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With A Little Help
Valerie Parv


Raised in a family of physicians, chef Emma Jarrett has no interest in the long hours, large egos or constant on-call that come with a medical spouse. Thanks, but no thanks. Of course, that doesn't stop her matchmaking mother from parading a steady stream of eligible doctors in front of Emma. The latest is Nathan Hale - someone she shares a bit of history with. It was hard enough fighting temptation the first time.Does she really want a second dose of him? But when she needs his helpand he needs hers, can she really afford to turn him down? It may be that he's just what the doctor ordered!









Nate was only a client


Still, Emma’s fingers twitched at the memory of that night. She’d spent half the party resisting until finally she gave in to temptation. He pressed a kiss to her fingers.

“You taste of truffles,” he’d murmured.

Had he detected the throbbing of her pulse or the racing of her heart in response to his closeness? “What else do you sense?”

“You could drive a man wild.”

Tingles like faint electrical impulses had swept through her body, and she’d pressed closer to him. His long, lean body was the shape she found most attractive in a man, with wide shoulders, narrow hips, a long neck and strong jawline faintly shaded by stubble.

The memory elicited a shiver of desire she couldn’t blame on anything but attraction—the way that stubble had felt so enticing when she kissed him.

But she’d resolved never to willingly cross his path again. So what on earth was she doing now, walking up to his front door?




Dear Reader,

Welcome to my first book for Harlequin Superromance, after a long spell writing traditional romances and romantic suspense for other Harlequin lines. I’ve always enjoyed reading Harlequin Superromance books because they explore not only a page-turning romance between a capable, modern woman and an equally strong, modern man, but we also meet their friends, family and their world. This makes the writing so much fun.

I particularly enjoyed researching the recipes Emma Jarrett—a chef—cooks for heart surgeon Nathan Hale. For some of the dishes, I reached back into childhood to the foods my mother cooked, reminding me of home, comfort and security. It’s good to see that some of the foods, like homemade sausages and meat loaf, are being reinvented in contemporary versions. It seems the more worrying daily life gets, the more comfort we seek in traditional foods—and romance. In this book I try to provide a generous helping of both.

The Bay Walk around a beautiful section of Sydney Harbour is also one I’ve done. If I have to work off my indulgences, why shouldn’t my characters? Bon appétit.

Valerie Parv




With a Little Help

Valerie Parv










ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Valerie Parv always wanted to be a writer, penning her first novel in an exercise book at the age of eight. That novel resides in the State Library of New South Wales, among their collection of her papers. She’s tried her hand at many things including owning and running a coffee shop where her double chocolate fudge brownies were a big hit, but says nothing beats the sheer joy of cooking up a new romantic story.


For my cheering section, the bats, with whom brainstorming is way too much fun; for Leigh who also made brownies and talked catering with me; and for CH always.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN




CHAPTER ONE


TO EMMA JARRETT, FINDING her mother waiting in her office meant only one thing—trouble. Cherie Kenner-Jarrett didn’t venture out of the eastern suburbs of Sydney without good reason, although her reasons were seldom good for Emma.

Ignoring her mother’s tiny frown, she slid her patchwork velvet backpack off her shoulders and parked it on the desk.

“What happened to the Miu Miu bag I gave you for your birthday?” her mother asked. Cherie’s own bag was Prada as usual, Emma noted. Her charcoal suit over a frilled pink shirt had the distinctive cut of an Aloys Gada, her mother’s favorite designer.

Cherie’s hair was styled in a flawless chin-length bob with a sleek, off-center part highlighting her sea-green eyes. Emma’s hair was a lighter reddish-gold, like the last embers of sunset, but flared out in an undisciplined cloud—the reason she usually wore it twisted up and imprisoned in a bear-claw clip. A couple of extra inches in height made her look slimmer than her mother, although Cherie actually weighed a little less, watching her diet with a resolve Emma couldn’t match while working in the food business.

Since her mother sat behind the desk, Emma took the visitor’s chair, a recycled wooden kitchen chair she’d painted citrus to match the billowing folds of curtain disguising the window’s small size and view of the brick wall next door. “Your bag is too—special—for every day. This backpack is one of my own designs. The material came from a vintage velvet skirt I found at the markets. Aren’t the colors amazing?”

“Amazing,” Cherie agreed without conviction. “It’s good that you keep up with your hobby. But if it means you sold my gift online, I don’t want to know.” Her manicured hand swept across a sheet of paper in front of her. “I see the bank’s concerned about the business exceeding your overdraft limit. Why didn’t you come to me or your father?”

No point protesting about her mother’s right to read the letter, Emma knew. As a teenager growing up in Bellevue Hill, she’d never had the pleasure of opening her own mail. The letters had been neatly slit before reaching her. “In case there was something we needed to know about,” was the excuse. Emails and instant messages fared little better until Emma learned to password protect them. Then there’d been lectures about the dangers of the internet and parental need to keep their child safe. “Your father and I worry about you,” her mother had explained. “In our work we see the harm that unsupervised internet activities cause families all the time.”

Emma’s parents were in practice together. A pediatrician, Cherie was marginally more successful than her obstetrician husband because of her high profile in the media. Issues like child protection were her specialty, and she was a frequent guest on talk shows.

At first Emma had been proud of her mother’s fame, until she realized she and her brother provided the case studies for many of Cherie’s theories. To the media, Cherie made much of being a mother herself, when in truth, their housekeeper spent more time parenting Emma and Todd than their parents did. Running a demanding medical practice plus writing and public speaking meant family interactions generally came down to “quality time,” not Emma’s favorite term.

“Most businesses struggle in their first few months,” Emma said, suppressing the urge to sigh. She wasn’t prepared to ask for financial help from her parents, knowing she would lose some of her independence. Being the only civilian, as Todd called her, in three generations of medical practitioners was tough enough. Becoming a chef and opening a catering business had really put her beyond the pale. She wasn’t giving her mother any more reason to find fault. “Thanks, but I’m doing okay, Ma.”

“You know I don’t like being called ‘Ma.’”

“You don’t object when Todd does it.”

“Yes, well.”

Cherie didn’t have to add that anything Emma’s older brother did was fine with her. Unlike Emma, Todd was establishing himself as an endocrinologist, to his parents’ delight. So she masked her surprise when her mother said, “This visit is about what I can do for you.”

“You need my catering services?” she asked warily.

Cherie looked uneasy. “Not me, Nathan Hale, the heart surgeon. His thirty-fifth birthday party’s in three weeks and he’s been made head of his department, both causes for celebration. I’m sure you remember Nate. It’s only been nine weeks since you met at our office Christmas party. The two of you spent enough time together, before you left in his car.”

Emma felt her face start to heat and looked down before her mother noticed. “The name rings a bell.” Mostly alarm bells. Of any night, that was the one she most wanted to forget. She’d never come on to anyone the way she had with Nate Hale.

Now her mother was proposing Emma have him as a client. Good grief. If he was only now turning thirty-five and already head of a department, he must have inhaled his medical studies with his mother’s milk.

She lifted her hands palms upward. She could hardly tell Cherie the real reason she didn’t want to work with Nate, so she used the only other excuse she had. “Renovation on the kitchen hasn’t even started, Ma. There’s barely room for Sophie and me to work together, much less the people I want to hire. It’s too soon for us to take on a large project.”

As usual, her mother demolished Emma’s objections with a gesture. “You can do anything you set your mind to. Besides, your father and I have already recommended your service to Nate.”

Emma felt herself start to drown. “Why?”

“You keep telling us how well you’re doing.” Cherie tapped a finger against the bank’s letter. “Even if this suggests not all is going smoothly.”

“Love This Catering is doing fine.” Emma dragged in a calming breath. “Exceeding the overdraft was a small oversight. Things will improve once I get the kitchen upgraded and my team in place.”

“How will you stay afloat until then if you reject every decent job that comes your way?”

The same way we’ve managed for the past five months, she thought. On a wing and a prayer. But she couldn’t tell her mother that. Instead she said, “Doing work Sophie and I can manage with the facilities we have, and the monthly chef’s dinners we hold here. The mailing list for them is growing all the time.”

Cherie all but wrinkled her nose. “People come here to eat?”

“Among Sydney foodies, the inner west has a reputation for innovative cuisine,” Emma pointed out. “Lewisham’s still making its mark.” That was why she’d chosen to buy in the suburb. With help from the bank, she’d been able to afford the ten-foot-wide single-story cottage that had been squeezed into the garden of the neighboring home several decades ago. The expenses gave her nightmares, but the place itself gave her nothing but satisfaction. And she needed somewhere to live. Besides, this way she only had one mortgage to support.

The previous café had gone broke, but the basic structure had made it easy for Emma to set up her business. After the redecorating she and a group of friends had done, the former café now provided an ideal venue for small dinners, and the sensational food and subdued lighting distracted diners from any flaws in their surroundings. The kitchen was functional enough for these occasions, but wasn’t equipped for more ambitious events.

“I don’t understand why you’re so touchy,” Cherie complained. “I’m only trying to help.”

“I know, and I appreciate the support.”

“Then why react as if I have no right to my opinions?”

Perhaps because there are so many of them? “I know you mean well, and I appreciate it. If it wasn’t…” that the client is Nathan Hale? “…too soon for me to take on big jobs, I’d jump at the chance.” Emma crossed her fingers under the desk.

Cherie gestured around them. “You’ll never grow by limiting yourself. I was so pleased when you bought this place.”

Emma masked her astonishment. “You were?”

“You finally seemed to be getting a sense of direction.”

One should always strive for the next goal, Emma had been reminded frequently when she was growing up. And what had been wrong with her sense of direction up to now? Wasn’t gaining her diploma in commercial cooking an achievement? Or winning a scholarship to an international food festival in Singapore where she’d worked with world-class chefs? That distinction had earned Emma a job as a junior chef, then she’d skipped a couple of levels to become demi-chef at the Hotel Turista in Sydney’s Rocks area. There she’d worked her way up to sous-chef, before deciding to open her own place. “One day I’ll get my life on track,” she said with an exaggerated sigh.

“Now don’t sound so sarcastic. Just because I think your talents could be better utilized doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate that you have them.”

Emma didn’t bother trying to unscramble the compliment. Her mother cared about her and her brother, even if she had an annoying way of showing it. “I know, Ma. You and Dad should come to one of my chef’s dinners and see how I do things.”

Cherie gave her a bright smile. “We’ll see.”

Code for a snowball’s chance, Emma knew. What else did she expect? “I’ll email you the next few dates.”

“Thank you, darling. But we really should discuss Nate’s dinner party.”

Over her dead body, Emma thought. “Can I get you some coffee and cake? Sophie’s baking mini Bakewell tarts with wild huckleberry jam.” Distraction didn’t only work with customers. She could smell the delicious aroma from here.

Evidently so could her mother. “I’ll have a tiny taste,” she conceded. “I can work it off at the gym later. Then I want to talk about Nate.”

That made one of them.

When Emma went into the kitchen, Sophie shot her a concerned look. “Everything okay?”

“Tell you later,” Emma mouthed as she arranged some of the medallion-size tarts on a white plate. She walked over to the commercial coffee machine which came with the building and made two macchiatos, then carried the lot to her office.

Cherie was on the phone and looked up as Emma placed the tray on her desk. “Ah, here she is now. You can talk to her yourself, Nate.”

Before Emma could shake her head in protest, the BlackBerry was thrust into her hand. She pulled professionalism around her like a cloak. “Hello, Dr. Hale.”

“It was Nate last time, Emma.”

No man should have a voice as rich as triple-chocolate fudge brownies, she thought as a shiver of response slid down her spine. And there was a last time? Who knew? “Ah, yes, Nate, we have met.”

“And how.”

The insinuation sent heat arrowing from her head to her stomach. No, no, this had to stop. Head agreed, body didn’t get the memo. “I’m afraid my business isn’t fully operational yet,” she said. “My mother tells me your birthday is in three weeks, but catering large-scale events isn’t an option for at least another three months.”

“Saying no isn’t an option.”

What Dr. Hale wants, Dr. Hale gets. Emma felt a jolt of frustration. No wonder Cherie was so keen on having Emma work for him. Nate and her mother were cut from the same cloth. “Acknowledging limitations isn’t failure,” she said. “It’s a good business practice.”

“True, but overcoming those limitations is preferable.”

A vision flashed through her mind of Nate facing some huge challenge in the operating room, finding a way around it and saving the patient at the last minute. Wasn’t that what always happened with his type? Her father’s stories of his heroic interventions had been regular dinner table fare when she was growing up.

“I’ll keep your advice in mind,” she agreed crisply. “How many guests are you expecting?”

“Fifty at a minimum. I’m thinking of having the party on the terrace—sit-down, of course.”

He must have some terrace. A sit-down dinner for fifty would be way off her radar. “Look, Nate, I’ll gladly put together some options and email them to you to see if anything I can do meets your requirements.” Her tone told him she doubted it would.

“No.”

“Just—no?”

“I’d rather discuss this with you face-to-face.” She heard the tap of keys as he consulted his schedule. “How does Friday sound?”

“I’m committed on Friday.” She had a breakfast meeting with Carla Geering, a talented chef Emma had known since catering college, and Margaret Jennings, a self-taught cook who helped with the chef’s dinners once a month. Both were prepared to leave good jobs to join Emma as soon as she was ready. She looked forward to their meetings. All three of them came away inspired and excited about what lay ahead.

But Emma’s answer would have been the same whatever day he’d suggested, and she had a feeling he suspected as much.

“I’m sure you can uncommit yourself. I’ll see you at my place at eleven.”

Just time for her to keep her breakfast date before seeing him. He reeled off the address, which she scribbled down, aware of Cherie watching her keenly.

“Unless you’d like me to pick you up,” he added. “I remember the address.”

His tone suggested he remembered far more than she wanted him to. Was one impulsive action going to haunt her forever? “I’ll find my own way,” she said quickly. Meeting the lion in his den didn’t appeal, either, but it was better than a live-action replay of a night she would rather not think about. Maybe by Friday she’d have swine flu and be in quarantine, she thought. Or maybe she’d be at Nathan Hale’s house. Either way, his catering options wouldn’t change, so he’d have to accept what her business could provide or find someone else. She knew which she preferred.

Or did she? Wasn’t she the slightest bit intrigued at the prospect of seeing him again? Another thought struck her. “Will your partner want to participate in the discussion?” The idea of him living with someone was surprisingly unsettling.

“No partner, female or male,” he informed her, sounding amused. “Not that the question worried you last time.”

Last time was an aberration, she wanted to say, but was restrained by her mother listening across the desk. “We can discuss everything when I see you,” she said, hoping Nate would get the message.

In the background she heard him being paged. “I have to go.” He sounded reluctant. Imagination, she decided. “I’ll look forward to discussing—everything—on Friday.”

She handed the phone back to her mother. “Happy now?”

Cherie stood up. “Why shouldn’t I be? I’m trying to help your business. What made you ask Nate if he has a partner?”

Her mother was like a bloodhound when it came to her daughter and men. “If he’d had one, I’d rather meet with them together. Saves a lot of time and disagreements.”

“Not to mention ensuring you’re aware of any potential…um…obstacles.”

“Nate can have a harem for all I care. This is purely professional.”

“Pity.” Cherie sounded genuinely disappointed.

“Honestly, Ma, haven’t you given up matchmaking by now?”

Her mother’s shoulders lifted. “I didn’t make you go home with him.”

“I didn’t go home with him. He gave me a ride, that’s all.”

“In that case, why so defensive?”

Emma shot her mother a chilly glare. “Telling Dad that if I can’t be a doctor I can at least marry one might have something to do with it.”

Her brother had shared the information with Emma, saying he wanted her to be forewarned. Not that the news came as a surprise.

Her mother colored slightly, although media experience kept her body language in check. “Where on earth did you get that idea?”

“Then you don’t deny saying it?”

“I can’t deny that I’d be pleased to have you carry on the family tradition in some way.”

Emma splayed her hands. “Can’t you stop being media medico for ten seconds and give me a straight answer? If you’re planning on fixing me up with Nate Hale, I’m entitled to know.”

“Emma, what’s gotten into you? He’s having a party. You’re a caterer. Why should you suspect me of a hidden agenda?”

“Because I know you. And obviously my choice of career bothers you as much as it ever did.”

“Nonsense. I’m proud of both my children.”

The same nonanswer Emma had been given when she’d told her parents she’d decided to go to culinary school rather than pursue a career in medicine. A few stints helping out in their practice and at a local nursing home had convinced her she’d rather feed people than minister to their ailments. Cherie had arranged the internship at the nursing home, never suspecting Emma would find her vocation in the facility’s kitchen rather than with the residents.

“Didn’t you ever want to do anything other than become a doctor?” Emma asked now.

Tucking her phone into her bag, Cherie paused. “How is this relevant?”

Emma already knew the answer. Cherie’s father, Emma’s grandfather, had helped pioneer bone marrow transplantation. Cherie had grown up hero-worshipping him and took it for granted that she’d follow him into medicine. Not for the first time Emma wondered if her mother had ever questioned her choice. Many years ago, Cherie had painted exquisite miniature landscapes. Perhaps…

Emma killed the thought. No point going there. If life was this hard for her as the family misfit, how much tougher would it have been for her mother, hardwired for conformity since birth? Cherie never stepped on the grass if a sign warned against it, whereas Emma was likely to take off her shoes and run barefoot across it out of sheer devilment. Those genes had to come from Emma’s paternal grandmother Jessie Jarrett, a wonderful cook who’d made her mark independently of her oncologist husband. Gramma Jessie was still one of Emma’s favorite people.

“Don’t worry, Ma. I’ll talk to Nate and we’ll work something out.”

Her mother looked relieved as she came around the desk and dropped a light kiss on Emma’s forehead. “You won’t regret your decision.”

She already regretted it, Emma thought as she saw her mother out. Although she hadn’t actually agreed to cater the party, only discuss it. Would she have been so uptight about the meeting if the client wasn’t Nate? Probably not. And for that, she had no one to blame but herself.

In the kitchen, her assistant Sophie had finished packing the cold canapés and desserts into insulated containers for their client’s cocktail party that evening. Emma double-checked the list, more from habit than because she doubted Sophie, who was always meticulous. “I’m glad they didn’t book us to staff tonight’s affair. I’ll take these around in my car, you lock up and have an early night for once,” she said.

Sophie shook her head. “And miss hearing what happened with your mother? No way. I’ll make the coffee while you’re gone.”

Arms laden, Emma turned at the door. “You didn’t pack all the Bakewell tarts, did you?”

Sophie gave her a smug smile. “I might have taken out three or four less than perfect ones. Can’t send out anything but our best work, can we?”



BY THE TIME EMMA RETURNED fifteen minutes later, Sophie had the coffee made and the tarts plated up. Emma snapped a piece of paper in front of her friend. “The client paid in full on the spot. That should make the bank happy.”

Sophie hitched a slender hip onto a stool at the counter. “Good for the bank. Now tell me about your mother’s visit. Who’s she trying to fix you up with this time?”

Emma affected an air of nonchalance. “What makes you think she’s trying to fix me up?”

“Since the day we met in high school, that’s all she’s been doing. Who is it this time? A psychiatrist who can get to the bottom of your doctor phobia?”

“I don’t have a doctor phobia.”

“Oh, no?” Sophie pushed her glasses to the end of her nose and mimed holding a pad and pen. “Tell me, Ms. Jarrett, how long have you hated your horse?”

Emma snorted a mouthful of coffee. “I don’t have a horse, either.”

“You only think you don’t have a horse. Come lie on my couch and tell me all about zis problem. I’ll lie here beside you. Closeness helps break down zee inhibitions.”

Laughing, Emma blotted her shirt front. “My mother doesn’t have a psychiatrist lined up for me, thank goodness. She wants us to cater a birthday bash for Nathan Hale.”

Sophie pressed a fist against her chest. “The heart surgeon? According to She Magazine, he’s the sexiest man in medicine. Tell me you said yes.”

Emma gestured around the congested kitchen. “Look at this place. How can we take on a sit-down dinner for fifty or more?”

“Charge like a wounded bull, then hire waiters. Some of my study group might help out. They always need cash. Even if his party is on a class night, I can do some of the prep work with you and put in a couple of hours at the venue before going to school.”

Sophie was studying for a postgraduate diploma in nutrition and Emma had agreed to work around her commitments, knowing Sophie would be free of them in another few months. Her diploma, which was focused on food services management, would widen the range of services they could offer. Emma bit into a tart. “The upfront expenses will be a stretch. I know they’ll be billed back to him, but we’ll have to carry the costs till then. The sexiest man in medicine won’t settle for anything but the best.”

“Ancient Chinese wisdom says Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

Sophie liked to spout Confucian wisdom whenever possible. Her grandparents had emigrated from Hong Kong to Australia, where their baby girl had grown up and married an Australian sailor, Sophie’s dad. “According to you, the only wisdom is ancient Chinese,” Emma teased.

“Not at all. There are wise Australian sayings like ‘she’ll be right’ and ‘no worries.’”

“True.”

“Translated from the original Chinese,” Sophie added with a wicked grin.

“No doubt. Was there anything you guys didn’t invent?”

“You’re just jealous.” Sophie leaned forward on her stool. “Confucius would say It’s better to try and fail than not to try at all.”

Emma laughed. “Confucius obviously didn’t have a kitchen the size of a bathroom.”




CHAPTER TWO


NATE WAS ONLY A CLIENT. She hadn’t been herself when they met at her parents’ party. Emma repeated the phrases like a mantra as she drove to his place on Friday morning. She was a professional, she could do this. All he had to do was cooperate. Amnesia would also help, she thought.

Nevertheless her fingers twitched at the memory of a dark crew cut crowning a classically shaped head. She’d spent half the party resisting the urge to run her palm over it, until finally she gave in to temptation after finding him tucked in a shadowy corner near the conference room. He’d looked as surprised as she felt, but didn’t resist, pressing a kiss to her fingers. When he hadn’t shown any inclination to move on to her mouth, she’d taken the initiative, kissing him with increasing enthusiasm as she felt him respond.

“You taste of truffles,” he’d murmured when he ended the kiss with what she’d swear had been reluctance.

“Not bad,” she’d said, her mind spinning. She’d handled truffle oil hours before, yet he’d still detected the traces on her skin. Had he also noticed the throbbing of her pulse or the racing of her heart in response to his closeness? “What else do you sense?”

He’d looked serious, considering the question before nuzzling her ear with his mouth. “The faintest aura of Paloma perfume. You could drive a man wild with those two scents.”

Tingles like faint electrical impulses had swept through her and she’d pressed closer to him. She found his long, lean body attractive. He had wide shoulders, narrow hips, a long neck and strong jawline faintly shaded by stubble. Urbane and sexily volatile.

“Am I driving you wild?” she asked. He was definitely having an impact on her.

“Mmm-hmm. Imagine what you could do if you were sober.”

She’d recoiled as if stung. “I’m not drunk. All I’ve had to drink is one glass of wine and one orange juice.”

“With a generous slug of vodka added by your brother.”

“Oh, no, he wouldn’t.” The muzziness in her brain started to make sense. “I’ll kill him.”

“You didn’t ask him to make you a mixer?”

She shook her head. After starting work at 4:00 a.m. and not stopping to eat lunch, she’d been too tired to have more than one alcoholic drink, knowing the effect it was likely to have on her. “Must be his idea of a joke. You’d think with all his degrees and experience, he’d know better.”

“They don’t give degrees in common sense.”

Using Nate for leverage she’d straightened, aware of her head spinning. She was clinging to him like a demented sex kitten. What must he think of her?

But all he’d said was, “I’m on call so often that I don’t drink a lot. I’ll take a rain check on driving you wild and drive you home instead.”

She still wasn’t sure why she let him, because she’d had to listen to a lecture about keeping an eye on drinks even at a private party. In a low-slung Branxton sports car that she’d struggled to get into with some degree of grace, he drove fast but in control.

Her head pounded. “I’m sorry for trying to jump your bones. This is the first time I’ve had a spiked drink.”

“Hopefully also the last. Another man could easily have taken advantage of your…enthusiasm.”

“But saintly medicos like you wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.”

He’d looked at her curiously. “What does my work have to do with this?”

“According to my parents, doctors have to set a good example for the rest of us.”

He made a point of slowing down, even though he was well within the limit, and smiled over at her. “Better not be stopped for speeding.”

“Don’t worry. As soon as the officer sees the title on your license, he’ll assume you’re rushing to some medical emergency.”

“Is that why you threw yourself at me?” He sounded amused by the turn the conversation was taking. “You fancy a man with a title?”

“I’ve been surrounded by men and women with medical titles all my life. It’s not a novelty.” She didn’t like being reduced to the status of doctor groupie. “In my experience, more than a few doctors are walking, talking egos with delusions of godhood.”

“That’s a sweeping judgment, isn’t it? You were the one who came on to me, remember?”

Remember? Her skin still felt hot and tight. She knew she’d never forget this night as long as she lived. “I’m well aware of the fact,” she said, enunciating carefully. She really did feel horribly unwell. Throwing up on his immaculate leather upholstery would be the last straw, but she would not ask him to pull over so she could humiliate herself even more by the side of the road. “We’ve agreed the vodka didn’t help. At least that’s my excuse. What’s yours?”

“Do I need one?”

“You didn’t resist when I touched you.”

“Pushing you away would have attracted more attention than I thought you’d want.”

“You don’t have a clue what I want.” Liar, she told herself. She’d been attracted to him from the moment she saw him walk into the party as if he owned it.

“I can guess what you want. But one, you’re too young. Two, you’ve had more to drink than is good for you. And three, your parents are my colleagues. I wouldn’t hurt them by taking advantage of their daughter.”

But it was okay to hurt her, she thought bitterly. She chose the only thing on his list she could legitimately challenge. “For your information, I’m twenty-eight.”

He shot her a sideways glance. “My mistake. I took you for a decade younger.”

“I’ve always looked younger than I am. Ma says I’ll be glad one day, but it’s a pain having to show ID whenever I go out at night.”

“Your mother’s right.”

“At least I sound like my generation,” she said, tiring of him siding with her parents. “You can’t be that many years older than me.”

“Wiser, maybe.”

“Yes, the doctor ego thing.”

“Don’t forget the delusions of godhood,” he said. “You have me typecast, but you haven’t told me what you do for a living.”

“I’m a qualified chef.”

“You’re not in medicine?”

She’d slid down a little in the leather seat of his beautiful car. “Nope. Sad, isn’t it?”

“Only sad if you wanted to and couldn’t.”

“I didn’t want to. I’m creating a new branch of the Jarrett family.”

“Good for you. Is this your place?”

His voice gave no clue what he thought of the run-down house that was both home and business. “Mine and the bank’s.”

“I’ll walk you in.”

“No need.” Her keys were already in her hand. She was embarrassed enough for one night without him seeing the dilapidated former café she was slowly turning into a boutique eatery. She couldn’t do the renovations she wanted until the business brought in more money, and the small apartment she lived in at the rear wasn’t a priority.

He came around to her side of the car and opened the door. “I’ll wait until you’re safely inside.”

He sounded as if he doubted she could make it under her own steam. With good reason, she found as soon as the night air hit her. She concentrated on getting the front door open and herself inside without stumbling, sighing with relief when she closed the door behind her and leaned against it. After a few minutes, she heard him start his car and drive away.

Had she really said doctors were walking egos with delusions of godhood? Thinking it was one thing, but saying it… She’d kill Todd for spiking that drink. But was it all his fault? Hadn’t the vodka provided the excuse to do exactly what she’d wanted to do from her first sight of Nate? That didn’t let her brother off the hook, but she knew she had to take some responsibility. She should have kept a better eye on her drink. But like hypnotism, alcohol couldn’t make her behave totally out of character. So what did tonight say about her?

Despite Nate’s lecture and his patronizing manner, the memory of his bristly hair under her hand elicited a shiver of desire she couldn’t blame on anything but sexual attraction. And his designer stubble had felt so enticing when she kissed him. He’d turned her on, even as she’d turned him off. She’d resolved never to willingly cross his path again.

And now she was walking up to his front door.



SHE SHOULD HAVE EXPECTED a man like Nate to do things his own way. Instead of meeting her in an office or at least a living room, he was waiting for her in a garden arbor overgrown with old-fashioned white roses. When his housekeeper led her to him, the scent of the flowers made her feel light-headed. She refused to believe Nate himself could have such an effect on her. “Thanks, Joanna,” she said, but the woman had already turned back toward the house.

Emma hadn’t seen Nate since the ill-fated Christmas party but his height and athletic build were fixed in her memory. If anything, he looked even more attractive in daylight. He stood up as she climbed the steps into the arbor. His eyes, which had shone amber under artificial light, now glinted with gold flecks around the iris. In narrow-cut jeans, a pale blue T-shirt with random French phrases scribbled across the front and bare feet thrust into leather sandals, he looked more like a university student than a successful surgeon. She immediately felt overdressed in her businesslike taupe pants and short black cardigan with a lacy white camisole.

He stuck out his hand. “Good to see you again, Emma.”

With an assurance she was far from feeling, she touched her palm to his, but before she could step away and sit down at the wooden table strewn with papers, his grip tightened and he pulled her closer.

“Nate, what are you doing? This isn’t a good idea.” She was aware of how unconvincing the words sounded.

He gestured with his free hand. “You can’t tell me you felt more romantic in a boardroom setting than in a rose garden?”

“I didn’t feel romantic at all. That was the vodka talking.”

His warm gaze met hers. “Only the vodka?”

Alarmed at how tempting his mouth looked, she held still with an effort. “You know it was.”

And she should have known enough to stay away from him. She felt her resistance slipping even now as he slid his hand down to the small of her back. His touch was light. She could have broken the contact with the slightest move. So why didn’t she? “I came here to discuss catering arrangements for your party, not for…this.”

“You’re right,” he said, moving away with every sign of reluctance. “I’ve been thinking about that night. Seeing you here now made me want to find out if what I remembered about our encounter was real.”

“The encounter wasn’t real, at least not in the way you mean,” she assured him, sitting down at the table. “And it won’t happen again.”

His expression was devilish as he sat opposite her. “Are you sure it won’t? I’m not.”

The thought that she disturbed his equilibrium gave her a moment of satisfaction before she squelched it. “We should get down to business?”

“Coward,” he murmured so softly she couldn’t be sure she’d heard him. The ring tone of a cell phone cut off any retort she might have made. The Chipmunks’ “Witch Doctor,” she noticed. So the man had a sense of humor.

He shot her an apologetic look as he flipped the phone open and glanced at the number. “The hospital,” he said to her. “Hale speaking.”

An all too familiar sensation crept over her. The hospital. How many of her family’s activities had been interrupted by those same words? When she was a child, the reasons her parents had to take the calls had been explained to her over and over again. The clear message she’d received was that patients were more important than she was.

Whether it was a school play, a sporting event, a graduation, or simply a time when she needed their support, her parents would promise to get there as soon as they could. Medical duties came first. Often they wouldn’t get to her event at all, or she’d solve the problem by herself. The upside was she’d developed a healthy self-reliance. The downside was a reluctance to depend on other people, or expect them to be there for her.

But all this was in the past. Replaying her grievances because Nate had answered a call from the hospital didn’t change anything. She heard him give a string of instructions concerning a patient’s treatment, sounding so self-assured that she imagined the person at the other end standing at attention. Her father and mother sounded exactly the same.

He ended the call and placed the phone on the table. “I hope you gave your brother hell for spiking your drink.”

“You bet I did.” Todd had admitted he’d drunk too much himself, falling over himself to apologize. She’d never seen her brother so upset. “I don’t think he’ll do anything that idiotic again.” Emma hoped she could say the same for herself.

Nate nodded. “Would you like some iced tea?”

A carafe and glasses sat on a tray on a little table and he poured a glass for her. Ice tinkled in a tube in the center of the carafe, chilling the drink without diluting it. “Unusual flavor,” she said after taking a sip.

“Pomegranate, from a tree growing in the garden.”

Pleasure rippled through her. Her grandmother also grew the fruit, and had included some recipes in one of her cookbooks. Emma would have to look them up.

She opened her net book and swiveled the screen toward him. “As I told you on the phone, my business isn’t fully up to speed yet, but I’ve put together a selection of menus that might—”

His phone rang again and he held up a hand to silence her as he took the call. This time he didn’t need to say it was the hospital. He listened intently then unleashed a string of commands. “Do you need me there?” he asked.

If anything was guaranteed to kill her interest in him, leaving her sitting while he took off would do the trick. Once upon a time she’d let herself be guilt-tripped into feeling selfish for putting her needs ahead of someone in crisis, until she realized that there would always be another crisis, and not even the most highly qualified doctor was indispensable. There was always someone to help, whereas she had only one family. The problem was convincing her parents that she had as much right to their time as their patients did.

He put the phone down again. “Coming from a medical family, you’d be used to interruptions,” he said.

“Yes, I am.”

The coldness she couldn’t keep out of her voice made him raise an eyebrow, but he didn’t respond. Instead he scrolled through the document she’d sat up late last night preparing for him. “Impressive,” he said. “The combinations are nicely balanced. Tarte Tatin is one of my favorites. Making it with figs and leeks is an interesting variation.”

She heard what he didn’t say. “But?”

“These options are a bit ordinary.”

Pride made her bristle but she kept herself in check. “Not everyone appreciates the unusual when it comes to food.”

“My guests will. A group of us belong to a private gourmet club that travels the country for new and interesting eating experiences.”

“What kind of experiences?” she asked. Her mother might have mentioned he and his friends were gourmands.

His eyes brightened. “There’s a tiny place in Rosebud on the Mornington Peninsula in Victoria. Only holds twenty people, and everything they serve comes from their own produce or is sourced locally. We flew down there one Sunday, spent a day with the owners, picking ingredients from their kitchen garden, helping with preparation and eating one of the best meals of my life. Another time, we traveled to the outback to eat crocodile meat beside a river infested with them.”

“Hardly a relaxing venue,” she said, wondering how often he’d been interrupted by work calls there.

He leaned forward. “That’s the point. Knowing we were dining on a man-eater in its territory was a real buzz. The indigenous community hosting the dinner obtain all the ingredients in and around the river. They supplied the crocodile meat and showed us how to hunt goannas, dig for yams and climb trees to harvest wild honey.” He brought his fingertips together. “Have you eaten live witchetty grubs?”

She couldn’t suppress a shudder. “It’s not high on my list of foods to try.”

His lopsided grin was oddly appealing. “You should. The texture is soft, and the taste reminiscent of a gamey veal pâté. You hold the grub by the head and kind of suck the meat off.” He mimed the action.

“Are you telling me you’d like live grubs on your birthday menu?”

He shook his head. “Only a few of the group volunteered for that experience. But generally we’re more adventurous with food than most people, so you can pull out all the stops.”

His proposal was a chef’s dream, but she was in no position to take advantage of it while she was still in the throes of establishing her business.

She closed the net book. “I can’t tell you how much this tempts me.” In more ways than one, she thought, wondering fleetingly if she was turning the job down because of the business or him. “In good conscience, I won’t take a job on unless I can do it well. Now I know what you’re looking for, I’m positive I’m not the right person for this assignment.”

“And I’m positive that you are.”

He wasn’t insisting because of her talents, but because he was used to getting his own way. She’d been through similar scenes with her family. His attitude on the phone had shown her how accustomed he was to being in charge.

“Why are you so determined to hire Love This Catering?” she asked. “You must have a lot of contacts in the food business through your group.”

He took his time answering. “You intrigue me. I know your parents and brother professionally, and you’re totally different from them.”

“In what way?” she asked warily, so used to being compared with her family and found wanting that she braced herself automatically.

“You’re an original,” he said, surprising her. “You don’t like being reminded of how you came on to me at the party, but no one’s done anything like that to me before, at least not so ingenuously. The alcohol may have boosted your nerve, but it didn’t put the idea in your head. You saw what you wanted and you went after it. Just as you did when you started your own business.”

“I get my passion for cooking from my grandmother, Jessie Jarrett,” she explained, reluctantly pleased by his appreciation.

He frowned. “I thought all your family were doctors.”

“Dad’s father is an oncologist, but Gramma Jessie is better known for writing cookbooks.”

“I worked with Greg Jarrett Sr. during my residency,” Nate mused. He showed no interest in Jessie’s activities, Emma noted without surprise.

“And the Kenners?” he prompted.

She gave a sigh. “Trudy Kenner met my grandfather when they were both in a civilian surgical and medical team during the Vietnam War. You might have heard of him—Howard Kenner.”

“I’m familiar with his work in antirejection therapy for transplant patients,” Nate said. “Your mother goes by Kenner-Jarrett, but I didn’t make the connection.”

“She’d probably be glad to introduce you.” Emma knew how proud Cherie was of her father. “He travels overseas a lot and we don’t see much of him, but he’s due back in Australia next month.”

“He might be here in time for the party,” Nate observed.

“You never know your luck.” Emma felt cheated. For a few brief minutes, he’d seen her as an individual instead of a member of a medical dynasty, and a misfit at that.

She gathered her things together. “Since none of my menus is to your liking, I’d better get back to the drawing board.”

His hand closed over hers, and it took an effort not to jerk away. “There’s nothing wrong with your menus. I’m sure your clients love them all. And I saw your eyes light up when I asked you to prepare something extraordinary for me, so the problem isn’t the challenge. Something else I said got your back up. What is it?”

“Isn’t my lack of facilities enough reason to turn you down?”

He shook his head. “You strike me as the type of cook who can perform miracles with a campfire if you have to. Something else is bugging you.”

He was bugging her, but she didn’t say so. “I don’t like being railroaded.”

He withdrew his hand. “By a walking ego with delusions of godhood,” he finished for her.

“You said it this time, not me.”

“You were thinking it.”

The last thing she wanted him knowing was how conflicted he made her feel. Half of her wanted to walk away to avoid dealing with his world and all the negatives it represented in her life. The other half insisted on remembering how it felt to kiss him. She kept her voice level. “I’m entitled to my thoughts.”

“Of course.” He nodded tightly. “What do you think Jessie would do?”

Amazed that the name had registered with him when Jessie’s cookbooks were so far beneath his notice, she said warily, “Why do you ask?”

“She was the odd one out in her family, yet she’s a success in her own right. She didn’t let herself be overshadowed by a well-known husband.”

“Jessie is one of a kind.”

“What about Trudy Kenner? She practiced medicine in a war zone alongside her husband. And not your mother.”

“Only me,” she said under her breath.

He heard anyway. “There’s one way you can trump them if you choose. Make such a success of what you do that they end up living in your shadow.”

She almost choked with suppressed laughter. The idea of Cherie being described as Emma Jarrett’s mother instead of the other way around was as unlikely as it was appealing. She imagined a TV interviewer asking Cherie, “What’s it like having a culinary genius in the family?”

Nate’s phone rang. He turned slightly away and rattled off instructions, then closed the phone. “This time I have to go. Can I drop you somewhere?”

Reality check, she thought. She’d almost let herself believe he was different, understanding her passion instead of dismissing it. “I drove here, I’m sure I’ll remember the way back.”

His gaze softened. “Good, I wouldn’t want you to forget. Take your time finishing your drink. Then Joanna will show you around the kitchen. I’ll drop by your office next Tuesday after work. That should give you time to put together a menu to knock my socks off. We both know you want to.”

Without giving her the chance to contradict him, he bounded down the steps and headed toward the house, taking for granted that she’d do exactly what he wanted.

In spite of her annoyance, the challenge primed her senses like an explosive charge. How had he known? she wondered as she finished the pomegranate tea. He’d zeroed in on the one thing that guaranteed her cooperation, the chance to show that she was as first-rate in her world as the rest of her family was in theirs. Her feelings had nothing to do with the way Nate’s touch affected her, or how tempted she was to kiss him again. This was purely professional. Or so she tried to assure herself.



AS NATE DROVE TO THE HOSPITAL, his mind grappled with the complications his team had reported about one of their patients. Normally, he’d have options mapped out by the time he got there, but his thoughts were distracted by his meeting with the lovely Emma.

She didn’t want anything to do with him, so why was he determined to have her mastermind his celebration dinner? Was he so used to his team jumping when he snapped his fingers that he’d forgotten how to handle rejection? He hated to think so, and yet…he felt an attraction for Emma Jarrett that he couldn’t pin down, like the first taste of a weird and wonderful food. He craved more of her while suspecting she wouldn’t be good for him. She didn’t like him. She didn’t like doctors, he corrected. Hardly surprising given the way her family regarded her choice of career. When Cherie had heard Nate’s assistant joshing him about his upcoming birthday and asking what he was doing about a party, she’d recommended Emma, but had made far more of her daughter’s single status than her catering skills.

Cherie was wasting her time matchmaking. Nate hadn’t missed the way Emma frowned every time he took a call this morning, or the flicker of frustration when he announced he had to go to the hospital. He’d been through it all before in his own family.

When his mother could no longer stand the round-the-clock demands of his father’s country medical practice, she’d carted twelve-year-old Nate back to Sydney, eventually moving them in with her lawyer. She and Josh were still a couple. His father, coming up to retirement age, was the country town’s only doctor and worked much longer hours than he preferred. He had never remarried.

Three years ago, Nate had been practically engaged to Pamela Coyne, a stunningly beautiful journalist who’d turned his mates green with envy. Hot in every way a woman could be hot, she’d run cold after finding herself attending too many functions alone because he’d been called away by an emergency. The final showdown had been ugly, but short of abandoning his life’s work, Nate couldn’t see anything changing. A doctor’s life was what it was. Eventually Pam had told him what he could do with his medical degree, and was now living with a stockbroker.

After so many years as an only child, Nate had been surprised when his mother presented him with a half brother, Luke, now fifteen. The gulf between their ages meant Nate felt more like an uncle to Luke, and they didn’t have much in common. Luke was into skateboarding, fast cars and music Nate thought barely qualified for the name. The teenager stayed away from school when he felt like it, and hung out with a group that worried his parents. Nate had tried talking to Luke man-to-man, but the gap was too wide. Nate had always envied large families and hoped to have one of his own. But the mother of his kids would have to come from the medical world and understand its pressures. With his thirty-fifth birthday fast approaching, the prospects weren’t looking good.

He hadn’t exactly been a lone wolf. He’d had his share of romances, parting without too many regrets on either side when the relationship ran its course. Now that he thought about it, he was shocked to realize that there’d been no romance in his life for nearly three months. No wonder he’d reacted so strongly to having Emma come on to him at that Christmas party.

Abstinence was his problem, not Emma, he decided, muttering as a white SUV cut in front of him. Who was he kidding? Only after meeting her had the craving for a lasting relationship really set in. It wasn’t only sex he needed. He wanted a sense of home and family, the stuff hardest to come by. Kids might be too busy to meet dad at the door any more, and wives kept equally long hours as their partners did, but they could still be a team. The SUV stopped for a red light. A yellow tag in the rear window read Family on Board. How would it feel to have a sign like that in his car?

He drummed his palms against the steering wheel in frustration. Turning thirty-five was getting to him. He should go out with Emma, take her to bed and enjoy the experience until one of them moved on. The fear that he might not want to stopped him. She was definitely the wrong candidate. He’d seen too many danger signals already. Hands off was the only safe policy, even though the idea clashed with his instincts like a misdiagnosis.




CHAPTER THREE


SOPHIE STUCK HER HEAD around Emma’s office door on Tuesday morning. “Are you in for phone calls yet? I’ve had six inquiries so far and two new clients wanting to book events. One of them’s a wedding a year from now.”

“The Nathan Hale effect?”

“Yup. Word’s getting around.” Sophie carried in Emma’s Garfield mug. “Chailatte. I thought you’d appreciate it.”

“Thanks.” Emma cleared a small space to let Sophie put the cup down among the recipe books, cards and handwritten notes swamping her computer. “You’d think my mother would wait until we’ve done the job before telling everyone she knows.”

Another mug in hand, Sophie sat down. “No pressure.”

Emma sipped her tea. “It doesn’t help that Nate’s closest friends have either cooked or eaten some of the best meals in the world. I looked up his gourmet group online and two Michelin-starred chefs are members. How do you think they’d like white truffle donuts and basil-infused snails?”

“About as much as I would.” Sophie linked her hands on the desk. “I prefer the food my Chinese grandmother makes, simple but delicious. A few fresh ingredients, mostly from her garden, although she draws the line at snails. To her the main thing is all of us sharing the meal. Although that’s probably nostalgia speaking.”

With Garfield halfway to her mouth, Emma froze, staring at Sophie. “Nostalgia—that’s the answer! Soph, you’re a genius.”

Sophie gave her a measured look. “O-kay. I mean, you’re right about the genius part, but what did I say this time?”

Ignoring the recipe cards and papers showering the floor as she moved, Emma leaned forward. “Remember I told you about seeing Nate’s kitchen after our meeting last Friday?” Not waiting for Sophie’s nod, she plunged on. “It’s the kind I dream of putting in here—acres of stainless steel work surfaces, the latest Italian appliances, refrigerators big enough to live in. You could run a restaurant from his kitchen. And you know what?”

“No, what?”

“He hardly sets foot in the place.”

“Doesn’t he employ a cook?”

Emma shook her head. “Joanna, his housekeeper, says cooking isn’t in her job description, and he doesn’t have any other staff. She told me he eats out almost every night, or has a restaurant deliver. The most he ever does is put together a snack or a sandwich for himself in the butler’s pantry, which is practically another kitchen.”

“What a waste. But knowing this solves his catering problem how?”

Emma stood up, her efforts to pace hampered by the papers on the floor, so she sat down again. “I did some research on our Dr. Hale.” She didn’t add it was as much for her own interest as to get an idea of his lifestyle. “His parents split up when he was twelve. His dad is a country doctor living alone, and his mother lives in Sydney with her partner and their fifteen-year-old son.”

“Sounds fairly typical,” Sophie observed. “You and I are the minority these days with two parents still married and living in the same house.”

“Exactly my point,” Emma went on. “We all want what we don’t have.”

“Including Dr. Hale.” Sophie sounded as if she was starting to understand.

“You got it. By chasing exotic foods and recipes, I’d be giving Nate what he already has, when I should be giving him what he doesn’t have.”

“Meals like Mama used to make.”

“Except his mama never made them. If his life was like the family of most country doctors—or city ones for that matter—his father missed more meals than he showed up for. Or they’d sit down to eat when his father was home, then be interrupted by calls. Being dragged out at all hours would be normal.” Emma knew she was talking about her own family as much as Nate’s.

Sophie got her drift. “And when they moved to Sydney, his mother was working, providing for them both. I’m thinking pizzas and fast food.”

Emma dragged her fingers through her hair, spiking it. “No wonder he likes exotic foods now. And going out to eat must feel more normal than family dinners around a big table.”

Sophie grinned. “Is that what you’re thinking of giving him for his birthday?”

“You betcha. I’m picturing wonderful homemade dishes, big bowls of fluffy mashed potatoes, fruit and ice cream and rum babas with cream. How long is it since you had rum baba?”

“A long time. I used to think they were so sophisticated because of the alcohol oozing out of them.” Sophie tilted her head to one side. “At least we’ll have heart specialists on hand. This plan sounds decadent enough to send you straight to the cardiac ward.”

Emma shook her head. “Food can taste decadent without the artery damage. We could create the family dining experience by making grown-up versions of all that comfort food.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Emma couldn’t see what. “It’s perfect, I know it is.”

“The idea is brilliant, but who’s going to produce this bounty? I can help you with the prep work ahead of time, and I’ll be on the spot for the first hour, but I have an important oral exam I can’t skip. Carla’s working that night, and Margaret will be in Bali, so they can’t help. You’ll be doing the lion’s share of the work on your own.”

Emma spread her hands. “I can’t not do it, Soph. You said yourself we’re getting inquiries purely because word of mouth has us working with Nathan Hale. Can you imagine what will happen once we actually deliver the goods?”

“The business will go from struggling to booming,” Sophie said. “Why couldn’t this chance have come up after I finished my course?”

“Murphy’s Law. We’ll manage somehow.” Emma spoke with a confidence she was far from feeling. “If you don’t need me in the kitchen, I’ll turn this harebrained scheme into a workable proposal to show Nate when he comes here later today.”

Sophie stood up. “I can manage, thanks. I’ve finished prepping lunch for the lady bowlers. Plenty of time before I have to deliver everything to their club room. What can I do to help?”

“You can contact some furniture rental places and find out what it would cost to rent a stack of big, old-fashioned dining tables and chairs.” Emma’s mind was racing. “The chairs wouldn’t have to match. In fact it’s better if they don’t. They should look like they came straight out of Grandma’s dining room. I’ll include the costs in the budget for Nate’s approval.”

“On it, boss.” Sophie sounded excited. “Where are you going to get the nostalgic recipes?”

“I don’t have to look far for inspiration.” Emma rummaged among the pile of books on her desk and came up with the one she wanted. “Jessie’s Kitchen, by Jessica Jarrett.”

Handling the well-thumbed book bathed Emma in happy memories. As a little girl visiting her grandmother, she had enjoyed many of the foods described in the book. As well as her own recipes, Jessie had included some her mother and grandmother had handed down to her, creating a fifty-year history of family food, studded with anecdotes of her life as a young mother on the outskirts of Sydney. Early in their marriage, Jessie and her husband had lived not far from East Hills, then the last stop on the suburban railway line. Their house was set in the middle of acres of rugged bush between East Hills and Heathcote.

The book fell open at Jessie’s never-fail sponge cake recipe and Emma’s mouth watered, recalling the feathery lightness of the cake filled with cream and Jessie’s home-made strawberry jam, the top cloudy with icing sugar. Gramma had given her a big wedge of the cake as consolation for getting lost in the bush. Emma had been picking flowers when a bee flew at her. She’d screamed and run, not stopping until she stumbled into a shallow creek, splashing water around to scare the bee away. Only then did she realize she didn’t know the way back.

Remembering how the branches of the eucalyptus trees had reached for her like ghostly arms could still make her shudder. She’d tried walking back to the house, but went round in circles, always returning to the creek.

She’d never felt more relieved to hear her father calling her name. He’d been so angry, she was almost sorry she’d answered, but the sun was setting and she was afraid to spend the night alone by the creek. Without a word, he’d carried her back to Gramma’s house and sat her down on a stool in the kitchen. Gramma and Cherie had fussed, but Emma’s father had silenced them with his gruff doctor’s voice as he tended to her scratches and bruises.

“She’s fine, aren’t you, girlie?” he’d asked when he finished.

There was only one answer he wanted to hear. “Yes, Daddy.”

He’d patted her shoulder. “Good. You won’t go running off and getting lost in the bush again, will you?”

Not if it meant getting such a cold reception. When she was found, her fantasy of cuddles and warmth in tatters, she’d promised herself to be more careful next time. She’d rather have a bee sting her nearly to death than make her father that angry with her.

Gramma Jessie’s compassion had eased some of Emma’s wretchedness. “Give the child a break, Greg, she’s only four.” She’d lifted Emma off the stool. “You sit at the table and I’ll get you some sponge cake. And you,” she said, glaring at Emma’s parents, “might like to help yourself to something from the cocktail cabinet.”

Emma ate her cake and the homemade lemon drink her gramma served her in the brightly lit kitchen, surrounded by delicious cooking smells and an atmosphere of warmth, while Jessie had sat across the table from her and listened to her adventure.

Realizing she was stroking the book’s cover, Emma let her hand fall to her lap. Was it any wonder she’d rejected her parents’ world in favor of her grandmother’s? As she grew older, she’d come to understand that being in medicine meant walling off many of your own feelings in order to do your job. She admired her parents and brother for their lifesaving skills, but surely life wasn’t only about clinical survival? What about emotional well-being? Maybe it was up to people like Jessie and Emma to balance out the medical side with their own form of caring. “There’s room in Heaven for all kinds of angels,” Emma remembered Jessie telling her one day when she asked why she was the only one in her family who had a problem with the sight of blood. The answer had puzzled her for a long time, but now she knew exactly what Jessie had meant.

Nate was a doctor, she reminded herself. Would he appreciate what she wanted to do for his birthday dinner? There was one way to find out. She pulled her keyboard toward her and went to work.



FEELING HER BACK MUSCLES complaining, Emma stretched and glanced at her watch, startled to see how much time had passed. There was no sound from the kitchen. Sophie had a lecture this afternoon, and had probably gone straight there after delivering the food to the bowling club. Emma realized she was hungry and headed for the kitchen, where she made herself a chicken wrap, eating it standing at a bench, imagining the room with the new fixtures and fittings in place. Why couldn’t Nate’s birthday be a few months later? Then she could have really shown him what she could do.

It wasn’t as if Emma cared about impressing Nate. He’d been quick enough to leave her with his housekeeper after their meeting. She was lucky he was making time to see her today.

At least she thought he’d suggested today. Emma checked her diary. The date was right. So where was Dr. Hale? She hesitated a moment then called his cell phone.

After several rings, she began mentally composing a message for his voice mail when a masculine voice snapped, “Hale speaking.”

“Nate, it’s Emma Jarrett.”

“Emma?” He sounded a million miles away. “Did we have a date tonight?” Before she could reply, he said, “Oh, hell, you’re not that Emma, are you?”

Tension gripped Emma. Who was that Emma? Someone he’d dated, or possibly still did? Not that this Emma cared. She said coolly, “You requested a meeting at my office today to review ideas for your party.”

This wasn’t about him as a man, she reminded herself tautly. This was business.

“I did?” he asked vaguely. “Look, something came up. I’m going to be another hour or so.”

In the medical world, something always came up. “I can email you my notes and prices if you prefer,” she said, trying not to let him hear her disappointment. She’d looked forward to sharing his enthusiasm for her plans. And seeing him again. She swiftly suppressed the thought.

She heard his muffled voice as he spoke to someone else, then he came back on the line. “No need. How about I pick you up at your place as soon as I can get away?”

The increased beating of her heart irritated her, sharpening her tone. “And go where?” If he thought she was having dinner with him, only to be interrupted constantly by his relentless cell phone, he was out of luck.

“I’ll let you know when I get there,” he said.

Before she could demand more details, he’d hung up.

Her knuckles whitened around the phone as an all too familiar feeling washed over her. How many times had she been left dangling by her family when something had come up? She resisted the urge to slam the phone down. If Nate thought she’d wait for him to spare her a few crumbs of his attention, she had news for him.

She printed out her proposal, copied the pages to disk and slid the lot into one of the monogrammed folders she’d had made up when she started the business. Placing the folder into a large envelope, she scrawled his name on the outside. Then she called a cab and gave Nate’s address and the envelope to the driver. As soon as they were gone, she sat down, feeling drained. But there was one more step to take.

She texted Nate to say she was unable to move their appointment, but the information he needed was on its way. He could get back to her when he was ready. Then she surveyed her chaotic office. She should tidy up before retreating to her flat at the back of the building, but couldn’t muster the enthusiasm and closed the door on the mess. It would still be there tomorrow.

An hour later, wearing her favorite sleeveless top and track pants and a well-worn pair of running shoes, she’d barely sat down to work on the velvet evening bag she was making for Sophie’s birthday when the doorbell rang. The business facade of the building deterred most door-to-door salespeople. Had Sophie forgotten something? If so, why didn’t she come around the back?

But when Emma checked the peephole, instead of her friend waiting in the street, she found Nate Hale leaning against the door frame, his hand raised to press the bell again. As she opened the door, she felt her heart kick against her ribs. “You’re lucky to catch me still here.”

He looked skeptical. “Going out?”

She knew her workout clothes argued against a hot date. “I sent you a text saying I couldn’t reschedule our meeting.”

“Yet you’re still here.”

He was reading her like a book and she didn’t enjoy it. “I had some things to do first.” Her tone said it was none of his business.

He refused to get the message. “I came to apologize in person.”

Heat spun through her. “That’s not necessary.”

He shifted his stance so one arm reached over her head to grip the door frame, locking her in place. “Don’t you mean not expected from a walking ego?”

This close, he was affecting her more than she liked. It wasn’t only the sculpted chest outlined by a bad-boy muscle shirt and the snugly fitting jeans that were sending her imagination soaring. He had come to apologize, something so rare in her experience that she hardly knew how to respond. She hid behind a cliché. “The customer is always right.”

Wrong approach, she thought when his mouth curved into a smile. “Finally we agree on something.”

Her suspicion flared. “Why do I feel as if I’m being set up?”

His look was all innocence, difficult to carry off given his rebel looks, but somehow he managed it. “You want to discuss your proposal, I’m all ears. But not here. I need some air, and you look like you do, too.”

Her hand went to her hair before she stopped the movement. “Careful, you might give me a swollen head.”

“It’s not a criticism, merely an observation. I’ll bet this is the first time you’ve stepped outside all day.”

“Wrong.” She didn’t add that the only other time had been to give his package to the cab driver. “So you can drop the doorstep diagnostics.”

“Believe me, I’m too beat to diagnose anything right now except my need to move and stretch.”

Curiosity won. “You want me to come for a walk with you?”

“We can settle our business while we’re out. Why not kill two birds with one stone?”

Disappointed to find his invitation was aimed at saving time rather than a wish to be with her, she hid her reaction. She knew how his world worked. Or she should by now. She turned, trying not to collide with his hard body. “I’ll get my purse.”

“You don’t need it. Is everything locked up inside?”

She nodded and showed him the keys clipped to her belt. “I only have to set the alarm and I’m ready.”

Not true, she knew, as she tapped the security code into the panel inside the front door. She’d have preferred talking business with her desk between them. Several rooms would have been even better, she thought. Sending her proposal by cab had been an act of cowardice to avoid the attraction she felt whenever he came near her. Nothing could come of it. Nothing good, anyway.

Best laid plans, she told herself as she pulled the front door shut.

He was holding his car door open. “I thought you wanted to walk,” she said. What was he up to?

He slid into the driver’s seat. “We’re only driving as far as Canada Bay. Have you done the bay walk?”

Sophie had been nagging her to try it. “Not so far.”

“You’re in for a treat.”

The sun was low and the temperature pleasantly mild by the time he parked the car on Henley Marine Drive near the Iron Cove Bridge. Emma sniffed the salty air. He was right. She was glad to be out of the office, but sorry the walk was a means to an end for him. Reminding herself that her business was already gaining clients on the strength of her connection with him, she set herself to match his long strides along a wide footpath around the mangrove-lined foreshores of the cove.

She would have liked to stop and read the signs about the flora and fauna in the surrounding bay, but Nate set a demanding pace that left little time to admire the scenery as it shifted between city skyline and thick greenery. Most of Emma’s workouts were in a gym, accompanied by music with a throbbing beat. She wasn’t out of shape, but neither was she in his league, although she was damned if she’d let him outclass her.

When had this walk become a competition? she wondered. But then her whole life had been one long competition with the medical fraternity on one side and herself on the other. This was only the latest installment.

“Ready for a break? We’re about halfway,” he said, steering her to a park marked by a large sandstone cross at the top. From here she could see the city of Sydney and waterways all the way to Rodd Island. He dropped to the grass and wrapped his arms around his bent knees, taking in the view.

She sat down beside him, careful to keep a safe distance. He unclipped a water bottle from his belt and handed it to her. She drank, aware that his lips would soon touch the same spot as hers. Almost like a kiss.

And she knew exactly how that felt, an inner voice whispered. The hard contours of his mouth, the rasp of stubble against her cheek, the wine-rich taste of his breath were all burned into her memory.

The thought made her frown. She’d known spending too much time with him was a risk. Their worlds were too different. Getting involved with a high-flying surgeon like Nate was playing with fire, and she had no intention of getting burned.

Jumping to her feet, she handed him back the water bottle. “I should get moving.”

“What’s your hurry?”

“It will be dark soon” was her lame excuse.

“Don’t you feel safe with me?”

Physically perhaps, but not where her peace of mind was concerned. “You might be missed,” she said. “I’m surprised your cell phone hasn’t rung by now.”

He rose in one lithe movement. “My phone’s set to vibrate. My assistant knows how to get hold of me, and then only if there’s a crisis she can’t handle.”

Emma couldn’t hide her disbelief. To her parents and brother, every call was a crisis only they could handle. Confusion coiled through her, followed by annoyance. He’d seen how irritated she’d been over the constant interruptions to their meeting at his house. Was this a new strategy to get his own way, or was something else going on here?

She planted her hands on her hips. “This won’t work.”

“What won’t?”

“Provided we can agree on the details, I’ll cater your party because it’s in both our interests, but that’s all.”

He frowned. “What else do you think I want?”

She dragged in a deep breath. “Isn’t it obvious? Me.”




CHAPTER FOUR


WHAT THE HELL? STANDING IN front of him, slim but curved in all the right places and barely reaching up to his chin, Emma looked like a terrier ready to take on a rottweiler. Her workout clothes were rumpled from sitting on the grass, and her skin glowed with recent exertion. Her hair was carelessly twisted at the back and caught up in a tortoiseshell clip, making him want to undo the golden mass and send it tumbling to her shoulders. The red-gold strands curling around her ears and nape teased at him like a promise of things to come.

He pushed the thought away. Somehow she’d gotten the idea that he wanted more from her than her catering skills. Unfortunately, she wasn’t entirely wrong. He’d felt the attraction between them from first meeting. He’d seen her brother slip the vodka into her drink, but hadn’t known until later that it wasn’t her idea, intrigued to think she needed Dutch courage to approach him.

Since then he’d relived the memory of her kiss more times than was good for him. Her approach had been naive, fueled by the party mood, but the taste of her had awakened a desire for more. When Cherie had suggested he talk to Emma about his birthday dinner, he’d felt like a nervous teenager.

Unlike the model types he usually dated, Emma wasn’t beautiful in the runway sense. Her looks were too distinctive, her nose a fraction too sharp, and her mouth a touch wide for perfection. But when she smiled or gave her infectious laugh, she was stunning. A pang of jealousy still gripped him when he thought of her laughing with another man at her parents’ function. She hadn’t ever laughed with Nate like that.

Her sea-green eyes shone now and she clasped her hands together, her expression daring him not to take her seriously. “You’d better explain what you mean, because I seem to have missed a step or two.”

“I doubt you’ve missed a step in your life, Dr. Hale,” she said. “Did my mother suggest I might be part of the package if you hired me?”

His patience was becoming strained. “I can’t deny it’s an attractive thought. But if anyone put that idea in my head, it was you.”

She looked taken aback. He was almost sorry to see some of the fire fade from her eyes. Anger was a pure, honest emotion, stripping a person of artifice. What you saw was what you got. And in Emma’s case, what he saw was enough to raise his blood pressure several points.

“Really?” She sounded skeptical. “We’ve had only one business meeting.”

“And another meeting that was pure pleasure.” For him, anyway. It was hardly his fault if she felt embarrassed by the encounter. He’d go back for seconds anytime.

Color bloomed in her cheeks. “I might have known you’d bring that up. I made one mistake…”

“Are you sure it was a mistake?”

“It—it had to be. I didn’t want…”

Her stammered denial was enough to convince him that she’d been as affected by their brief kiss as he had. He was tempted to see if the chemistry he recalled was still potent and leaned close enough to feel her breath whispering across his mouth before he caught himself. His shoulders felt stiff as he pulled back, and a growing discomfort told him they weren’t the only part of him hardening. He was going to end up proving her right about scheming to have her as part of the package.

“You have some rigid ideas about doctors’ lives,” he said. “I invited you along on this walk to show you we aren’t all the same. If you and I are going to work together, it will be easier if you stop treating me as the enemy. You can’t deny that’s what you’ve been doing.”

She let her hands drop to her sides. “Any ideas I have are based on long experience.”

“Not with me.”

“No.”

But her tone said she reserved the right to toss him in with all the other medical people she knew. What had they done to her to prejudice her so thoroughly against an entire profession? Most people thought of doctors as valuable members of a community. Emma treated them as arrogant bastards who were out to make her life unpleasant. Maybe while she worked for him, he could ferret out the reasons for her hostility. He realized he wanted to do that very much. Did he think that once he overcame the hurdle, whatever it was, he’d have a chance to get to first base with her? That seemed selfish. Yet the more he tried to convince himself he wanted to help for Emma’s sake only, the hollower it sounded.

His own psychoanalysis could wait, he decided. There was still that blasted party he didn’t want, but which his friends clearly expected him to make happen. He found he also didn’t want to do it without Emma. Afterward, he could worry about where they went next.



EMMA’S THOUGHTS WERE IN turmoil as they set off again down the wide path past Timbrell Park, where a family group was enjoying a ball game. Seeing a father chase after his toddler, she felt an unexpected pang. What would it be like to have a man give you children, then cherish you both the way this man obviously did?

The child giggled as he was scooped up and carried shoulder-high back to his mother. The sight made Emma smile. What a contrast to her own father, rigid with anger, returning his four-year-old Emma to her mother in Gramma Jessie’s kitchen.

Emma’s smile faded. No loving warmth for her, only disapproval over the worry she’d caused. Emma’s cuts and scrapes had been treated with clinical care, but her emotional distress had been completely ignored. As an adult, she still suffered occasional nightmares about being lost in a dark, forbidding place as a result of that experience, but apart from Jessie’s interest, her family had never mentioned the incident again.

She dismissed the memory and focused on Nate’s assertion that she was the one putting ideas into his head. One impetuous kiss at a party didn’t amount to an open invitation. Had she sent subtle signals of her interest to him in other ways she hadn’t been aware of, or was he simply confirming her belief that doctors made their own rules?

The solution was to be as clinical as her parents in her dealings with Nate. From now on there would be no casual meetings in gardens, on walking trails or anywhere outside their respective offices. He would soon get the message that their dealings were to be strictly business.

Nate looked equally deep in thought as they paced out the remaining distance back to the Iron Cove Bridge. She’d read that the bridge had replaced an earlier one from the eighteen-eighties that had once carried trams, and tried to imagine the now busy suburbs when horses and carts had ruled the roads.




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