure was the clincher.
Standing, Kristi shot Meg a rueful smile. ‘Remind me never to ask for your advice again.’
‘Don’t ask if you don’t want to hear the truth.’
That was what scared Kristi the most. In confronting Jared, would she finally learn the truth?
About what really went wrong in their relationship all those years ago?
Elliott ordered another double-shot espresso, slid his wire-rimmed glasses back on, peered over them.
‘What gives between you and Kristi Wilde? I’ve never heard you mention her.’
Jared dismissed Elliott’s curiosity with a wave of his hand.
‘Old history.’
‘A history I have a feeling I need to know before we get this project underway.’
Elliott tapped his stack of documents. ‘There were enough sparks flying between the two of you to set this lot alight and I don’t want anything threatening to scuttle this documentary before it’s off the ground. So what’s the story?’
‘I met her when I first moved to Sydney. Spent a few months hanging out, having fun, before I headed for training camp at Florida. That’s it.’
‘All sounds very simple and uncomplicated.’
‘It is.’
Jared downed a glass of water before he was tempted to tell Elliott the rest.
The way she was totally unlike any of the women in his usual social circle back in Melbourne. Her lack of pretence, lack of artificialities, lack of cunning. The way she used to look at him, with laughter and warmth and genuine admiration in her eyes. The way she made him feel, as if he didn’t have a care in the world and didn’t have the responsibility of living up to expectation hanging around his neck like a stone.
No, he couldn’t tell his mate any of that, for voicing his trip down memory lane might catapult him right back to a place he’d rather not be: hurting a woman he cared about.
Elliott rested his folded arms on the table, leaned forward with a shake of his head.
‘Only problem is, my friend, I know you, and simple and uncomplicated are not words I’d use to describe you or any of your relationships.’
‘It wasn’t a relationship,’ he said, an uneasy stab making a mockery of that.
While they’d never spelled it out as such, they’d spent every spare moment in each other’s company, had spent every night together, had painted this city red, blue, white and any other damn colour, and belittling what they had to assuage his friend’s curiosity didn’t sit well with him.
‘Then what was it?’
The best time of his life.
The first woman he’d ever been involved with.
The first person he’d allowed close enough to care.
The first time he’d allowed himself to feel anything other than caution and judgement and bitterness.
He’d been numb after escaping his parents’ bizarre turnaround when they suddenly started acknowledging he existed, had been driven to succeed, to utilise the talent he’d uncovered through their neglect.
Melbourne had held nothing but bad memories and newly clinging parents for him and moving to Sydney had been as much about fresh starts as fostering his career.
Though she hadn’t known it at the time, Kristi had been a saviour: a friend, a lover, a distraction, all rolled into one.
And when she’d got too close … well, he’d done the only thing he could.
He’d run.
‘Kristi and I dated casually. We had fun.’
‘And you didn’t break her heart?’
He hadn’t stuck around long enough for that; had made sure of it.
‘Would she be taking part in your little social experiment if I had?’
Apparently satisfied, Elliott nodded, his glasses sliding down his nose as he absent-mindedly pushed them back up.
‘Good point. She seemed feisty. I reckon she would’ve skewered you if you’d done a number on her.’
‘Too right.’
Not that he agreed with his friend’s assessment. Back then, Kristi had had vulnerability written all over her. She’d acted as if she didn’t care but he’d seen the signs, had caught the unguarded longing stares she’d cast him when she thought he wasn’t looking.
Then there was that bridal shower she’d been so hyped about, throwing a huge shindig at her apartment for her room-mate, her incessant chatter of gowns and registries and invitations sending a shudder through him.
Marriage was never on the cards for him and just being close to all that hearts and flowers crap made his gut roil.
Then he’d walked in on her one day, standing in front of a cheval mirror, wearing a shiny white wedding gown and a beatific smile. If that vision hadn’t sent a ripple of horror through him, her words had.
‘It’ll be our turn next.’
Not a hope in Hades.
So he’d pulled back, brought forward his departure date to a Florida training camp, said goodbye with a phone call. He’d taken the coward’s way out but, the way he saw it, he’d made the right decision.
He’d never promised Kristi anything, had made it clear from the start their dating had a time limit. Wasn’t his fault she’d interpreted it as anything other than what it was: a casual fling, fun while it lasted.
‘If you two parted amicably, does that mean you’re going to pick up where you left off on the island?’
‘For your nosy viewers to see? Not likely.’
As the words tumbled easily he had to admit he’d wondered the same thing himself, the thought crossing his mind the instant she’d strutted in here with her shoulders squared for battle and her eyes flashing fire.
‘Too bad. Would’ve been nice to add a little romance to the mix.’
With a shake of his head, Jared stood. ‘You’re a sap.’
‘No, I’m a producer after ratings.’
Throwing a few notes on the table, Elliott hoisted his load into his arms and stood too.
‘And sex sells, my friend.’
Jared grunted in response, a certain part of him agreeing with Elliott, with the faintest hope Kristi would too.
CHAPTER FOUR
Stranded Survival Tip #4
They’re playing our song. Pity it’s the theme song from Titanic.
AS KRISTI spritzed her custom-made patchouli perfume behind her ears, on her pulse points, her hand shook, the infernal buzz of nerves in her tummy hard to subdue.
No matter how many times she mentally recited tonight was about fine-tuning details for their week on Lorikeet Island, she couldn’t ignore the fact catching up with Jared reeked of a date.
She didn’t want to think of it as a date. A date implied intimacy and excitement and expectation, feelings she’d given up on a long time ago where he was concerned.
Jared Malone might have once rocked her world, but she’d got over it. He could flash that sexy smile and charm her with witty wordplay all he liked, it wouldn’t change a thing.
She’d seen the way he’d looked at her during their brief meeting at Icebergs; as if he remembered everything about her and would love to take a fast sprint down memory lane.
If he tried, she had four words for him.
Not in this lifetime.
Leaning into the mirror, she tilted her head to one side to fasten an earring. The long, straight silver spiral shimmered as she turned, caught the light, reflected, matching her sequinned halter top perfectly.
She loved the top’s funkiness, had offset it with low-slung black hipster formal pants. Chic, without trying too hard. Not that she’d dithered too long on her wardrobe choice. She wanted to speed through this evening, speed through the seven interminably long days on the island and regain equilibrium.
For while she might not have feelings for Jared any more, seeing him again had her on edge, a strange combination of anger, fear and reservation. While he could act as if things hadn’t ended badly between them, she couldn’t, unable to shake the foreboding that the longer she spent in his company, the more chance she had of making a fool of herself again.
For that was exactly what she’d done last time around.
Made an A-grade ass of herself.
She’d known he’d had to leave eventually, yet had started to cling the closer his departure grew, culminating in that silly, angry ultimatum during their last phone call.
She’d made him choose. Her or tennis. How young and stupid had she been?
When he’d walked in on her in that wedding dress the week before he left, she’d been glad. She’d wanted him to see how she looked, wanted him to envisage the dream of happily-ever-after as much as she wanted it.
So she’d made that flyaway comment about it being their turn next, half hoping he’d sweep her into his arms and take her with him.
Instead, he’d withdrawn, closed off, the last week before he departed, leaving her morose, desperate and hurt, incredibly hurt.
Her ridiculous ultimatum had been born of anger and resentment and rejection, something she should never have done.
But she couldn’t change the past; the memory of her naivety made her cringe and seeing Jared again only served to resurrect those old feelings of embarrassment and mortification.
He’d appeared unfazed by their past while she’d sat through their meeting mentally kicking herself all over again.
Now she had to spend a week on a deserted island with him.
Her humiliation was complete.
The intercom buzzed and with one, last quick glance in the mirror she trudged across the room, grateful her platform T-bar metallic sandals only allowed her to move at a snail’s pace, and hit the button to let him in downstairs.
She’d wondered if he’d call her at work to get the address, surprised when he hadn’t. It meant he remembered, leading to the next obvious question: what else did he remember?
Much to her chagrin, she hadn’t forgotten a thing about him.
Avery’s shoe size? Erased from her memory banks for ever.
Barton’s preferred margarine? Gone.
Yet she could recall in startling clarity how Jared liked his eggs—poached; his coffee—white with one; his side of the bed—right.
Maybe that had been half the problem with both engagements? The guys had been fine, upstanding citizens with good jobs, good looks and good credentials, but they weren’t Jared.
The thought had crossed her mind both times she’d broken off the engagements but she’d dismissed it as a young girl’s whimsical memory of a brief romance that had been too good to be true.
She’d had genuine feelings for both fiancés, had gone through her version of grieving both times: intermittent crying jags, locked away at home for a week, consumed copious tubs of her favourite Turkish delight ice cream.
She’d pondered their relationships at length, had tried to erase the final departure from both engagements each time: the shock, the bewilderment from the guys, the guilt, the sadness from her.
It had taken her a while to recover from Avery, then Barton, and each time she’d started reminiscing about Jared and hated herself for it.
The girls at work discussed their first loves all the time: the thrill, the newness, the heady sensation of being on heightened awareness every second of every day, how it all faded.
That was the problem. The buzz between her and Jared hadn’t had a chance to fade. He’d absconded before the gloss had worn off, left her embarrassed she’d read so much into their relationship, furious how he’d ended it yet pathetically pining when he hadn’t looked back.
The memory of their parting doused any simmer of sentimentality she might have felt towards this meeting, annoyance replacing her memories as she yanked open the door.
‘Good. You’re here. Let’s go.’
Her brusqueness evaporated when she saw him leaning against the jamb, wearing a wicked grin that made her facial muscles twitch in eager ness to respond.
‘Wow.’
She stiffened as his appreciative gaze roved over her freely, the naughty twinkle in his eyes undermining her as much as that damn smile.
Ignoring the responding quiver in her knees, she dropped her gaze, discovering his designer loafers, dark denim, and cotton shirt the colour of her favourite butterscotch didn’t help re-establish her immunity.
He’d always been a great dresser, could wear anything and make it look like haute couture. Yet another thing she’d loved about him. A love that meant jack considering how fast he’d run.
‘You ready to go?’
Scanning her face for a reason behind her snippiness, he chuckled, held out his hand. ‘Shall we?’
Ignoring his hand, she nodded, needing to wipe that twinkle from his eye, to establish she wouldn’t engage in whatever game he intended for tonight.
‘If you’re planning on flirting your way through dinner, forget it. I’m doing this so we get everything straight before we’re stuck on the island. Understand?’
His mock salute and wide grin spoke volumes: he’d do as he damned well pleased tonight, regardless.
‘Perfectly.’
She shook her head, frowned. ‘I mean it. I’m immune so don’t waste your breath—’
‘Did it ever strike you I’m uncomfortable about all this and flirting is the only way I know how to ease back into how we were before?’
His honesty surprised her, for, while his tone was light-hearted, she saw the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
A sliver of guilt penetrated her prickly armour. If she was feeling uncomfortable about this whole scenario, why shouldn’t he?
‘We can’t go back to how it was before.’
His answering smile elicited a twinge of remembrance, a yearning to do just that.
‘We laughed a lot back then, were easy in each other’s company. Wouldn’t it be great to recapture some of that on the island, especially in front of the cameras?’
Of course, that was what this was about: re-establishing some kind of rapport so they didn’t embarrass themselves on camera. She should’ve known, but for a split second she’d almost wished he were flirting with her because he wanted to recreate some of the other magic they’d shared back then.
‘I guess you’re right.’
‘That’s my girl.’
She wasn’t, had never been really.
Maybe Jared could ignore the past, could don his smooth, funny, adorable persona and hope she’d forget how things had ended between them, but she had as much hope of that as scaling the Opera House in her favourite four-inch Louboutin’s.
Hurt faded but it wasn’t forgotten.
Not when the man who’d broken her heart would be in her face for the next week.
Grateful he hadn’t chosen any of their old haunts, Kristi stepped through the enormous glass door of Sydney’s newest East meets West fusion restaurant and nodded her thanks at Jared. Another thing that hadn’t changed about him: his impeccable manners.
‘Have you been here before?’
She shook her head, tried not to look suitably impressed as she glanced around at the soaring ceilings, steel beams and enough chrome and glass to build an entire suburb.
‘Rumour has it you have to be the prime minister or an Oscar winner to get a booking for the next year.’
She paused, quirked an eyebrow. ‘Or apparently a star tennis player?’
Chuckling, he tapped the side of his nose. ‘It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.’
‘Obviously.’
She swanned through the restaurant, aware of the not too subtle envious glances cast their way. Not that she could blame the women.
Jared Malone, world-renowned playboy, was a serious babe.
Voted number one sexiest sportsman for three years running in all the top women’s magazines.
Not that she’d kept count. Flicking through glossies was a fabulous part of her job, keeping abreast of the latest PR strategies, and while she’d quickly flipped over pages wherever Jared appeared she’d still noticed.
Any woman with a pulse would have to be half dead not to notice him.
And she’d be stuck with him, on a deserted island, for a week. Gain a promotion out of it. Possibly win a hundred grand. So why the reservations?
As they reached the table, his hand guiding her in the small of her back, his breath the barest whisper against her heated skin, she knew exactly why she wasn’t doing cartwheels over the next week.
It would’ve been bad enough spending seven days on an island with some stranger, but a week with a guy she’d once loved, who knew her weaknesses, who knew her intimately?
Heck.
‘You’re nervous.’
She feigned ignorance as he held out her chair and she sat, grateful for the support when his hand grazed the back of her neck, a particularly sensitive spot as well he knew.
‘About our little island jaunt.’
She winced. ‘It shows?’
Chuckling, he ran a fingertip just above her top lip. ‘You get this little wrinkle right about here when you think too much.’
Brushing his hand away, she gulped from the crystal water glass thankfully filled to the brim.
‘Aren’t you the slightest bit uncomfortable about all this?
He sat back, folded his arms, that familiar cocky grin making her heart jive and jump and jitterbug.
‘No.’
‘So it doesn’t matter we had …’
‘A past?’
His grin widened. ‘Surely you’d rather be stuck on Lorikeet Island with me than some stranger?’
She’d debated the fact, hadn’t reached any conclusions yet. She could’ve been distantly polite with a stranger, could’ve faked enthusiasm for the documentary, could’ve been totally and utterly un involved.
Spending a week with Jared, just the two of them, would render it impossible to stay distant.
She knew so much about this man, remembered details she should’ve forgotten: how he bounced out of bed every morning and stretched five times, how he hated orange but loved mango juice, how he made adorable little snoring/snuffling sounds when asleep after an exhausting game.
How he devoured sushi like a man starved, how he preferred swimming in the ocean to a swimming pool, how he liked sporting magazines over novels.
So many memories, all of them good. Except the one where he walked away from her without a backward glance.
‘If you have to think that long, maybe I’ve lost my charm.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Nothing wrong with your charm and you darn well know it.’
He wiped his brow. ‘Phew, for a second there you had me worried.’
When he’d left, she’d missed many things, his sense of humour being one of them. They’d always sparred like this, swapping banter along with huge chunks of their lives. She’d loved it, loved him.
Which brought her full circle back to her original dilemma: how dangerous would it be being stuck on an island with Jared?
Her sorrow at their break-up and any residual humiliation should ensure immunity to him after all this time. She’d moved on since, had two engagements to prove it.
Broken engagements, her insidiously annoying voice of reason whispered.
Guys she’d fallen for enough to think she wanted to marry, just not enough to take that final step and actually say, ‘I do.’ She’d loved both Avery and Barton, loved their gentleness and patience and understanding. They’d reminded her of her high-school boyfriends, the nice guys who’d carry her books and write corny love letters and give her a lift on the handlebars of their bikes.
She’d been horrid to those boys, demanding and snooty and condescending, thrilled to have their attention yet secretly craving the Prince Charmings she read about in her mum’s romance novels.
Thankfully, she’d grown up enough to treat her men better, but a small part of her wondered if she didn’t end up treating her fiancés as badly in the end.
Yes, she’d definitely moved on from Jared, couldn’t have loved those men if deep down in her heart she secretly pined for her first love. Besides, he’d shattered her grand illusions of loving him by choosing his career over her, by not being willing to work out a compromise.
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