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One Night Before Marriage
Anne Oliver


He wants marriage–but does he love her? The tall, slim blonde seems the perfect diversion for ruggedly handsome hotel magnate Ben Jamieson. He'll bed Carissa Grace on a strictly no-strings basis. Carissa and Ben soon embark on an all-consuming affair. But for Ben, that's all this can ever be–passionate, but temporary.However, when Carissa finds out she's pregnant, Ben demands that she marry him! Even if it is just for their baby's sake….















Summer’s here, and to get you in the mood we’ve got some sizzling reads for you this month!



So relax and enjoy…a scandalous proposal in Bought for Revenge, Bedded for Pleasure by Emma Darcy; a virgin bride in Virgin: Wedded at the Italian’s Convenience by Diana Hamilton; a billionaire’s bargain in The Billionaire’s Blackmailed Bride by Jacqueline Baird; a sexy Spaniard in Spanish Billionaire, Innocent Wife by Kate Walker; and an Italian’s marriage ultimatum in The Salvatore Marriage Deal by Natalie Rivers. And be sure to read The Greek Tycoon’s Baby Bargain, the first book in Sharon Kendrick’s brilliant new duet, GREEK BILLIONAIRES’ BRIDES.



Plus, two new authors bring you their dazzling debuts—Natalie Anderson with His Mistress by Arrangement, and Anne Oliver with Marriage at the Millionaire’s Command. Don’t miss out!



We’d love to hear what you think about Presents. E-mail us at Presents@hmb.co.uk or join in the discussions at www.iheartpresents.com and www.sensationalromance.blogspot.com, where you’ll also find more information about books and authors!


Private jets. Luxury cars. Exclusive five-star hotels.

Designer outfits for every occasion and an

entourage of staff to see to your every whim….



In this brand-new collection, ordinary women step into the world of the super-rich and are






He’ll have her—but at what price?




One Night Before Marriage

Anne Oliver











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




All about the author…

Anne Oliver


When not teaching or writing, ANNE OLIVER loves nothing more than escaping into a book. She keeps a box of tissues handy—her favorite stories are intense, passionate, against-all-odds romances. Eight years ago she began creating her own characters in paranormal and time-travel adventures, before turning to contemporary romance. Other interests include quilting, astronomy, all things Scottish and eating anything she doesn’t have to cook. Sharing her characters’ journeys with readers all over the world is a privilege…and a dream come true. Anne lives in Adelaide, South Australia, and has two adult children. Visit her Web site at www.anne-oliver.com. She loves to hear from readers. E-mail her at anne@anne-oliver.com.

Marriage at the Millionaire’s Command was written during a period of personal upheaval, only to come second in the Romance Writers of New Zealand’s 2004 Clendon Award for a full novel!


This one’s for you, Mum!

Also, thanks to my great critique team and to

editors Kimberley Young and Meg Sleightholme

for their valuable insight and revision

suggestions to the original manuscript.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE




CHAPTER ONE


THE scent of her grandmother’s perfume was the first sign. The prickle at her nape was the second. While Gran’s scent was benign and loving and familiar, the second sign sent a shiver down her spine.

Carissa Grace never ignored signs.

Anxious, she scanned the stream of cars outside Sydney’s Cove Hotel. Her stepsister Melanie had insisted on picking her up since Carissa’s gig at the piano bar had finished after midnight tonight. That had been twenty minutes ago.

Hurry up, Mel. Something’s—

The screech of brakes sheared through the balmy night, an agony of metal on metal over the mellow sound of sax drifting from a nearby nightclub. As the dented Holden mounted the kerb, its headlights loomed like silver lasers before her, terrifyingly stark against the subtle orange glow of the city night.

For a stunned second Carissa couldn’t move. She was one with the crowd as it held its collective breath, movement halted, time suspended, minds frozen.

An instant later the car was gone, leaving only the acrid smell of exhaust fumes and hot bitumen.

‘Anyone hurt?’ a male voice demanded in a deep timbre that rippled down Carissa’s spine like an arpeggio. In the awed hush that followed, a man emerged from the knot of people huddled against the hotel’s sparkling lobby windows.

Tall, broad-shouldered. Awesome. He looked as dangerous as the chaos around him, from the heavily shadowed jaw and unkempt brown hair that curled over his neck to the faded black jeans and T-shirt. Not the kind of man she’d have expected to get involved in anything but trouble. Every ‘bad boy’ fantasy Carissa had ever had vibrated into shocking—and inappropriate—awareness.

‘Someone call an ambulance.’ His order snapped with authority.

Then she saw the form sprawled on the concrete. In two strides he was there, crouching over the slumped figure, speaking low. It was an old woman, Carissa realised, the bag lady she’d seen scrounging through the bin only moments ago. Despite the heat, she was covered from neck to ankle in a filthy coat. Her limbs flailed as she struggled up.

With no hesitation the man scooped a hand beneath her head, holding her against his thigh, murmuring soothing noises against her ear.

Carissa pulled herself together and hurried to rescue the woman’s over-stuffed garbage bag nearby. Ignoring the crowd, which was curious but unwilling to get involved, Carissa set the bag down and crouched beside them. ‘Here you go.’

The woman shot her an accusing glare as she grabbed the plastic.

‘Is she okay?’ Carissa asked.

‘I reckon so,’ he said, taking the woman’s dirt-smudged fingers in his own large hand. ‘But I’ll get her checked out to be sure.’ Preoccupied with his patient, he didn’t look at Carissa.

Mingled with the odour of unwashed woman, she detected the distinct smell of male. A purely feminine appreciation sharpened her senses. It had been a long time since she’d smelled earthy masculine sweat. Alasdair always smelled of fancy French cologne. Nor could she imagine her fiancé handling this situation with such calm confidence.

The man sat the woman upright and stroked her back through the coat. His forearm twisted, drawing Carissa’s attention to the gleaming silver of an expensive watch on his wrist. A disconcerting tingle spread through her limbs as she watched the muscles bunch and flex beneath his tanned skin. ‘Do you think you can—?’ A car’s horn drowned the rest of his words to the old woman.

Carissa glanced at the street. Her ride. She raised a hand to Melanie as she backed away. Clearly he had everything under control and didn’t need her assistance.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Mel said as Carissa climbed in. ‘Emergency was a war zone tonight. What’s going on?’ She honked her horn again and pulled into the traffic.

‘We’ve had something of our own war zone.’ Carissa’s heart was still pounding with the drama. ‘It’s all under control now.’ Thanks to the hero of the day.

Her gaze remained glued to the man as he ushered the bag lady towards the Cove’s gleaming entrance. She could see the powerful square shape of his shoulders and his black T-shirt taut over one thick bicep.

A wildly sexy, dangerous man. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of one of her forbidden erotic dreams. The ones she’d been having with disturbingly increasing regularity of late.

She let out a sigh. She’d not seen Alasdair in a year, which made any man with half the rugged sex appeal of that stranger dangerous.

Not that she hadn’t been more than willing to wait while Alasdair finished his PhD in France. But the promised twelve weeks had stretched into twelve long months.

She took one last look at temptation before turning to the red rear lights of the cars in front. A girl could only wait so long before that temptation reached out to tickle her fancy.

She shook away the delicious little shiver at the thought of the stranger’s long, thick fingers reaching out to tickle her fancy…And bit back a moan. It was sexual frustration, that was all.

In seven days Alasdair would be home, and her bed was already turned down in anticipation. There’d be no more of that waiting he’d told her was the ‘right thing’ to do. Her already sensitised body hummed at the thought. Everything would be fine when Alasdair came back.



‘Alasdair’s not coming back.’

With the single handwritten page in her fist, Carissa sat down on the back step beside Melanie. The numbness had worn off enough to trust herself to talk about it. Rationally. Calmly. Maybe.

Mel’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, Carrie.’ She set her iced tea on the verandah and reached for Carissa’s hand. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘You two have been together, what, seven years? What happened?’

‘He’s met someone else. I should’ve expected it with him studying overseas and all those chic mademoiselle research assistants.’ She closed her eyes. ‘But I didn’t expect him to tell me his new love’s name is Pierre.’

‘Oh. God.’ Melanie let out a slow breath. ‘I don’t know what to say.’ She twined their fingers together. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I will be.’ Carissa squeezed their hands briefly, then stood. A restless energy she didn’t know what to do with was coursing through her body. ‘I trusted him; I waited for him. Even though I wasn’t sure any more that he was the One, I waited, at least until I saw him again. I must be the world’s most naïve fool.’

‘No. It’s not your fault he’s a two-timing creep—in the worst way. You sure you’re okay?’

‘Fine.’ Enclosing that energy into a tight fist, she crumpled the paper and squinted against the glare of the parched backyard. The hot summer wind kicked up, rattling the loose drainpipe she hadn’t gotten around to fixing yet.

‘It’s been so long, I’m used to it. My life will go on as usual. I’ve got my own place, such as it is.’ She frowned at the sagging porch trim. Her grandparents’ old home needed major repairs. ‘And a job.’

‘You’ve still got me,’ Mel said quietly.

‘I know.’ She met Mel’s eyes with shared affection before turning away. ‘Want to know a secret, Mel? I’ve still got my well-past-its-use-by-date virginity.’

‘You mean you and Alasdair never…? Oh…’

Carissa paced up the verandah and back. ‘Now I know why Alasdair was so noble and self-sacrificing. Every time I came on to him he said I’d thank him for making me wait.’

‘So…days before your twenty-sixth birthday, you’re still a virgin?’ Melanie blew out a breath. ‘Wow.’

‘At this rate, on my fifty-sixth birthday, I’ll be taking out a full-page ad.’

The urge to lash out rose up like a black wave. She needed to channel the energy productively. Some serious piano-pounding. Something dark and passionate. Bach, she decided. The fly-screen door squeaked on rusty hinges as she swung it open.

Melanie followed. ‘Do you really want your life to go on as usual? No man, no sex, no fun?’

Carissa’s hand paused on the door. Don’t answer that.

‘You need a fling, Carrie, a one-night stand.’

The suggestion was outrageous. And at this point Carissa felt almost reckless enough to consider it. ‘You know, Mel, I just might take your advice.’ She tossed the balled paper in the bin on her way.

‘Don’t rush it, though,’ Mel warned as if she’d gone cold on the idea already. ‘You want your piano tuned, you don’t call a plumber.’

‘So what’s wrong with a plumber if he’s got the right equipment?’ Carissa couldn’t help smiling at Mel’s frown. She slung an arm around the one person she could always count on to look out for her. ‘I’ll be careful.’



The usual Saturday evening crowd buzzed in the Cove Hotel’s piano bar. Carissa’s eyes roamed the faces while she played her selection of dreamy Chopin nocturnes. She noted the few regulars, but most were anonymous tourists with a couple of hours to kill before heading off to Sydney’s nightclubs.

So much for finding a man. Working six evenings a week seriously impinged on one’s social life. She hadn’t had a social life in so long, she wasn’t sure she was ready for centre stage in the dating scene just yet.

She saw him the moment he entered the room.

He filled the doorway, all six-feet-four-if-he-was-an-inch of him. Her fingers faltered as she drank in the rock-solid body crammed into faded denim and black T-shirt.

Her mouth watered. God help her, if she could choose, she wanted that body, naked and next to hers. It was the kind of body that made women forget all about sexual equality—there was absolutely nothing equal about it.

Her fingers automatically drifted into Moonlight Sonata as her eyes followed him to the bar. She watched him order a beer, then move to a table near the window where the last rays of sunset turned the water beyond to liquid fire and the white tablecloths crimson, and glittered on his fancy silver watch.

Oh. My. God. It was the guy she’d seen last night. Her pulse rate zipped straight off her personal Richter Scale. He’d shaved.

But he was still dangerous.

She shifted on her stool for a better view of yesterday’s hero. The evening glow accentuated the angular contours of a tanned face on the wrong side of pretty-boy handsome and a strong, shadowed jaw. Mid-thirties, give or take. His teak-coloured hair, although shorter, was still somewhat dishevelled, as if he’d run his fingers through it, prompting images of lazy lust-filled afternoons on black silk sheets.

She should be so lucky.

But he had the most soulful eyes she’d ever seen. She reached for her mineral water, checked her watch and sighed. Two hours and ten minutes till she finished for the night—but he’d be gone by then.



Ben Jamieson flicked an eye over the pianist, then returned for a longer, in-depth perusal. And decided his evening had just taken a turn for the better. Why spend it alone dwelling on his own personal anguish when the distraction he needed was right here?

Rave would tell him to go for it—he could almost see his mate grin and raise a glass in salute to women everywhere. For tonight at least he could appreciate the soothing harbour view while he watched those clever—and ringless—fingers on the keys.

Kicking back, he took a large gulp of beer and studied her. The way those fingers tickled the ivories, he imagined they could do a pretty good job on a man.

So classical wasn’t his thing. The classic lines of the pianist more than made up for it. That full-length slinky sapphire number she’d poured herself into begged to be taken off. Slowly, an inch at a time. You didn’t hurry over a body like that.

Tall, he noted, but not too tall. Like a long, slim candle. He’d bet she’d burn with a cool blue flame, and damned if he didn’t want to singe his fingers. And that hair—a loose twist of sunshine at the crown of her head, held by a sequinned clasp. There was something about upswept hair that made his fingers itch. That smooth, exposed nape, and all that silk tumbling into his hands.

It was shaping up to be an interesting evening after all.



As Carissa launched into another bracket of light classics she couldn’t resist another peek. He didn’t look the classical type. His music preferences didn’t bother her. His head turned as if he’d felt her watching him, and their gazes collided over the raised lid of the baby grand. Instant heat flooded her body.

She dragged her eyes away, fumbled with the keys again and swore softly. She’d played the cocktail bar Friday and Saturday nights for two years and not missed a note. With her brain threatening meltdown, she reached for her sheet music and refused to look his way again.

Concentrate on the important issues, she reminded herself. Such as not losing this gig and how she was going to pay the land-tax bill. Her Monday to Thursday job at the suburban café paid half what she made here. Even the extra money a lodger would bring in would only skim the top of the pile, and if she didn’t get someone pronto she’d have to advertise beyond the staff cafeteria; something she didn’t want to do. Always risky for a woman living alone.

She’d always been able to put distractions aside when she played. Not tonight. Tonight she couldn’t raise the shield that shut out the rest of the world. She was all too aware of the clink of glass and ice and money, conversation, the light outside as it changed from dusk to dark.

And him.

At ten-thirty Carissa closed the piano, shuffled her music into a neat pile and slipped it into its folder.

‘Can I buy you a drink?’ The deep liquid voice with its hint of gravel made her jump.

The scent of aftershave and beer hit her as she turned, her habit of a cool smile and polite refusal already on her lips, but the words died in her throat.

Something like panic leapt up and grabbed her by the throat, then worked down to her stomach, squeezing the air out of her lungs on its way. ‘Sorry, management doesn’t permit employees to socialise with guests.’

Refusing—was she nuts? Taking a deep breath, the new, unattached Carissa smiled. ‘Leastways, not in the hotel.’

He grinned. ‘A walk, then, and a drink by the waterfront. The name’s Ben Jamieson.’ One corner of his mouth lifted crookedly, revealing the most kissable dimple in his right cheek. Up close she saw that his eyes were bright jungle-green and sparking with interest.

She clutched her folder to her chest to hide the sudden tremble in her hands. ‘I’ve a train and a bus to catch, and I don’t like to leave it too late.’

‘I’ll pay your cab fare home.’

‘Oh…I…’

‘Walk with me. It’s a pleasant evening and we’ll only go as far as you want.’

Those erotic images popped into her head again, but if he’d intended it as a double entendre he was astute enough to show no sign.

She smiled as she pushed in the piano stool. ‘It’s the best offer I’ve had all night.’ The best in years, in fact, and the mind-set was still taking some adjustment.

‘Why don’t you start by telling me your name?’

‘Carissa.’ She kept her eyes on his, aware of his body heat, his fresh soap smell, his masculinity. Dangerous, she warned herself. ‘Just Carissa.’

He smiled again, and everything inside her melted a few more degrees. ‘So, Just Carissa, do you have a bag or something?’

‘In the staff locker room. I’ll change and meet—’

‘No.’ His eyes didn’t leave hers, but their green fire scorched all the way to her toes. ‘Do me a favour—don’t.’

She cleared her throat. ‘Okay…But I need my bag.’

He accompanied her past the press of bodies at the bar, and across the foyer, checked his messages—ah, he was a residential guest—while she headed for the locker room.

Her brain was a whirl; her insides were doing a quick shuffle. To waltz off with a complete stranger—she’d never done anything so impulsive or so reckless.

‘Why don’t we combine the two and walk to the station?’ she suggested as they walked out into Sydney’s tropical summer evening.

Streetlights attracted bugs, which hummed in a seething ball around the globes. A languid breeze drifted off the water.

He glanced at her. ‘Why? Is someone expecting you?’

If she was going to back out, now was the time. But he was on a first name basis with the concierge, had a room there, and people had seen them leave together. ‘There’s no one.’

‘I don’t like the idea of a woman catching a train alone at this time of night. Then a bus, for heaven’s sake. Do you always travel by public transport?’

‘Since I sold the car.’

His hand touched the small of her back as he ushered her to a table at an open-air café. Just a brush of fingertips on the silk of her dress, but the thrill curled her toes inside her four-inch stilettos.

‘What would you like?’

You. ‘Mineral water over ice, thank you.’ She sagged onto the plastic chair he pulled out for her and slipped her bag onto the ground beside her feet. She didn’t need anything stronger to have that dizzy, tipsy rush.

He paid at the counter, handed her a glass and lowered himself into the chair opposite with a bottle of beer. ‘Here’s looking at you.’

The way he said that had shivers chasing over her skin. To distract him from her nipples that suddenly puckered painfully into tight little buds against her dress she asked, ‘You like music?’ He didn’t reply and a shadow crossed his eyes. She watched his fist tighten infinitesimally around the neck of his bottle. ‘Okay, you don’t like classical and you’re too polite to say so.’

‘Doesn’t matter what it is when it’s played with heart and soul by a woman whose…what colour would you say your eyes are?’

She blinked, glass poised halfway to her lips. ‘Blue.’

‘Blue.’ He rubbed a hand over his jaw, a distinctively masculine sound, as he watched her. ‘I’d say ultramarine. Deep and mysterious. Which begs a question: what do you do when you’re not at the keyboard, Just Carissa?’

‘Waitressing and piano take up six days a week. I don’t have time for much else.’

It amazed her that she could sit here and make reasonable conversation with this man when all she could think of was what he’d look like with every inch of golden skin bared for her pleasure, every working part primed to—Stop right there. She mentally slapped herself and asked, ‘What about you?’

He glanced at the water, avoiding her gaze. ‘I have a few business interests.’

She eyed him over her glass. ‘When you’re not being a hero.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Last night. I was outside the Cove, I saw you.’

He took a deep gulp of beer. The shadows were back in his eyes. ‘I’m no hero.’

‘Wrong. I was there. You risked yourself for others, stopped to help an old lady most people would avoid.’

‘No big deal. And it was hardly a risk; the car was gone. Those stupid kids…’ He shook his head. ‘We’ll all end up in the sewer one day.’

‘You’re not an optimist, then. You don’t believe good outweighs bad? That everything happens for a reason?’

He seemed to remember something sad because his mouth thinned even more, and he smiled without humour. ‘I’m more of a realist. Realists are rarely disappointed.’

He had a point there. A realist would have expected Alasdair to walk. Good-looking guys, whatever their gender preference, didn’t hang around for long. ‘What about your family?’ Is there a fiancée waiting to be jilted somewhere?

‘I grew up in Melbourne. Never married, never tempted. Lived in the outback, came to the city a few years ago.’

‘Your parents?’

‘Mum’s in Melbourne. My father’s dead.’

End of story. Chewing her lip, Carissa watched him toss back the contents of his bottle. His father’s death must have hit him hard and he didn’t want to talk about it. ‘Are you staying at the Cove long?’

‘Not sure yet.’

She saw the residual tension in his hand as he set the empty bottle on the table with a clunk. The man had problems. Did she want to get involved? But she remembered last night. He was one of the good guys. Besides, she wasn’t getting involved involved.

‘Come on,’ he said, slowly reverting to the flirtatious man she’d started out with. ‘It’ll be cooler by the water.’

They left the glare of lights and wandered to where the air was shadowed and filled with the scent of sea and summer. Carissa took off her shoes and lifted her face to the faint breeze. ‘I’ve worked at the Cove for two years and never walked here.’

‘A night for firsts.’

She almost smiled. He didn’t know the half of it.

He stopped and looked down at her. ‘Do you know what I was thinking about while I was watching you play?’

‘What?’ The word spilled out on a husky, almost breathless exhalation.

He lowered his mouth till it was a sigh away from hers. ‘This.’ He skimmed her lips with his own, a tantalising hint. ‘Touching you. Tasting you.’

Oh, yes, she thought, her mouth tingling with the promise. Me too.

He tangled calloused fingers with hers, watching her. Still watching her, he deliberately pressed his body against hers. One body part in particular. One very thick, very hard, very insistent body part.

She didn’t step back. He was big, he was male, and, unlike her ex-fiancé, he wanted her. He lowered his lips again, and, dropping her shoes, she leaned into him, her bag skimming her hip as she wound her arms around his neck.

Her mind shut down. Her senses went into overdrive. The flavour of his mouth, beer and something salty, the textures of tongue and teeth as he deepened the kiss, his roughened fingertips skimming her arms.

After the first flutter of nerves she relaxed and acquainted herself with the new and exciting sensation of male arousal against her belly. So far, so good, but how would it feel horizontally? With no clothes on?

She wanted to know how it felt to have a man’s weight on her, to have him pumping all that heat and strength inside her. She wanted to know whether fantasy lived up to reality. And she wanted this man to be the one to show her.

She’d never have to see him again. If she didn’t ask more personal questions, didn’t get to know him, she could walk away, no emotional ties, the way men did. Her birthday present to herself. She hadn’t taken anything for herself in a long time. And Melanie would definitely approve.

He pulled back, hands on her elbows, his eyes dark with lusty impatience. ‘What do you want to do about this?’

A ball of heat lodged in her gut, her knees went weak, her pulse hammered. Keeping her eyes on his, she reached up, trailed unsteady hands down the unfamiliar contours of his neck.

Sex with a stranger. Through his T-shirt she rubbed over his tight little nipples with her thumbs before moving over the plane of chest and stomach to the fabric’s hem. She crept her fingers underneath and found hot, hard flesh. Then she hooked her hands in the waistband of his jeans. And tugged.

His stomach muscles tensed against her knuckles. His breath jerked in. He’d think her easy and experienced. She stifled an almost hysterical laugh.

‘Carissa, I can put you in a cab now, or we can continue this in my room. The decision’s yours.’ Restless hips shifted against her fingers. ‘But make it quick.’

Something hot and dangerous shot through her body like a flame-tipped arrow. She only had to say, and she could be in his room. In his bed.

In the Cove Hotel.

She let out a frustrated breath. ‘Employees aren’t permitted in guests’ rooms.’

‘Is that a “no” or a problem?’

‘A…problem?’ She shrugged. ‘Rules are rules.’

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he watched her. He smiled that crooked smile as he took her hands from his jeans, rubbed a thumb over her knuckles. ‘So we’ll break a few rules.’




CHAPTER TWO


THEY separated before they reached the door and met again at the elevator. Shocked, Carissa watched as Ben keyed his card. ‘The penthouse?’

‘I like space and a room with a view.’

Seconds later the elevator doors whooshed open. She stepped into the room and stared. Low lighting didn’t dim the view of Sydney’s coat-hanger bridge, the Opera House like luminous swans on the harbour. The room was black on white. Silver glinted, marble shone. The whole scene screamed money. ‘Wow.’

He moved to the full-length glass door, slid it open. Sheer curtains billowed in on the sultry breeze. ‘One of the best views in the world,’ he said.

She hadn’t come for the view. She hadn’t even come for romance.

She’d come for sex.

And the man of the moment lounged against the balcony with wind in his hair, an intriguing blend of casual and remote as he stared over the water. Her first lover, a man she didn’t know.

The jolt of realisation must have shown on her face because when he finally looked at her, the expression warmed. ‘Relax and come here.’

She swallowed and stayed where she was. ‘I want you to know, I’m not in the habit—I mean…this isn’t…’ Now she was babbling and way out of her depth.

‘I like you pink and flustered. An interesting contrast to that cool, classical beauty at the piano.’

Shifting into defence mode, she lifted her chin. ‘I am not flustered.’ But she did relax when she saw the glint of humour in his eyes as he came towards her.

‘Okay, then…’ He trailed fingers of fire up the side of her neck and into her hair under her clasp at the back of her head. ‘Sophisticated naïveté.’

A buzzer dinged. Her eyes whipped to the elevator door.

‘Hey.’ He squeezed her nape. ‘I told you to relax. Admire the view a moment.’

She turned away and waited out the brief exchange and the sound of the doors sliding shut before turning back.

‘Happy Valentine’s Day. Red roses for a blue lady.’ He held out the dozen perfect long-stemmed buds.

Oh, my. Something inside her sparkled, like a snowflake under the first rays of spring sunshine. No one had ever given her flowers. ‘They’re beautiful, thank you.’ She buried her nose in their rich velvety fragrance. ‘But Valentine’s Day was yesterday.’

‘Somewhere in the world it still is.’

‘How did you manage these? It’s after midnight.’

‘The gift shop’s always open for the right people.’

What did he mean by that? Who was Ben Jamieson? Someone important? Obviously someone with money to burn.

Still, something about being here with him, surrounded by the fragrance of summer roses, made her want to weep. She’d never think of Valentine’s Day again without remembering Ben Jamieson. He’d reached deep inside her and found something she’d been determined to keep buried. Need. A need for more than simple lust.

But with that need came vulnerability. Don’t get emotionally involved. You’re walking away tonight; you’ll never see him again. ‘You shouldn’t have,’ she said, caressing a bud.

‘Why not?’ He tipped her chin up. ‘You in that blue dress makes me wish I could whisk you away to the top of the Sydney Tower. Just us and the stars.’

Clasping her hand, he led her to the balcony where said tower shone like a golden lollipop. Lights shimmered on black water. Somewhere below music drifted, the breeze sighed.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. With gentle persuasion he was changing something simple into something romantic and complicated.

He took the roses, laid them on the smoked-glass table and cupped her face before lowering his lips.

Again his mouth was firm yet soft, and moved over hers in a slow, sensuous kiss that had her mind blotting out all thoughts but the mindless pleasure of it. His hands moved to her shoulders, kneading away the growing tension.

Her world was suddenly intense, alive and filled with colour and movement. She heard the muted noise of traffic and a distant ferry’s horn as he pulled her closer. The sensation of falling, spinning, had her clutching at his chest, sleek muscle over bone.

‘Come with me.’ Twining their fingers together, he walked her through an arch to the adjoining room.

The bedroom was as impressive as the rest of the suite. A single black-shaded lamp threw out a muted, seductive glow in one corner. The king-size bed had been turned down for the night and her heart leapt at its intimate invitation.

Skilled fingers slipped inside the back of her dress and down. The zipper slid open with a whisper, the hooks of her bra loosened. Smoothing his hands over her shoulders, he skimmed down her arms until her dress and bra fell to the floor and she stood only in high-cut sapphire panties, lace-topped thigh-high blue stockings and spiky-heeled shoes.

His eyes darkened and he stepped back. ‘Leave them on,’ he said as her fingers moved to her thighs. ‘I want to look.’

Goosebumps chased over her body; her nipples puckered and throbbed. The whole thing was surreal; she felt like a model in a men’s magazine.

He blew out a long breath, arms crossed over his chest. ‘You’re a living fantasy. Now take off the panties—slowly. Very slowly.’

With an excitement she’d never felt, she hooked her fingers in the skinny blue straps and slid them down her thighs. She could see the sweat beading his brow as he shifted his stance, drawing her attention away from his face to the straining and impressive bulge in his jeans. Oh, God.

He gestured to the discarded undies. ‘Put them on the bed.’

Why? Then she felt his eyes consume her body as she bent down to obey his request and knew the answer.

‘Now release your hair. With both hands.’

Her breasts lifted with the movement, swollen and heavy. She let out an uneven breath as she tossed the clasp on the floor and separated the thick strands. He’d barely touched her and she was glowing.

‘Anticipation’s half the fun,’ he murmured. But he sure didn’t smile as if he was having fun. A muscle in his jaw clenched; his mouth hardened.

Her cheeks were on fire, and, yes, anticipation—every pulse point hammered with it. She focused on his gaze and told him with her eyes.

But he didn’t reach for her. With a swift tug, he rid himself of his T-shirt, tossed it on the floor beside her dress. His eyes burned. ‘Touch me.’

She swallowed over a healthy dose of nerves. Clothed, no problem, but alone with a semi-naked man and knowing he was going to get a lot more naked any minute…What if he wanted her to do…something she didn’t know how to do?

Get a grip, he’s only asked you to touch him. So far. Tentative, she touched the dark hair sprinkled over that massive chest, felt the texture against the warm, hard skin beneath. She trailed her fingers lower, following the line of hair to his navel and below, where his jeans rode low on his hips…

Taking her hand, he pressed it against his thick, throbbing erection and squeezed. Heat burned through his jeans; his body jerked. Very soon, that heat, that hardness was going to be inside her. The last thing she needed was a pregnancy. She gazed up into his eyes again. ‘You do have protection. Don’t you?’

‘It’s okay, Carissa. I won’t let anything happen to you. Trust me.’ Then with a growl he tumbled her backwards onto the bed. One shoe fell to the floor. A flick of his wrist and his jeans snapped open. He pushed them off his hips, down his legs with his boxers and a hard, hairy thigh nudged between her legs.

The contrasts were stunning. His heat, the angles and planes of his masculine body, the coolness of the crisp cotton sheet, the sultry air against her dewy skin.

Soft light played over bronzed flesh and hard-packed muscle and his, oh…his restless hands as they slid across her belly and up over her breasts. He sifted his fingers through her hair with a murmur of masculine appreciation.

Lowering his head, he closed his mouth over one nipple, then the other. She felt the tug all the way to the soles of her curled feet. She arched her back on a moan as sensation layered over sensation.

The stockings were last to go. He took his slow sweet time, his fingers brushing aside the nylon, laying a sensuous trail of kisses behind until there wasn’t a square inch of skin that wasn’t tingling. Except where she wanted him most.

At last, when she didn’t think she could stand it any longer, he parted her thighs with his hand and slid a finger over moist flesh that had never been touched. She went weak, moaned again. She’d never dreamed it could feel this…good.

He was familiar with things about her woman’s body she’d never known. Exactly the right place to touch. When to stroke, slide, dip or plunge. How absolutely arousing a slow, smooth hand could be. Their world became her only world.

‘Ben…’ She couldn’t help the breathy little sounds coming from her throat, couldn’t help arching blindly towards the source of that pleasure. But there was more; something just out of reach. Something her body instinctively sought. ‘Ben, I want…I need…’

‘I know.’ The hot glide of his clever fingers over slick and swollen flesh increased. Darts shot through her body, lights exploded behind her eyes. Her body spasmed as her climax ripped through her, sending her to another dimension.

He was still there when she floated back to earth. Time drifted like the tide, the air hung heavy, languid, scented with desire.

Then he rolled away, reached for something on the night stand. She heard the rip of foil and closed her eyes as his weight settled over her. She felt his heart thundering against her breast, his breath hot against her ear, and prepared to be swept away.

But when the blunt tip of his sex nudged her, rosy dreams and soft sighs vanished, and reality intruded like a harsh white light. The magnitude of what she was doing hit her.

Too late. With one deep thrust that stole the air from her lungs, he pushed inside her, then went utterly still. And bit out a short four-letter word.

She tensed at the quick sharp pain and held her breath, trying not to panic. She felt impaled, his hardness invasive and foreign. Only his rapid and heavy breathing broke the silence.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You didn’t ask.’ She could barely speak, so focused was she on her own body and what was happening to her. Already the pain was subsiding, already she wanted more. Until an added vulnerability cooled her enthusiasm. Perhaps he didn’t like virgins; perhaps the reason he was speaking in that harsh tone was because he was disappointed. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Too bloody right.’ He carefully withdrew a little, propped himself on his elbows over her and dropped a sweat-damp forehead on hers. ‘There are rules…’

‘We…I…broke a rule coming here. You said—’

‘My rules. There’s a difference.’ He traced a finger over her cheek, her lips. There was a myriad emotions in his eyes. ‘Why now…why me?’

‘Because I want it, because you’re here. Please…’ She grasped his hand, took it to her breast. ‘Tonight you’ve made me feel beautiful and so alive.’

An infinitely more wary look crossed his face. ‘Don’t make this into something it’s not, Carissa. I’m not that man of your dreams, nor am I a settling-down kind of guy. This is all there is.’

She swallowed and forced herself to remember how it was. ‘This is all I want. I’m not looking for permanence. That makes us ideal partners for this evening.’ She twined her arms around his neck and experimentally moved her hips.

His jaw tightened, his arms quivering with the strain of holding his weight off her. ‘Look, Carissa, I don’t want to hurt you…’

‘Don’t give me that sexist rubbish about it being different for a woman.’ She raked her nails over his back and the hard curve of his buttocks, making him shudder.

‘Well, then. You’ll want something worth remembering.’ His eyes darkened. ‘That I can give you.’

He was true to his word.

Hungry for his taste, his body and completion, she took what he gave greedily, storing the sensations and emotions for later. Dark, heavy heat engulfed her, molten fire flowing through her veins, spreading over her skin. Her body relaxed as she became familiar with him moving over and within her. She’d never forget this one time with him. He was everything she’d dreamed of and then some.

Strength. His body was hard and smooth against hers, tempered with a gentleness she hadn’t expected.

Patience. Another surprise, his willingness to linger over small things—a touch, a kiss, a murmur.

Tenderness. It flowed from his touch like soft summer rain.

And when the ache built again and became unbearable, he knew, and let her fly.

After, he lay silent and still, holding her against him, but somehow removed. As if he’d distanced himself.

How it should be, she told herself. He’d be moving on and she’d go back to her two jobs, her falling-down house and her debts.

But rather than the satisfaction she’d expected, she felt…empty. And cheated somehow, as if she’d opened the door to another world and had it slammed in her face. And she still had to find a way out of his arms, out of this hotel and home—without being seen by management.



She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. That was her first coherent thought when she woke to the unfamiliar weight of a hand on her abdomen. As she surfaced the night flooded back in a tide of exquisite sensations and images. For a fuzzy moment she drifted with them, aware of a vague tenderness in her lower body and a sense of togetherness she’d never experienced.

Then she blinked as her brain caught up. A grey-pearl sky heralded approaching dawn. A jolt of panic swept through her. Her reputation and job were at stake here. She fought the impulse to leap off the bed. Slow was the wisest course; the last thing she wanted to do was wake him.

She couldn’t resist a last look. She’d never seen a naked man for real. Her moist, tender flesh throbbed at the sight of the thick jut of his sex, which seemed to augment as she watched. Her gaze shot to his face, but he was relaxed, long lashes resting on his cheeks.

Heart racing, she turned away. Get out while you still can. Easing her body out from under his arm was no mean feat, but he was dead to the world, his breathing calm and even.

Her stockings lay at the foot of the bed. She grabbed her bra and dress from the floor, hesitated before stuffing bra and stockings in her bag. She wriggled into the dress, jerked the zip up, then twisted her hair into its clasp while she searched for shoes.

Her panties were nowhere in sight, buried somewhere among the rumpled sheets or under that heavy, slumbering body. She had no intention of risking him waking, and counted the loss of a pair of knickers a minor one under the circumstances.

Then she noticed his wallet on the night stand. Money. Thank you, God. She hunted up pen and paper in her bag, wrote an IOU, promising him she’d reimburse him at the desk tomorrow, then slipped a bill into her purse. Couldn’t be helped—he’d offered, and she absolutely, positively couldn’t catch a train wearing nothing but an evening dress at six o’clock in the morning.

She looked longingly at the roses, but she couldn’t take them. Goodbye, Ben Jamieson. She refused to look at him again as she stole from his room and out of his life.

Through barely raised eyelashes Ben watched her stumble quietly around his room. He’d lain awake the whole night afraid he’d succumb to his usual nightmare and scare her. And embarrass himself.

There was enough light to showcase the slender curves, the glint of gold at her ears and her shadowed secret places as she bent to find her clothes. She straightened, hesitated, giving him a close-up of those tempting globes of flesh with their dark puckered nipples.

Then she turned her back to him and slithered naked into her long blue tube, an innocent striptease in rewind. His blood heated, his already hardened sex turned painful and he had an irresistible urge to lay his lips on that moon-pale patch of skin above the swell of her bottom. Then she yanked the zip up and the moment was lost. Probably just as well.

He wondered if she intended catching her train at this hour, in that state of dress, and what he was going to do about it. He was relieved when he saw her write something on a scrap of paper, then slide a single furtive bill from his wallet. She could have robbed him blind. The fact that she didn’t only confirmed what he already knew. Carissa was an honest if naïve young woman.

Her movements ruffled the air so that her scent wafted to his nose. Not an expensive perfume, but a scent that made him think of a spring morning—cool, fresh, unspoiled. Maybe she was too embarrassed to face him—she’d obviously never done the morning-after routine. It beat the hell out of him why a woman would opt for a stranger for her first sexual experience.

He watched her leave his room and head for the elevator, then stretched, punched up the pillow and shoved his hands behind his head. The trouble with virgins—one intimate encounter and they started looking at engagement rings. Carissa was different.

He heard the elevator doors open, close, and felt more alone than he’d felt before he’d met her. As if she’d taken part of him. Which was plain stupid. No woman took anything from Ben Jamieson.

Throwing off the sheet, he padded to the window to catch a glimpse of her. There. He watched her hail a cab, climb in and drive away. His fists clenched on the window ledge. Damn her for making him feel…needy. He didn’t want to get involved. Not with her, not with anyone. And not now, when his life was going down the toilet.

Moving to his bed, he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out the slender gold chain he’d slipped off her wrist. Antique, by the looks. Insurance, he told himself, pocketing it once more. He could see her again if he wanted, if he chose to. He knew where she was on a Friday and Saturday night. Simple.

Or he could keep it even simpler. Just Carissa, an intimate stranger who’d shared his bed for a night. Some soft curves in the bumpy road that was his life right now.

She didn’t know he had her bracelet. And her panties, he noted, spotting the scrap of blue silk on the bed amongst the tumbled sheets. Ah well, he’d have them gift wrapped and handed in to her at the front desk. But he’d see she got the bracelet back personally.

A girl with her classical background wouldn’t know anything about a band like XLRock, he decided, hunting up a room-service menu. Rave’s band had needed financial backing to get started and Ben had been happy to put down the money.

Fourteen years ago in a tiny pub on the edge of the Nullabor Plain, Ben had taken the fifteen-year-old runaway pickpocket under his wing and taught him to play guitar. The kid had become a runaway star.

Ben stared sightlessly at the ceiling. All he saw was Rave. A couple of weeks ago he’d stepped in with his own guitar to help out when one of the band members had quit on the eve of the open-air concert, Desert Rock. But Ben hadn’t been able to resist the lure of Broken Hill’s Musicians’ Club on the way home.

The memory taunted him. His stomach tied itself into those familiar knots and he decided he wasn’t hungry after all. Grimly he grabbed his jeans from the floor where he’d shucked them last night and headed for the shower.

Adjusting the temperature to just above cold, he let the water pelt him and shivered as he soaped up. He could still see the frustration in Rave’s eyes. But he’d grown accustomed to the tantrums. ‘Jess won’t mind one extra night, Rave. Phone her and blame me. Here, take the Porsche for a spin.’ He’d handed him the car keys himself.

It was the last time he’d seen him.

Ben wrenched off the taps, pressed his fingers to his eyelids. He hadn’t expected Rave to be irresponsible enough to get plastered before he got behind the wheel. He should have seen it. He’d tried to escape the visions that plagued him—waking, sleeping—but the guilt stuck like barbed wire.

And the nightmares kept coming.

For one brief evening, Carissa had made him forget.

When he re-entered the main room, the Sydney Morning Herald had been slipped beneath the door by some faceless night porter. Without glancing at the headlines he tossed it into the bin. He was so tired of the smell of impersonal hotel rooms. Sick of the sight of staff with their plastic smiles, the clatter of service trolleys.

He turned to the spectacular view of high-rises against a gold sky. Just once he wanted to look out a window and see an untidy cottage garden or a stand of stringy eucalypts, a wooden letter-box with the paint peeling off. How many years had it been since he’d slept in a house? A home? Too damn many.

He needed a place where no one who knew him could find him. Space where he could think for a few days before the gut-wrenching prospect of facing up to Jess.

Even if he had to pay a couple of months’ rent for a few days, the room on Sydney’s coast advertised in the staff cafeteria might just be the temporary hideaway he was looking for.




CHAPTER THREE


SLIDING his sunglasses down his nose, Ben studied the house from his hire car, checked the ad again. ‘Want a quiet retreat away from city noise?’ it read. ‘Spacious old family home. Own bed/sitting/bathroom, share kitchen. Meals cooked if preferred.’

The house itself was a gracious old bungalow but someone had let it go. The midday sun glared off a khaki lawn and a row of straggling rose bushes. Faded paintwork was peeling along the verandah and around the windows. The roof sagged and one of the wooden steps leading to the front door was missing.

Mozart—at least he thought it was—drifted through an open window as he unfolded himself and climbed out of the car. He pushed open the gate, caught the scents of coffee and fresh-baked cake as he walked up the path.

He knocked and a voice sounded from somewhere inside. The door opened and a young woman with a long flow of black hair and grey eyes looked out. Her skimpy olive crop-top revealed smooth tanned skin. Black Lycra shorts clung to shapely legs. She was, in a word, a knockout.

‘Good morning, my name’s Ben Jamieson. I’ve come about the room.’

She stared at him a moment, then her mouth curved into a wide grin. ‘Hey, Carrie, your piano tuner’s here,’ she called in an amused voice to someone down the passage.

‘No,’ he began, ‘there’s some misunderstanding, the room—’

‘Ben Jamieson.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Wait up. The Ben Jamieson?’ She grinned. ‘I’m Melanie Sawyer, Carrie’s stepsister.’ She offered her hand, her grip firm. ‘I just called round on my way home from the hospital—I’m a nurse.’

‘I didn’t ring for a piano tuner, and the kitchen sink…’ A woman joined Melanie, her voice trailing off when she saw him.

His blue lady transformed.

Biting back the first word that sprang to his lips, he exhaled sharply, rocked back on his heels.

‘Carrie, there you are,’ Melanie said. ‘This is Ben Jamieson. He’s come about the room. Ben, this is—’

‘Carissa.’

He compared the two females, both gazes fixed on him. Melanie might dazzle the eye, but Carissa shone with an inner spark that set her apart.

Right now her hair was an out-of-control waterfall of gold. A buttercup-yellow vest-top clung to braless breasts. Mile-long legs gleamed beneath short denim cut-offs and she had two dark stains on her knees and a glob of something black on her cheek. Her feet were bare.

She didn’t look pleased to see him.

Her cheeks flushed but those blue eyes turned a dangerous shade of cool. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I was in the staff cafeteria…’ He held out the ad.

Her eyes narrowed. ‘How did you manage that?’

‘Friends in high places?’ He should just get the hell away, but he couldn’t seem to move his feet.

Melanie frowned. ‘You know each other?’

‘I don’t…’ Carissa threw him a suspicious look, then turned to her sister. ‘How do you know him?’

Melanie shook her head at Ben. ‘The queen of pop, Carrie is not. Ben’s a songwriter.’ Her brow creased. ‘You were there when…oh, God.’ Her sentence hung in an awkward silence broken only by the chattering of birds and Mozart pouring from the stereo inside. ‘Rave Elliot, XLRock,’ she finished in a low voice.

Carissa’s eyes widened and thawed to lukewarm. ‘That horrific accident. I read about it.’ She leaned a shoulder against the door. Not flushed now but pale as milk. ‘I had no idea you…I’m sorry. For your loss.’

The pain struck hard. ‘Rave and I were like brothers.’

For a few hours this woman had taken his mind off his grief. Not just with her body, but with charm and optimism. Could she be good for him a little longer? If they laid the ground rules from the start…

He took a fortifying breath. His best decisions were often ones he didn’t think about too deeply. ‘I’d like to look at the room.’

But Carissa frowned. ‘Why? Why would you choose a cheap rented room over a penthouse suite?’

A fair question. ‘I need a private place for a while. If you’re worried about the short stay, I’m happy to pay you six months’ rent up front.’

The frown remained.

Melanie flashed him a reassuring smile. ‘Excuse us a moment. Wait right here,’ she said, tugging Carissa inside and pushing the door to.

He paced a couple of steps away and considered the wisdom of his offer. Carissa obviously didn’t want him here and he—

‘Ben?’

He turned at the sound of Melanie’s voice.

Carissa stood beside her, flicking one hand against her thigh and looking aggrieved. He saw her throat bob as she swallowed, then she nodded. ‘Okay, you can take a look.’

‘So, how did you two meet?’ Ben heard Melanie ask.

Carissa swallowed again. ‘The piano bar. We had a drink…’

Knowing eyes met his, deep ocean-blue, and he had a mental flashback of that long, slender body laid out and arching beneath him. ‘Which reminds me.’ He dug into his pocket. ‘I have something of yours.’

‘Oh, no…don’t…I…’ She did a quick embarrassed shuffle.

He took his time, watching the way her eyes darkened, heated, pleaded, then chilled. ‘You must’ve dropped this.’

‘Oh…my—Thank God.’ Pink and flustered again now, she made no move to take the gold chain he held in front of her eyes.

He cocked a brow. ‘You sound surprised. Have you lost something else?’

Her eyes skittered to Mel, then away, and she seemed to fight a little war within herself before the glare was back, the chin up. Ignoring his last question, she opened her hand, palm out. ‘It was my grandmother’s. I only discovered I wasn’t wearing it this morning.’

His fingers grazed hers as he poured it into her hand. He lingered over them a second before she snatched them away.

‘The room’s this way, Mr Jamieson,’ she said, all business as she turned and headed down the passage. ‘The upkeep of the room is the tenant’s responsibility. There’s no room service here.’

‘Carrie,’ Melanie scolded, bringing up the rear. She cast an apologetic glance at Ben. ‘She’s not been herself all morning. I don’t know what’s gotten into her.’

He almost smiled. Was this the same woman who’d melted—burned—in his arms last night? That fragrance, her cool blue water scent that had enveloped him like a misty morning, was tantalising him again, reminding him of the passion he’d woken in her. Only him. The thought persisted a little longer than he’d have liked.

It was an airy house with only the basics, and echoes of a time when it had looked different. They passed a couple of empty rooms, then entered a spacious area that must have been used for entertaining. A piano filled the space by a huge bay window. Sheet music was scattered over the lid; some lay in a cardboard box. A tatty sofa, a couple of sagging chairs and a coffee-table were the only furniture.

He wished she’d stop, wished Melanie would get lost so he and Carissa could talk, but she strode on, long legs flashing beneath those skimpy shorts.

‘Careful,’ she warned at the kitchen door. ‘Sink’s blocked.’

Which explained the black knees. They trod carefully over the slippery floor. ‘You called the plumber?’

Melanie let out a hoot, which earned her a black look from Carissa.

‘I’ll take a look—’ he began.

Carissa waved him off. ‘Got it covered.’ A phone rang. ‘Can you answer that, Mel, please, and tell whoever I’ll call back?’ She pushed at a door. ‘These are the rooms. Not up to your usual standard, I’m sure, so—’

‘I’ll take it,’ he said, without bothering to look. He preferred watching the conflicting emotions play over her face. ‘Hold still,’ he murmured, flicking the drop from her cheek with his thumb. ‘A spot of drain dew. Gunk,’ he clarified when she just stared at him.

She touched her cheek. ‘This is not happening.’

He cocked a brow. ‘Think of it as a coincidence.’

‘I believe in signs, not coincidences, Mr Jamieson.’

‘A sign, then.’ Of what, he wasn’t sure. Stretching a lazy arm across the doorframe, he foiled her getaway. ‘What’s with the Mr Jamieson? We’ve seen each other naked. Shouldn’t we be informal?’ He watched her colour flare and gentled his voice. ‘We need to talk, Carissa.’

‘If you’re referring to last night, there’s nothing to talk about. Anything else is purely business, Mr Jamieson.’ Her voice was crisp and edgy. She started to push past, then stopped, obviously unwilling to touch him.

He saved her the trouble, curling his fingers loosely around her arm. The faintest tremor ran through her. ‘I think there is. I’m making you uncomfortable. If we’re going to be living together we need—’

‘I haven’t decided yet whether or not to take you on. And if I do, we will not be living together.’

‘Okay,’ he conceded. ‘If you decide I’m the right man for the job, we’re inevitably going to be in each other’s space. I don’t want you uncomfortable in your own home.’

He was all too aware of the smooth skin beneath his palm. He was trying to reassure, but it was too tempting to remember her flesh sliding against his. Damn, but he wanted that feeling again.

‘I’m a good bet, Carissa. You don’t want someone you know nothing about coming into your house.’

‘And I know you?’ she said wryly. She chewed her lips a moment. ‘Okay, we’ll give it a go, but I’m not making any long-term deals.’

‘I’m not looking for long term.’ He cruised his hand up that slender neck, felt the rapid pulse, the shallow breathing. His gaze dropped to that full mouth and he watched it tremble before it firmed. Proud and defensive. He liked that in a woman. ‘Carissa…’

‘A one-night stand, that’s all,’ she whispered, her eyes pleading with his.

Ironic that he’d echoed those same sentiments until it was second nature to him. ‘Seems fate has other ideas.’

‘No.’ She swung away, stubbing her toes on a chair in her haste. ‘Ouch!’ Her face turned waxy pale.

‘Ouch,’ he echoed with feeling.

Clutching her foot, she staggered to the nearest available surface, a sofa with a bright hand-quilted throw-over. ‘Fudge, fudge, fudge!’

Ready to render first aid whether she needed it or not, he crossed the room and knelt in front of her. ‘Let’s take a look.’

‘It’s fine. Great. No, really.’

Her foot jerked, but he grasped her heel before she could pull away. It was smudged with dirt, the toenails painted silver. One nail was broken and bleeding. He whipped out a handkerchief and wiped away the blood, but his thumb slid back and forth over her cool, smooth instep of its own volition.

The urge to slide his hand on up that firm calf muscle, and higher, beat through his blood. His body hardened. Living under her roof might be more difficult than he’d anticipated. He looked up at her. Her teeth were worrying her lip again, a provocative sight if he ever saw one. He could press his advantage, or act like a gentleman, which he wasn’t.

But he let her go. ‘Okay, Cinderella, I think you’ll live.’ Shoving his handkerchief in his pocket, he walked to the window, willing his inconvenient erection to subside.

This bed-cum-sitting room was better furnished than what he’d seen of the rest of the house, with a view overlooking the rear grounds, grounds being the operative word.

Filmy white curtains moved in the breeze, another handmade quilt in maroon and cream covered a single bed. The rug on the floor was new, the pine floor freshly lacquered. He could still smell polish, disinfectant and sunshine on the fabrics.

‘There’s no air-conditioning, but you’ve a fan,’ she said, still hugging her foot. ‘Bathroom’s through there.’

He took the opportunity while inspecting the sixties-style green and black room to moisten a dainty embroidered towel. ‘This is a beautiful old house,’ he said, offering her the cloth.

‘I think so. Thanks, but I’m okay.’ She folded it neatly and put it on the table in front of her. ‘It was my grandparents’ home. I’ve had to let things go a little. Upkeep on a place like this costs an arm and a leg, but I don’t want to sell. It’s all I have left of my family.’

‘That’s tough,’ he said, and meant it. He knew all too well about losing the people you loved.

‘I do just fine on my own.’ The unconscious lift of her chin told him she had to work hard at it. It was obvious she needed money.

She glanced at her watch. ‘I have to go out for a while. There’s cake and coffee in the kitchen. Don’t use the sink. You’re free to use the kitchen, but the rest of the house is private, just as I’ll respect your privacy. That way we can keep out of each other’s hair.’

‘Okay.’ He nodded, but keeping his hands out of that tangle of gold was going to be a serious exercise in restraint.

She pushed up. ‘I’ll be back in time to cook tea, if you want to settle in.’ She slid open a drawer, took out a set of keys and put them on the table. ‘Back and front doors. And you can park that bomb you call a car in the garage; it’s empty for now.’

‘Hey, that’s a fine car. Paintwork’s a bit dodgy but the engine’s reliable—so they tell me. We’ll have to take a drive some time, see if they’re up to their word.’

She didn’t reply to that, but knotted her fingers at her waist. ‘Rent’s payable up front, two weeks in advance.’ She paused, and twin spurts of colour sprang to her cheekbones. ‘And, please, knock off the money I borrowed this morning. I intended to drop it off at the hotel.’

‘No,’ he said quietly, drawing out his wallet. He counted the notes and held them out. ‘It’s yours.’

‘Okay. Thanks…um, Ben.’ She took them, carefully avoiding contact with his hand.

He was tempted to cuff her wrist and test the beat of her pulse, but thought better of it. Business was business.

As she closed the door behind her he pulled out his keys. He’d head back to the city and grab his gear. Then maybe he’d take a stroll to the beach, a few minutes’ walk away from here, and make some short-term plans.

Plans that might or might not include Carissa Grace.



As expected, Melanie leapt off the couch with a ‘Wow!’ the moment Carissa entered the living room.

‘Yeah. Wow,’ Carissa mimicked less enthusiastically as she snatched up a fabric band from the piano and dragged her hair through it. ‘Who was on the phone?’ she asked as casually as she could manage.

‘Didn’t say. I told him you were out, said he’d ring back. So, come on, Carrie, you were going to knock back his offer, for goodness’ sake. You wouldn’t say no to the extra income from a gorgeously handsome guy. What’s going on with you two?’

Her stomach jittered. ‘Nothing’s “going on”.’

‘Don’t give me that. I saw the way he looked at you. Hot.’

‘I didn’t notice.’ She glared at Melanie, but she could still feel that flash of heat on her skin. ‘Wipe that smirk off your face.’ It was making her nervous. She could feel her face flaming, so she began collecting the scattered sections of yesterday’s newspaper.

‘The piano tuner?’ Melanie murmured.

‘Stop it, Mel.’

‘Okay, but look at the points in his favour. He’s a hunk, you have to agree.’ She held up her fingers as she checked them off. ‘He’s available, he must be loaded, he’s here—’

‘That’s just it,’ Carissa interrupted. ‘He’s here. If I wanted a one-night stand, would I choose my lodger? Someone I see day in, day out?’ And felt hot all over again.

‘I don’t know—would you?’

Carissa looked up to see Mel’s eyebrows arched and a speculative gleam in her eyes. ‘And five, he’s interested. You want someone to tickle your ar…peggio—he’s a songwriter and musician. What better credentials?’

‘I don’t know why I’m still talking to you, but stay for tea, Mel. Help me out here.’

Mel shook her head, setting her long hair swinging. ‘You don’t need any help from me, sis. And Adam and I made plans to go bowling tonight.’

‘Bring your sexy and available flatmate too. The more the merrier.’ And safer.

‘Not tonight. You’re on your own with this one.’

‘Traitor,’ Carissa muttered, tossing the paper on the coffee-table and throwing herself onto the couch.

Melanie grinned, picked up her bag and swung it over her shoulder. ‘You’ll thank me later. Gotta go.’ But she paused at the door. ‘You’re not still thinking about Alasdair, are you? If you want to talk, I’m always free, or if you want to kick something, Adam’s available.’

Carissa couldn’t help smiling back. ‘I’ll tell Adam you offered him. And, no, I’m not thinking of Alasdair.’

When Melanie had gone, Carissa slapped on her floppy old hat and stepped out into the zap of a white summer’s afternoon. The heat seared her exposed skin and baked the ground to biscuit, burning the soles of her worn sandals.

She welcomed the distraction. First up he’d walked into her piano bar. What were the odds of that same man walking into her home? Her life? She lifted the sprigs of lavender and rosemary she’d picked from her miniature herb patch, inhaling their calming scent as she walked.

She wanted alone. She liked alone. The desperate need for money was the only motivation for letting some of the spare rooms, not any desire for company. Now she had someone she neither needed nor wanted in her space.

Well, he wouldn’t follow her here. A row of tired casuarinas shaded the tiny graveyard behind the old church. The gate registered her arrival with a mournful screech of rusted metal. She walked straight to her grandmother’s grave.

‘Hi, Gran.’ She arranged the herbs in the earthenware pot, then sat, tossing her hat to the ground beside her. Her father and Mel’s mother’s grave lay a couple of rows away. Her own mother had been out of Carissa’s life longer than she could remember.

She’d been visiting her grandmother’s grave for fourteen years. It was Gran she talked to when she wanted to get something off her chest. No one interrupted here. She made important decisions under these trees. Solved problems, answered questions.

The peace of the hot afternoon lay over her like a languid blanket. Closing her eyes, she tuned her senses to her surroundings. The kiss of warm air on her skin, the scent of herbs and casuarina needles, the drone of a plane.

She opened her eyes and traced the grooves of her grandmother’s name. ‘Gran, I’ve done something I’m not sure you’d approve of. I met a man.’ She found her heart thudding louder and rubbed the heel of her hand over it. ‘You know the type—tall, dark and deliciously dangerous. We had a drink and I gave him my virginity. I’d known him an hour.’

She clasped her hands around her knees, conscious of her breathing, a little faster than usual, skin newly sensitised, the tingling in her breasts as the memories flowed back, clear and fluid.

‘And you know what else? I’m not ashamed of it. Even knowing there’ll never be anything between us. He didn’t seduce me. I went in with my eyes wide open. I used him, knowing I’d never see him again. How’s that for women’s rights? Except now…now he’s living under my roof.’ She heard the tremble in her own voice and stood up.

‘The moment I saw him standing at my door it was all I could do not to lay my lips on his and take.’ She shoved her hands in the pockets of her shorts and frowned at the ground. ‘But that’s not going to happen, I made it quite clear. I think.’

A car whizzed by, a blur of sound. The air stirred, thick and heavy with summer scents.

‘How am I going to face him over the kitchen table knowing what we’ve done?’ Her head suddenly filled with Ben’s face, his eyes on hers as he drove into her. Her body writhing beneath his, her shameless moans…

She shook it away, clenched her fists. ‘Alasdair’s got someone else.’ Her lip curled. ‘Pierre. I thought I’d feel hurt but I feel used and angry. I was counting on his financial support. He’d promised to fix up the house. It was going to be my turn to study at the conservatorium.’ She blew out a breath. ‘I’ve realised I’m more upset at the loss of his income than the man himself. We had a good partnership. Now I realise that’s all it was.

‘So I had no choice but to rent those rooms. It was supposed to be temporary, but now it’s vital. I’ll keep your house, Gran, if it’s the last thing I do.

‘And Ben Jamieson’s going to help me pay for it.

‘He likes rock, for heaven’s sake. We’re worlds apart.’ She bent, picked up her hat, then kissed her fingers and touched the headstone. And sighed as a smile curved her mouth. ‘But I haven’t felt so alive in for ever.’




CHAPTER FOUR


BEN spent a quiet half hour unloading his gear. It felt good tripping up the rickety front steps, hearing the squeak of the porch screen door. If Carissa had no objections he might put his energy to productive use and fix the place up a bit, bring the garden back to life.

As he set his laptop and paperwork on the tiny desk in his room he noticed the homey touches. The dish of pot-pourri, a handmade candle that smelled of vanilla, the embroidered pillowslip and tissue-box cover.

Twenty-four hours ago he’d never met Carissa Grace; now he was living in her house. He stared at the ad still on the table. What twist of fate had led him to that notice-board yesterday? Was this one of those mystical signs Carissa believed in? He sure as eggs didn’t believe in that mumbo jumbo.

So why did he have this odd niggly feeling in his gut?

To distract himself, he wandered to the kitchen, found a vase for the roses he’d brought from the hotel, put them on the table. Next he picked up the tools Carissa had left and inspected the sink. So she was a plumber too. He wasn’t, but he was prepared to give it a try.

Half an hour, a bruised elbow and a few curses later he had the drain flowing freely—he hoped. He let himself out the back door and hunted up a hose on top of a pile of cracked pots in an old garden shed. She obviously didn’t find time for gardening, which was a crying shame. The garden could be quite spectacular with a little time and effort.

He’d never had a backyard of his own. The simple pleasure of pottering around in your own garden, watching it grow, was not something he’d ever given much thought to. He connected the hose and soon had the water playing over what he imagined had once been lawn. He wasn’t sure it could be revived, but he’d give it his best shot.

The activity reminded him of his mother. Her garden had been her pride and joy. His gut tightened at the memory. Even then she’d been lost. At sixteen he’d been too focused on himself to look at what was going on around him—he’d just known he wanted out of there.

He’d come back four years later and been shocked at what he’d discovered his drunken father had been doing. But she’d refused to go to the women’s shelter he’d arranged, refused to return with him to the outback pub he’d been working in at the time. Still, the guilt that he’d had to leave her with the bastard remained like a wound that never healed.

‘What are you doing?’ The steel in Carissa’s voice had a red-hot edge to it.

He turned to see her marching across the yard towards him, hat in hand, eyes blazing. ‘Giving the lawn a helping hand,’ he said. ‘Looks like it needs it.’

‘And who appointed you gardener?’

He couldn’t resist. He adjusted the nozzle to a fine spray and grinned. ‘You look a little hot and bothered. Let’s cool you off.’

‘Don’t—’ She gasped as the fine mist enveloped her.

Her hat sailed into the dust. Water sparkled on her shoulders, in her hair. She didn’t look cooled off at all. He wondered that the water didn’t turn to steam, she looked so darn angry.

‘Turn it off. Now.’

When he just stood watching in fascination, she renewed her march, this time towards the tap. He moved to intercept her.

Her fingers closed over his as she struggled for the hose, drenching them. ‘Stop it!’

Mud spattered their feet. The smell of wet earth rose around them as her breasts rubbed against his chest. She pulled back, her T-shirt plastered to her body, her pebbled nipples jutting up at him.

‘Now look what you’ve done,’ she muttered, swiping her face.

Oh, yeah. He was looking.

Then for just a moment laughter bubbled up, bright and sunny and uninhibited. ‘This’ll cost you, Mr Jamieson.’

The hose slipped to the ground, spraying water over their feet. ‘Tack it onto the rent.’

‘I was thinking along the line of no showers for a week. Teach you a lesson in water conservation.’

‘Then I’d be forced to share yours.’

Her eyes shot laser-bright blue sparks as he hauled her up against him. He felt the exasperation sing through her arm as she pushed at his chest, relished it as he tugged her back against him. It had been a while since he’d enjoyed a tussle with a woman, even if he’d have preferred somewhere more horizontal.

‘What’s the problem, Miz Grace, afraid of a little water?’ Silky legs rubbed against his and he shifted to take advantage. Something about this woman called to him. Her vitality, her innocence? It was more than physical, although his physical needs took precedence at this moment.

Everywhere her body touched him came alive. He knew she felt his erection when she tensed and went very still. That knowledge and the taut, unspoken silence hummed in his ears, beat through his blood. He lowered his mouth until it was an intimate suggestion away from hers. ‘Or are you afraid of something else?’

Her eyes snapped shut. ‘I’m afraid the water’s wasting. I’m afraid when the water bill comes I won’t be able to pay. So now you know, turn off the tap.’

It cost her to admit that, and he eased back. ‘Is that why you let the garden go?’ he asked softly.

Diamond drops clung to her lashes, her pretty mouth was a thin line. ‘You think I like a baked yard?’ She shook her head, scattering droplets.

‘I apologise.’ Reluctantly he disentangled his body from hers and stepped away to shut off the tap. He wanted to help, but knew her pride wouldn’t allow her to accept cash. He’d have to find another way.

He didn’t expect her to be right behind him picking up her hat when he turned. His foot slipped as he tried to compensate and they slid to the ground in a slow-motion pinwheel of thrashing limbs and hot skin. He heard her strangled cry, felt the cool sensation of damp earth rise up to meet them as he frantically twisted his body to take the brunt of the fall.

He ended up on his back, Carissa’s legs around his waist, her breasts fragrant pillows against his nose.

Her moan—or was it his?—sounded through his muffled senses as his hands reached up and clamped on firm buttocks. She squirmed, one nipple brushing his face, his mouth. He acted on instinct, turning his cheek and closing his lips around the hard little bud beneath the cotton.




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