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Who's Calling The Shots?
Jennifer Rae


Lights… Camera… Sizzling attraction!Contestant Brooke Wright’s idea of fun is not a dating reality show! But it’s an incredible chance to promote her family’s sports brand if only she could ignore the maddeningly hot director, Jack Douglas!When the cameras stop rolling, how long will they be able to keep their eyes on the prize… and their hands off each other… ?









In the darkness of the bar, with the slow, sexy beat of the music in the background, Jack was looking …delicious.


He saw her and smiled, and she steeled herself against the anxious flutter in her chest.

Don’t look at his smile … look at his teeth. White, straight—perfect. No, not helping. Look away.

His hair. Look up.

It looked thick and wavy and it was being held up over his forehead. Very nice hair.

Don’t look at his hair.

His eyes. Dark and velvety. Chocolaty. Sexy. Bedroom eyes.

Definitely don’t look there.

A lazy layer of dark stubble sat on his jaw. It made him look a little rougher, a little more manly—maybe even a little dirty.

Brooke swallowed hard and pulled at the collar of her shirt. She’d wanted to look sophisticated, in charge and in control. But now all she felt was exposed. She tried to cover herself up a little before pushing her lips into a wide smile and attempting to saunter towards him.

He smiled and said, ‘You look incredibly sexy tonight. Hot date?’


JENNIFER RAE was raised on a farm in Australia by salt-of-the-earth farming parents. There were two career options for girls like her—become a teacher or a nurse. Rather disappointingly for her dear old dad, she became neither.

All she’d ever wanted to do was write, but she didn’t have the confidence to share her stories with the world. So instead she forged a career in marketing and PR—after all, marketing and PR professionals are the greatest storytellers of our time!

But following an early mid-life crisis several years ago Jennifer decided to retrain and become a journalist. She rediscovered the joy of writing and became a freelance writer for some of Australia’s leading lifestyle magazines. When she received a commission to interview a couple of romance-writers for a feature article Jennifer met two incredible Australian authors whose compelling stories and beautiful writing touched her cold, cynical heart.

Finally the characters who had been milling around Jennifer’s head since her long years on the farm made sense. Jennifer realised romance was the genre she had to write. So, with little more than a guidebook borrowed from the local library and a you-can-do-this attitude, Jennifer sat down to release her characters and write her first romance novel.

When she’s not ferrying her three children to their various sports, musical endeavours and birthday parties, you can find Jennifer at the boxing gym, out to dinner with her friends or at home devouring books.

Jennifer has lived in New Orleans, London and Sydney, but now calls country New South Wales home.




Dear Reader (#ulink_e9653193-fd0b-522e-8206-5a49703d5233)


Something that has always fascinated me is finding out why people make the choices they do and where their emotions stem from. Reality TV is supposed to be a fly-on-the-wall interpretation of real life, but often it’s not. It’s manipulated to increase drama and sex appeal.

This thought led me on to social media, and the way people use that to manipulate the way people interpret life. Often it’s through a filter, and supposedly there are only ‘good hair’ days. Modern dating has become an exciting but scary place. All it takes is a ‘like’ on Instagram and a couple of Snapchats and next thing you’re tearing each other’s clothes off on the floor. Before you get to know each other. Before you consider the realities of spending time with that person.

We live in an age of filtered reality—and it ain’t changing any time soon. But I’m old school. I’d rather meet someone in person and find out whether they’re a sandwich short of a picnic or if they exude a strange smell, rather than ‘like’ them on social media and think later.

Brooke and Jack’s involvement in a reality TV show skews the way they look at life, love and each other. It takes time spent alone with each other for them to realise that the only way to fall in love—really fall in love—is to switch off, push aside pre-judgements and filtered realities and reach deep into each other’s souls. Love is not a filtered reality. It’s dirty and messy, heartbreaking and exhilarating. But when Jack and Brooke realise they need to experience it to feel it their lives can really begin.

JenniferRae x

www.jenniferraeromance.com (http://www.jenniferraeromance.com)


Who’s Calling

the Shots?

Jennifer Rae






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


To my sisters from other misters:

Sonja Screpis, Carla Poole, Tiffany Steel and Julie Whittington.

Without you I’d understand nothing and laugh a lot less.

Massive love, my beautiful friends. x


Contents

Cover (#u96f19cde-1294-5812-9c85-99bd688da89b)

Excerpt (#ub97d3e1f-b86f-518a-b762-1897a882612b)

About the Author (#u15abf56c-400a-5100-b447-f2b3b4c7df73)

Dear Reader (#u621e09a2-34dd-57d5-9dd2-f18dcc770e38)

Title Page (#u6def3f32-b442-55fd-bf53-662bcbf863f9)

Dedication (#u2cf9db98-7302-523e-bfec-60c24c3e7020)

ONE (#u16b4a472-a09b-56e6-a819-c0653cdfcc44)

TWO (#u1e9e6d47-0429-5ec4-b1f4-6063599ef3c9)

THREE (#u7e6c8176-ff55-57dc-806b-740b0cdc4dd7)

FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


ONE (#ulink_2c1a8bed-540d-5e98-9a00-0f5d9806f847)

Twelve pairs of long eyelashes blinked at Jack Douglas. Some of the women were smiling, and some looked as if they were about to burst into a blubbering mess of tears. It was time.

‘Congratulations, ladies. You’ve all made it.’

Squeals, screams and loud relieved sighs followed his announcement.

This day had started like the previous seven. A hundred women at his door, all wanting the same thing. A chance to meet their Perfect Match.

‘Excuse me.’

The squeals were subsiding and being replaced by excited chatter. Jack watched as the women—virtual strangers this morning—hugged each other. How did women do that? Go from open disdain to long-lost best friends in hours? He had known people for years without knowing their last name, let alone throwing his arms around them.

One of the lip-chewing women was in front of him, not hugging anyone. She was standing too close. He looked down. She was a petite woman—tiny, actually. So small he could possibly pick her up and carry her under one arm. Pretty. With a hopeful look in her big green eyes. He swallowed and gave himself a mental uppercut. Not your problem.

‘Yes?’

He waited for it—the feeling of her tiny little arms around him. He took a step back. She stepped closer. Not only was she going to touch him without permission, she was a close talker. He folded his arms and lifted his chin. Message couldn’t be clearer.

‘I think there’s been a mistake. I shouldn’t be here. I should be in one of the other rooms, with the losers.’

She batted her long eyelashes and pulled her lips back into a thin line. She had a wide mouth with full lips, so it looked strange all puckered like that. Jack let his forehead furrow.

‘There’s no mistake. You’ve been chosen as a contestant. You’re one of the lucky ones.’ He smiled, hoping that would satisfy her and she’d step away.

She smiled and a deep dimple formed in her cheek.

‘The thing is, I only came here for my sister. She was the one who wanted to get on the show. I’m only here for...support. You should probably check your list. Her name is Madeline Wright—not Brooke Wright.’

Her hands waved as she spoke, and because she was so close the hand holding her phone hit him on the arm. He flinched, but refrained from letting it show on his face.

‘The names are correct. Everyone in this room is a winner.’

‘But I don’t want to be here!’

Jack’s eyebrows shot up at her fierce announcement. She didn’t want to be here? Jack let his eyes run the length of her body. She was dressed in a crisp white shirt and a black skirt to her knees. Clearly she was trying to look professional, but her slightly messy hair and killer body made her look anything but. She looked sexy. Tanned and athletic. As if she didn’t belong in those constricting clothes but outside in the sunshine.

Which was where he’d rather be right now. But he was here, trying to get this show off the ground. He wished he was more excited about it. He needed to be—this show was his ticket out—but something was niggling at him. Something he couldn’t put his finger on.

It wasn’t the format: twelve women competing in a number of challenges in order to win the chance to go on a date with one of the twelve men who had been chosen to match them perfectly. The more challenges they won the more dates they went on. By the end the audience would find out if the man chosen to be their match was the man who had been pegged as their Perfect Match. It was fun and interesting and fairly straightforward.

And it wasn’t the contestants that bothered him. He’d hand-chosen them all. Even this one. The woman who didn’t want to be here. He remembered her audition tape. She’d seemed funny and smart, and he remembered her eyes. A strange dark green. He remembered choosing her. Her eyes had attracted him, but it was her smile that he remembered. A smile that was definitely not present on her face now.

‘Did you sign the contract that all the ladies signed before being interviewed by our producers?’

‘Well...yes.’ The dimple disappeared and colour slashed across her cheeks. ‘But...’

‘Then you’re on the show. We start filming the day after tomorrow.’

Jack pushed a foot back. She was too close and he didn’t like close. But she was quick. She reached out and grabbed at his forearm. He stilled. His whole body stiffened. She was touching him and it felt intimate. Wrong. Too personal. His body remained still as the warmth from her fingers spread across his forearm and up past his elbow. Warm and soft, with a firm grip. The back of his neck prickled with heat.

‘No,’ she said, those eyes of hers narrowing. ‘There’s been a mistake. I can’t go on the show. I’m only here as a reserve. I would be hopeless. I’m not even looking for a husband. I’m marriage-averse. Like, really averse. I’d rather chew my own arm off than walk down the aisle.’

Jack tried to move, but her arm was still on his arm and it was all he could think about. He forced his mind into gear. Slowly, carefully, he reached over and gripped her hand. It was as small as the rest of her. Dainty. Slight. But her grip was firm. He prised her fingers clear of his arm and relief swam across his shoulders immediately.

Her eyes opened wide. She was clearly not appreciating being manhandled. But he pushed her hand away and stepped back. Her big green eyes stared at him. Her head cocked to one side and something in her gaze changed. First to confusion, then something else. Something more smug.

‘Is my hand bothering you?’

‘No.’ He smiled. Charm. Time to turn on the charm. It always worked. ‘As much as I appreciate a beautiful woman touching me, I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you for your perfect match. After all—that’s what you’re here for. Perfect Match—the only show on TV where we make sure the man you marry is the man of your dreams!’

His marketing team would be proud of that speech.

Jack pulled his face into a wide grin flashing the set of teeth his father had paid thousands of dollars to fix. And reminded him about frequently.

Her hands folded tightly across her chest. ‘Look...Jack, is it?’

He nodded tightly. They were definitely not on a first-name basis, but he had to keep the peace here. Nothing could go wrong this time.

‘Jack...’ Her smile changed. Dimples formed in her cheeks and she fluttered her eyelashes.

She was good. But she wasn’t that good. She was trying to use her looks and her charm to get her own way—that much was obvious. Little did this twittering sparrow know that he’d written the book on that game.

‘I understand that it’s probably a pain to change things now, but I have to tell you I really can’t do this. I’m not great around cameras and I’m quite shy—and to be honest there’s not really much interesting about me. I’m dull. I’ll send your viewers to sleep. Wouldn’t it be better to give the spot to someone more exciting? My sister Maddy ticks all those boxes. Seriously—you really should reconsider.’

Jack blinked. Her speech had been a passionate one. His mind wandered back to that audition tape. She’d made fun of herself, pulled faces, clearly not taking it too seriously. She’d smiled that amazing smile a lot on the tape, but she wasn’t smiling today.

Mick had said no to her straight up—said she’d be trouble. But there had been something about her...something that had caught his eye. Something that had made him keep watching. She said the viewers wouldn’t want to watch her, that she was dull, but he couldn’t disagree more. Those eyes, that smile...that body. She’d make perfect viewing. Especially now he knew she didn’t want to be here. People out of their comfort zone always made excellent reality TV.

‘Our decisions have been made and I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. You don’t seem dull at all. A little pushy—but definitely not dull.’

Her brows furrowed. ‘Pushy? I’m not pushy. I’m just telling you the facts.’

‘Then let me tell you some facts. You’re on the show. You signed a contract. We’ll see you back here at nine a.m. the day after tomorrow.’

She didn’t say anything, but he watched her chest rise and fall as she breathed deeply.

‘I don’t think you understand—I can’t go on this show.’

‘Then perhaps you should have thought of that before you applied.’ Her eyes were big and her shoulders slumped. He felt himself falter. No. He couldn’t do that again. He couldn’t feel sorry for her. This was her problem—not his. His job was to make this show a success—not to get her out of the hole she’d dug for herself.

‘Think of this as an opportunity. What do you need? Publicity? Money? Hell—you may even meet your perfect match. What woman doesn’t want that?’

As soon as he’d said it he knew it had been the wrong thing to say. Her cheeks pinked. Her mouth opened, then closed. Her arms unfolded and she stood with feet shoulder-width apart, fists clenched.

‘That’s not what I’m here for,’ she said tightly, clearly trying to stay controlled. ‘I don’t want to be here. My sister can take my place; she’s the one who wants to be here. She’s the one who’s looking for love. She’s wanted to marry since she was five years old. Trust me, you don’t want me. Like I said before—I would not make very good viewing.’

‘You’re making good viewing right now, beautiful.’

Jack let his eyes sweep over her. A compliment always calmed the savage beast. Compliments rolled off his tongue easily, but this time there was a bit of truth in his hollow words. She was a beautiful woman. A nice heart-shaped face, and those perfectly placed big green eyes. She looked healthy, tanned and fun, and she was making his body stand still and take notice. Their male audience would love her.

He shifted his feet. Something grabbed at him. A strange, quiet pull inside him that he recognised immediately but pushed aside. No. He couldn’t feel anything. Not for her or anyone else. He couldn’t think of any of these women as different from each other. They were all the same. And none of them was anything to him—nor would they ever be. Especially not her.

The way she looked up at him was starting to make something else shift. She stepped forward until her breasts were almost touching his still folded arms. Heat radiated from her but he didn’t step back. The scent of her perfume touched his nose and kept him still. Something rumbled inside him. He pushed it down. No. Not his problem. Not his anything.

‘I’m not here for your viewing pleasure. I’m not here for anyone’s viewing pleasure. And I’m not going on your stupid show.’

Jack felt his smile falter; she was getting serious now and it was time he did too. She needed to know the rules of this game, and she needed to play by those rules.

‘Let me tell you a little about the TV business, darlin’.’

She flinched when he called her darlin’, just as he’d thought she would. She didn’t like to be patronised—that much was clear. Smart woman. Smart women were much harder to deal with, but he’d done it before. He could deal with her.

‘When you sign a contract, your soul belongs to me.’ That was a lesson he’d learned years ago. When he’d first sold his own soul.

‘I beg your pardon?’

Her voice changed. It became clipped, professional. The voice of a woman who could turn herself into someone else quickly. She straightened her spine and ran a hand over her hair, smoothing it as if trying to take the mess out of it and make it look neater and more businesslike. It didn’t work. She still looked young and fun and as if she belonged on a beach somewhere in a skimpy bikini.

Jack’s producer’s mind kicked in. The beach. Perfect for the first episode. And no wetsuits—he’d make the girls dress in bikinis—what a first great ep. He’d open with a faux Baywatch running sequence. The girls running along the beach...chasing the men! Gold! It would rate its butt off.

Her voice brought him back to the moment. It was tight and high and way too loud.

‘My soul does not—nor will it ever—belong to you. I signed a contract, yes. But now I choose to break that contract. What do I need to do? Pay you some money? Fine. But don’t assume that you own me—or that I won’t fight you to get what I want.’

Jack’s cheeks heated. Her fire was surprisingly sexy. She’d gone from twittering sparrow to swooping eagle in seconds, but those green eyes remained the same. Strong, wide, green as an open ocean and beautiful.

Jack shook it off. He couldn’t think of her as beautiful. He couldn’t think about her at all. That was when things got complicated and he got into trouble. This woman was definitely one who could cause trouble. Too smart. Too pretty. And she knew what she was worth, which made her dangerous. He didn’t need dangerous. He needed this show to be a hit.

Maybe Mick was right and she would be too much trouble. But, then again, that was exactly what the show needed. She was perfect. Bad-tempered, unwilling and impossible to control. That was what this show was lacking. He knew she was a risk, but he needed to take some risks. If he didn’t he’d continue to be the man who’d got his job through nepotism rather than because he deserved it. He should leave. Get a job as a garbage man. Far away from his father and far away from all the talk of him not deserving his job. But the truth was this station—and by extension his father—owned him. Until he proved he could finally produce a hit show he was stuck. And so was she. And as long as he didn’t get sucked in to her sob story he was out of danger.

She stepped forward and he stepped back—away from her—but she managed to step forward again.

‘Don’t you run away from me. I need this sorted. I cannot stay.’

Jack felt the air thicken and his breath shorten. Her eyes sparked and he felt it deep in his core. Her pretty eyes were ready for a fight. She might be small, but this one didn’t need his protection. She was doing a good job of protecting herself.

He let out a breath and sucked in another big one. He could read the way she felt on her face. Trapped. He knew the feeling well. But, like him, she would have to figure it out for herself. Like him, she was on her own. A strange feeling of solidarity with this woman crept over him. Two independent souls. Two people who could take care of themselves. Two people who came up swinging no matter how many times they were knocked down.

‘I’m afraid you have no choice, Ms Wright. You are now a lucky contestant on Perfect Match!’

* * *

‘Are you kidding me? This is great news!’

Brooke stared at her boss, who was also her sister. Her mad sister. Who had convinced her to join in with this ridiculous, absurd scheme. A scheme that was so bonkers Brooke wondered if she’d actually lost all sense of reality for a moment.

‘Brooky—it’s perfect. I wanted to go on the show because I’m sick of meeting losers. I wanted to meet Mr Right—someone who’s been interviewed and vetted so I didn’t have to do all the hard work. Which, when you think about it, is a silly reason to go on the show. Interviewing and vetting men is the fun part! But you—you’re not there to find love. You’re there with your head screwed on—which makes you an even better candidate than me.’

‘Maddy—I really don’t think it’s a great idea...’

Caution shot through Brooke. Maddy always made sense. She was the eldest of the Wright clan, and the most sensible sister. Brooke looked to Maddy whenever she needed advice. But right now Maddy was acting more like Melody, the youngest and loopiest sister.

This scheme to gain promotion for their business was mad. It had been mad when Maddy had thought it up a month ago. It had been mad when Maddy had suggested she come along as ‘back-up’, and it was even madder now that Brooke was going to have to make a fool of herself in front of the entire country just to sell some gym gear.

‘It makes perfect sense, Brooky! I would have been too emotional. I would have been distracted. But you will be perfect! Sensible, straightforward, practical Brooky.’ Maddy’s animated face softened and she came out from behind her desk to put her arms out. ‘Think about it. How much would we have to pay to advertise on prime time TV every night for three months?’

Brooke didn’t care about the free advertising this show would expose their gym gear to. She couldn’t think about marketing opportunities and how well-known their brand might be if she managed to get their products on the screen. All she could think of was the potential humiliation. When all those millions of people watching realised how bad she was at relationships and love and flirting and all the other rubbish that was sure to happen on this ridiculous show.

Brooke breathed in, then out. That familiar feeling crept over her. She knew what it was and she breathed through it, just as Maddy had taught her all those years ago. She wasn’t going to get angry. She was going to explain herself rationally and clearly. Brooke released the fist her hand had formed. Her palm hurt where her fingernails had dug in.

‘Thousands, Brooky!’

Maddy threw her arms around her sister and hugged her hard. The hug helped. Brooke felt her sister’s love as she let go and held on to Brooke’s shoulders.

‘You know that because we checked. And we checked because the brand needs help, Brooke. Major help. Think about how many people will be watching you. Think about all those lonely, desperate women out there, watching you night after night as a handsome man falls in love with you. They’ll be listening to every word you say—and looking at everything you wear. Everything. Including your clothes. They’ll want to be like you, work out like you, dress like you so they can find the man of their dreams too.’

Maddy was doing what she always did to calm Brooke down. Giving her rational arguments. Explaining things. Talking to her until Brooke started to breathe normally again.

‘Maddy...’ Brooke started, her voice normal again. ‘You’re crazy. That’s an awfully long shot.’

‘It’s perfect PR—you even said it yourself at the marketing pow-wow last month. You don’t have to tell anyone to buy our products—you just show them how fabulous they look and how well they work and be your amazing self and they will sell themselves.’

Maddy was really working overtime. Brooke could tell she was passionate about this, and she could also tell her sister was working hard to get her excited. But Brooke wasn’t buying it.

‘Maddy! Listen to yourself. This is ridiculous!’

‘No, it’s not.’ Maddy said, her voice calm, strong and matter-of-fact. ‘It’s genius. I’m a genius. Wright Sports is poised for world domination, little sister.’

‘You’re not a genius—you’re a madwoman. First of all, if you want someone to model the clothes to make women aspire to be like them, you should have chosen Melissa. She’s the long-legged, big-boobed beauty in the family. Or even Melody—she’s cute and perky and blonde and fun! I’m short and I have a forgettable face and my mouth is too wide.’

Maddy attempted to interject but Brooke held up a hand.

‘I don’t need you to compliment me, Maddy, which I know you were going to do. I’m just stating facts here. And reason number two why this plan is absolutely bonkers: women will only aspire to be like me if I successfully seduce a man. Which I won’t. I can’t flirt, I’m awkward and boring, and I am really bad at competing. I’m the only one in this family who hasn’t won a gold medal in something. And even if I don’t fail every challenge I’m sure my appointed “perfect match” will probably kill me in my sleep. You’ve got the wrong girl, Maddy. Me being me will do more damage to the brand than good.’

‘Why do you do that, Brooky?’ Maddy asked gently.

Brooke bristled. ‘I’m not doing anything besides telling you what a terrible idea this is.’

‘Brooke, you’re beautiful and talented and fabulous. You’ll win every challenge and your perfect match will fall for you—just like the entire country will when they see you on the telly. You’re exactly the right girl. I knew you’d get it—why do you think I made you come along with me?’

‘Maddy, I don’t need any of your motivational nonsense right now.’

‘It’s not motivational nonsense. As a matter of fact...’ Maddy moved away to go back behind her desk. She drew herself up to her full five foot nine and stared straight at her little sister. ‘I think this will be good for you. You need to put yourself out there. It’s time you got yourself a man.’

Brooke rolled her eyes. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard this lecture. Her four sisters were always telling her she needed to go out more, be more social—meet new people. But the truth was she liked being alone. It was safer that way. She liked her quiet nights in and she didn’t need a man bothering her with his opinions and demands...and his lies and broken promises.

‘I don’t want a man, Maddy.’

‘Brooke. It’s time you got over Mitch. It’s been twelve months.’

Brooke felt the familiar burn of tears in the backs of her eyes. Mitch. Even the sound of his name felt like sandpaper rubbing on foam.

‘I’m over him, Maddy.’ She heard her voice go quiet. She wished it hadn’t. She didn’t want her sisters to worry about her. She was over Mitch. Of course she was. Why wouldn’t she be? Like Maddy said—it had been twelve months.

Something caught in Brooke’s throat. Twelve months since she’d decided not to put up with another one of his lies. Twelve months of thinking about all the things she’d say to him if she ever saw him. Something hurt in Brooke’s chest. She wasn’t in love with Mitch any more, but the anger about what he’d done was still there. She’d tried everything—yoga, meditation, drinking some disgusting concoction Melody called ‘calm juice’—but the feeling was still there. A hard ball of anger she couldn’t seem to shake.

‘It’s clear you’re not, Brooke. You don’t go out; you don’t want to meet anyone new. You just sit at home listening to sad music or working out like a demon. Honestly, babe, we’re worried about you. You need this. More than me. More than the brand. You need to do something to break you out of this rut.’

Brooke breathed out heavily. She was in a rut. It was true. But she was happy in her rut. Happy to push herself to her limits at the family-owned gym and happy to work herself ragged as marketing manager for her family’s company.

She excelled at her job. It was the only time she’d ever been close to competing with her sisters. Micky, the second oldest, was the country’s leading female equestrian at only twenty, Melody was in line to join their sister Melissa at the next Commonwealth Games, while Maddy, the most successful of all, was a former gold medallist.

Brooke had just achieved her personal best number of pull-ups in a row at the gym. Five. Pathetic. At only four foot nine, and barely fifty-two kilograms, Brooke was smaller, weaker and so much less remarkable than her sisters. But she was very good at data and statistics and predicting trends.

Since leaving school six years ago she’d managed to help Maddy take their company from a fledgling gym and activewear business to an award-winning national brand, with seventeen retail stores across the country and a dozen new lines ranging from home workout gear to protein powders. But times were tough. Money was tight. And to move to the next level—which they’d all decided it was time for—they needed to up their game.

Publicity. Recognition. That was what they needed. Brooke knew it. But they’d planned for Maddy to get on to this stupid TV programme—Brooke had gone there for moral support and some sort of pathetic back-up on the off-chance Maddy didn’t get it. Brooke hadn’t doubted for a second that Maddy would get in. Maddy always won everything... Except this time.

And now, in some cruel, unexpected twist of fate, Brooke was expected to expose herself on a reality show based on the ridiculous premise that there was a Perfect Match out there for everyone. But Brooke knew what she had to do. She had no choice. This was her family’s future and it was in her hands. Every team she’d ever been on had dumped her, due to her pathetic athletic ability, but her sisters never had. They’d always been there for her. From that first day.

‘OK, I’ll do it.’

Maddy came around the desk to throw herself at Brooke, but Brooke held her back with an arm.

‘I’m going to hate every second, I’m going to regret this with every atom in my tiny body, but I’ll do it. For you. And Micky and M’Liss and Melody.’

Maddy smiled her brilliant white smile and pulled her in for a giant hug. ‘You might be surprised, little sister—you might end up loving every minute.’

Brooke pulled her face into a massive frown as she was squashed into Maddy’s chest, knowing deep, deep down that there was no way in hell she was going to enjoy any minute of this humiliating and utterly absurd experience.


TWO (#ulink_2bbc0b3d-612c-5b09-bf7f-46b3b29922f1)

Jack schooled his features into something more gentlemanly. His father’s face beamed at him from the big screen TV.

‘He’s a quality unit, Jack. He can make a hit out of anything. I want you to do anything you can to help him out.’

The hairs on the back of Jack’s neck stood erect. It was happening again. Just like last time. Just like every damn time. And, just like last time, he wanted to hit someone. Preferably his father. But since his father was on the screen, not there in person, he’d do more damage to himself and probably have to fork out for a new TV. Not smart.

‘I’ve got it sorted, Max. I don’t need any help.’ He kept his tone low and calm.

‘Now, don’t go getting your knickers in a knot, Jacko. Rob Gunn is not there to take over. He’s a hit-maker—you should be relieved he’s coming on board.’

His father never kept his voice low and calm. When Jack was younger, he’d thought of his father as some kind of god-like Santa Claus. He was big and loud and jolly, and he would fly back home laden with gifts for his only child. He hadn’t seen him often, so when he had Jack would hang on every word and lap up any attention he could get. But Jack wasn’t a child any more, and he could see his father for what he was. And he no longer believed in Santa Claus.

‘Mick and I have this under control. Anyone else joining would just make it messy...’

Jack’s father held up a big, beefy sun-reddened hand. ‘Like you and Mick had it “under control” last time? We can’t afford another stuff-up like that, Jack. I’ve told you—’

Jack knew his father hated being interrupted. It was one of the few things they had in common. Which was why Jack did it. That, and the fact that his father was moving into uncomfortable territory.

‘Max, I told you it’s under control. I don’t need your hotshot. What happened last time won’t happen again. Trust me.’

Jack watched as his father’s face turned redder, which made his grey hair burn even brighter. Not for the first time during this conversation Jack noticed how old his father was looking. His normally round cheeks were drooping, his fleshy nose was covered in purple veins and his hair looked even thinner and greyer than normal. Jack felt an unusual flash of sympathy for the man. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not since he’d grown up and realised that this loud, full-of-life man was an overbearing bully. Jack shook it off. If his father had taught him anything it was to eradicate any emotions when you were talking business.

‘You listen to me, boy. I’ve lined this bloke up to help you. It’s all about you. Like everything I do—trying to keep your head above water. Trying to keep you afloat. Do you have any idea how much your last little mistake cost our company?’

Jack knew exactly how much it had cost. He’d been at every meeting. He’d gone through every figure with the accountants and he’d earned back every penny. But there was no use telling his father that. From the look on his face Jack knew the steam train had already left the station. The old man was about to blow and Jack was going to cop it—big-time.

‘I started from nothing to build this company, boy. Nothing. You have no idea of the things I did to make this company what it is today. And I did it for you. So you would be left with something rather than nothing—like I was.’

Jack leaned back in his chair. He was going to be there a long time. He’d heard this story so many times he could predict what his father was going to say next.

‘And what have you done to repay me? Drugs. Women. Wild parties. Deadbeat mates. You haven’t appreciated anything. I gave you the best of everything—the greatest opportunities. Any kid would gnaw off their right arm to be handed the position of Executive Producer for all our media, the way you were, and what have you done to repay me?’

Jack mouthed the words along with him, knowing full well his father was too blind with his own indignation to notice.

‘You’ve produced a string of reality shows that have ended in fights and lawsuits and disaster. I can tell you now, boy, that’s not going to happen again. Not on my watch. This time you’d better get it right or you can kiss your inheritance goodbye.’

Jack sighed. ‘Like I’ve said to you a thousand times, Dad—I don’t want your money. I don’t need your money.’

His father’s heavy breaths could be heard through the speakers. Jack saw him knock against the computer he was speaking into, losing his balance a little. Max’s lips pursed and released, then pursed and released again. He was thinking. Jack could practically see the old man’s mind ticking behind his eyes.

‘Maybe not, Jacko. Maybe you would be able to make a few measly bucks on your own. But how ’bout your mother? What would happen to her, Jack, if I were to shut up shop, take my money and run?’

And there was the stinger. It pierced Jack’s gut and lodged there. Jack’s father only had one weapon left to use against Jack. His mother. Who was still in love with his father, for some reason Jack couldn’t understand. His mother—who would be devastated if she found out how much Max didn’t care for her any more.

Jack knew exactly what his father meant. At the moment everything Max had—everything he knew about, anyway—was fifty per cent owned by Jack’s mother. But when Jack had discovered his father was having an affair fifteen years ago and threatened to tell his mother Max had told him he’d leave his mother with nothing if he did. He’d made Jack realise how powerless he was and then produced a contract saying he had to stay with the media arm of his father’s company until he earned enough money to buy his way out of it.

At nineteen, he’d thought it would be easy. But after station cutbacks, a fall in the economy and a cultural shift towards reality TV, Jack had barely covered costs each year. Perfect Match was his chance. It had trialled well in market research and the time was right. Dating shows were rating through the roof, and he’d already had a few bites to syndicate it in the US, the UK and India. This show was his ticket out of here—away from his father and the hold he had over him. But until then his father owned him, and he knew it.

‘What’s that, Jack? Your smart mouth can’t come up with anything intelligent to say?’

Jack’s blood sizzled but he held his face steady. He was getting too old for this. He needed to take control—one way or another. He needed to get his father out of his life, and today was going to be the start.

‘I’m running this company. I’m in charge. Not you. Goodbye, Max.’

Jack pressed the button that would end the video call. His father’s face disappeared. This show would be a hit. And when it was he’d pay his father his money and he’d never look back. And when he’d made his own money his mother wouldn’t need his father either. They could both escape from his cage.

‘Mick, I need you in here, my friend.’ Jack spoke into his phone, his voice back to its low, calm tone.

Mick didn’t need to know about that conversation. The crew were jumpy enough as it was, with all the rumours flying around about Max pulling their funding. He didn’t need them thinking there would be any changes in management. He needed to keep this ship sailing steady.

‘How’d it go with Max, boss?’ Mick was a man of few words, but he had an eye for entertainment and was one of the best editors in the business. For a man of such little drama, he knew how to produce one.

‘Excellent. Couldn’t have gone better,’ Jack lied. ‘But I’ve been thinking about the format for the show. I know we were going to introduce the men later in the show, once the girls have had a chance to get to know each other, but I think we should move it forward.’

Mick remained silent.

‘Bring the men in and have them decide what challenges they want the girls to do. Have them call the shots so they can decide which girls they want to take on dates. And I think we should cut it back to only four men. That way the girls will have to fight for a chance to meet their perfect match.’

Mick looked thoughtful. He stood still, moving only his head to stare out of the window behind Jack. Jack was used to him by now. He knew what he was doing. Thinking. He gave him a few minutes.

‘Female audience are not gonna like it,’ Mick finally said in his quiet voice.

‘Exactly. They’ll hate it. They’ll rage and be indignant and it’ll be all over social media. It’s a genius idea.’

Jack knew the female audience would hate it. He wasn’t even sure if it was a great idea. But he needed this show to be a hit. He needed it to work and work quickly—he couldn’t afford for anything to happen like last time. This time he was going to be brutal. He was going to call the shots. He was going to create a drama-filled show that had people tuning in every week. This show was about ratings—not about the people on the show. He had to remember that.

Slowly Mick faced Jack and a stern furrow formed on his weathered forehead. ‘They’ll kill you.’

They would. They’d slam him in the media. They’d call him a misogynist pig. He wondered how the contestants would react to the change. It was within his rights to change the format. He’d written it into the contract. Reality TV was like that—it needed to be fluid and reactive.

And the girls might not understand—they might have questions. He’d go and see them after this. He was sure he’d be able to win them over—he’d deliberately chosen women he could mould and shape. Except that one. Ms Wright. She hadn’t seemed very malleable. Gorgeous. Great mouth. Insane body. But not malleable. No, if anyone was going to jack up about this new twist it would be her.

‘That little firecracker won’t like it,’ Jack admitted.

Mick grunted. ‘I told you not to put her on the show. I knew she’d be trouble.’

Brooke Wright was the only contestant Mick had objected to. He’d said she’d be trouble, would cause problems and make their job harder. And he had been right. She’d protested from the beginning—not wanting to be on the show, then grumbling when he’d informed them they wouldn’t have any contact with their friends and families during the entire six weeks of taping. But she was nothing he couldn’t handle. He had learned how to charm women years ago. His father had been his mentor.

‘Tell ’em what they want to hear,’ his father would say. ‘Then do whatever the hell you want anyway!’

He’d always laugh after that. Jack never had. Not when it came to his mother. But after a few awkward ‘falling in love with a girl who didn’t love him’ moments back in high school he’d started to use his father’s tactics. And it had worked. Since then he’d been able to get women to do what he wanted—mostly.

Ms Wright, however, might prove to be a bit of a challenge. She tended to get into his personal space. She was a little too confrontational. To be honest, she made him a little uncomfortable. But she wasn’t there for him. She was there for the show—to make it a hit. Maybe this would be perfect. This new twist would send her into a new flutter and he’d catch it all on camera. It would be just what he needed.

He pushed down the small flutter of guilt that settled in his chest. He needed to work out the details and amend their choice of men. But first he had to supervise the taping of the first challenge. This time he was going to be there for everything. All the on-camera highlights as well as the off-camera drama. This time he wasn’t missing a thing—because this time was his last.

‘Tell Gaz to bring the car around, Mick—we’re going to see the ladies.’

* * *

She could do this. She knew she could do this. It was like lifting heavy weights. Ninety per cent mental, ten per cent physical. All she had to do was believe she could paddle out past the crashing waves, stand up on a thin piece of timber and balance while avoiding sharks and the tumble of the constantly moving water, all the while making sure she kept a smile on her face and her bikini top up—because at least eight cameras were set up on the beach and on jet skis to capture every fall, every failure and every embarrassing facial expression.

Yep, she could do this. For sure. Absolutely. Brooke hitched up the strap of her candy-red Wright Sports bikini and pushed a large ball of nervous energy back down her throat.

She’d never been surfing. It seemed like just another sport to fail at, and her balance wasn’t great even on solid ground, so she’d never been tempted to try. But now she had to go out there. Because her crazy sisters thought her coming on this show was their most cunning scheme ever.

‘It’ll be so good for you, Brooky.’

‘It’ll help you come out of your shell.’

‘People will love you.’

‘Imagine what it will do for the brand!’

And the last and most irritating comment of all: ‘You might meet your Mr Right.’

She wasn’t interested in meeting Mr Right. Or Mr Wrong. She was interested in meeting this month’s sales targets. And besides, if Mr Right were out there she was pretty sure he wouldn’t be on a surfboard. She had always been more into quiet, sensitive, musician-types. They got her. Those carefree athletic types were way too into themselves even to attempt to get her.

‘OK, ladies. On your boards.’

The tall, broad-shouldered instructor was hurling instructions at the twelve women lined up on the beach. At least he got to wear a wetsuit. Brooke pulled the skimpy fabric to cover up more of her breasts. She’d already argued with the producer over this. Why were they lined up like sheep at a sale yard? Why couldn’t they wear wetsuits? Wright Sports made an amazing one, lined with the highest quality Neoprene.

But the producer, Jack Douglas, had done what he always did. Smiled. Turned on his deep, calm voice. His ‘you’re crazy and I need to calm you down’ voice. Stepped back, away from her, and brushed her off.

She was sure she’d got a little red-faced when she’d argued with him about it, but he’d ignored her concerns. Told her that viewers wanted the full beach scene. And then he’d had the hide to tell her she had an amazing body and she should be proud to show it off. Which was totally not the point.

But arguing had been useless. Before too much longer he’d pulled out the old ‘you’re under contract, sweetheart’ card and walked away. So she’d lost. Again. And now she was lined up like a horse in the ring at the Melbourne Cup, awkwardly turning away every time she noticed a camera swivelling towards her butt cheeks.

Most of the other girls didn’t seem to care a fig. They were on their boards, laughing, joking—jumping up and down so their bountiful breasts bounced in the sunlight. Brooke’s breasts didn’t bounce—they were way too small for that—but she did try to smile. For her sisters. For the brand. For her family’s business. For the most important people in her life.

That was why she was here, she reminded herself as she heaved the huge board up under her arm and wrapped her fingers tightly around the edge.

Brooke grimaced to the girl on her left—Katy, she remembered. Katy the Lawyer, with her long shiny dark hair and big soulful eyes.

‘Let’s hope the lifeguards are on duty,’ she quipped.

Katy smiled back. ‘Hopefully they’ll be cute, because I’m sure I’ll end up face-down in the sand.’

Brooke felt her shoulders relax. At least most of the other girls were friendly. Something about having to go through this all together had bonded them. That and the fact that the annoying producer had forced them to all live together in a Manly penthouse. As if they were a bevy of pets from the seventies and he was hoping for a little girl-on-girl action.

Brooke felt the steam rise again. At the fact that she was being filmed in a bikini on the beach, doing something she knew she was going to fail at. At the idea of being forced to compete with other women for the chance to go on a date with a man she hadn’t even met yet and was sure she wouldn’t like anyway. But mostly she fumed at the producer. Jack Douglas.

She knew all about Jack Douglas. After their first disastrous meeting she’d looked him up. The man had only got where he was because of his dear old dad. Although, to be honest, she was in her job because of her family, too. But that was different. Jack Douglas was, by all accounts, a womaniser, a publicity whore, a charming pig. And from what she’d seen all of that was true. Because—seriously—what type of man encouraged this type of sexist, voyeuristic television?

But what annoyed her the most about Jack Douglas was that every time she looked at him she moved. Inside. Deep down. Where she didn’t want to move. Especially not for him. But his jaw was so square and his eyes were so dark, and when he crossed his arms he stood tall and strong and so incredibly sexy...it moved her. And she couldn’t control it. And that annoyed her. She was so good at controlling herself. She’d taught herself how to control her temper a long time ago. She was now quiet and easygoing and Zen. But Jack Douglas was doing his best to upset her Zen.

‘Ladies! Looking beautiful, as always.’

And there he was. Tall, athletic, self-centred, small-minded. The exact opposite of her type. Brooke hadn’t had a drink all day, but right then she felt drunk. Drunk on her own indignation. Drunk on humiliation and drunk on the idea that there was no way she was getting out of this mess now she was in it.

‘We look stupid. We should be in wetsuits,’ Brooke fumed. Zen, she reminded herself, breathing deeply the way Maddy had taught her when she was young. Stay Zen.

Jack stopped and turned to her, looking at her as if he was surprised she was even there. Arrogant. Self-important. And he still managed to move her...again. Annoying.

‘Nonsense. It’s a beautiful, summer’s day in Manly. What you’re wearing is perfect. And you all look so good—why would you want to cover that up?’

Jack’s eyes were almost black in the sun. His hair was thick, with a slight wave at the front where it swept over as if he’d just run a hand through it. His cheekbones were high and his jaw was strong, but that wasn’t what made him sexy. It was the way he looked at her. His chin tilted up, his eyebrows slightly furrowed, his full lips together. Arrogant. Entitled. Confident. As if he was thinking about having sex with her right now.

He stood like a man who was aware of his own presence. He was physically intimidating and he knew it. And he was using that now. Despite the various...annoying...movements in her core, Brooke was aware of what he was doing and she wasn’t buying into it. He could stand there, all pouty and sexy and as manly as he wanted, but right now all Brooke saw was a snout and two piggy eyes.

‘Are you serious? I mean—did you actually say that?’ Heat rose up the back of Brooke’s neck and fizzed in her ears. She turned to the cameraman who was now getting closer to Katy’s breasts. ‘Did you get that? I mean—on film? Did you get that sexist, disgusting comment on tape?’

She turned back to Jack, who was standing with his hands in his pockets, his face blankly staring at her as if he had no idea what she was talking about.

‘Because that’s what the Australian public need to see. The extent of this man’s sexism and arrogance and...and piggishness.’

Her voice was getting higher. Her fists were in balls. She wasn’t even sure what she was saying. But a thought was forming in her head. That’s it! That was all she had to do! He wouldn’t put her on the telly if she was insulting and rude and...and honest! But then if he didn’t put her on the telly where would that leave Wright Sports?

Brooke tried to breathe. She tried to think. But her tongue had other ideas. ‘This whole show is a vulgar attempt to make women appear shallow and stupid and competitive. A way to prove this man’s theory that women are second-class citizens. Well—I won’t do it!’

Brooke dropped her surfboard and it made a satisfying thud in the sand.

‘And nor will anyone else. Will we, girls?’

Brooke turned to her fellow contestants. Her peeps. Her sisters from other misters. She expected them to crowd around her, fists raised, a cry of I am woman, hear me roar on their lips. Just as her real sisters would have. But instead eleven sets of long eyelashes blinked. A seagull swooped and made Contestant Number Four swat above her head. Someone coughed.

‘Right, girls?’

The girls were still blinking at her.

‘C’mon. We’re not going to let him get away with this, are we?’

Someone shuffled in the sand. Katy moved her surfboard from one side to the other.

‘We aren’t here to be ogled...’ Katy said quietly, hesitantly.

‘Yes! Exactly!’ Brooke let out a yell and pointed at Katy before turning back to Jack. ‘We’re not here to be ogled. Our Perfect Match won’t care what we look like. Not if he’s truly our perfect match. He won’t be attracted to big boobs or a small bum or be interested in the size of our thigh-gap. Love is more chemical than that. Love is more intuitive than that. Our perfect match will see through all that. He’ll be attracted to us because of our thoughts, our opinions... That’s what we should be showing. Our minds—not our butt cheeks.’

Jack nodded slowly. He pushed his lips together and his mouth turned down at the corners.

‘Is that right?’ He raised his eyebrows.

‘Yes!’

Brooke left her position to move and throw an arm around Katy. Katy was quite a bit taller than Brooke, so putting her arm around her was a little awkward, but they were banding together for a common good. There was nothing awkward about that.

‘That’s right—isn’t it, Katy?’

Katy didn’t speak, but she nodded. Slowly. Tentatively. But she definitely nodded.

Brooke squeezed her shoulder. ‘We won’t be paraded like cattle,’ Brooke said firmly.

‘Actually...’

Brooke’s head swivelled to face Alissa, a blonde-haired, big-boobed beauty who stood behind her.

‘I don’t mind being in a bikini. I mean—yes—I want my perfect match to want me for who I am, but I mean—a man’s got to have a little incentive.’ Alissa jiggled her boobs and giggled. ‘He is a man, after all.’

Brooke watched as the evolution of woman stepped back at least forty years.

‘She’s right...’ another big-bosomed beauty piped up. ‘We have to use what we have to attract them in the first place.’

‘You don’t want a man who’s attracted to you just for your looks!’ Brooke insisted.

‘No,’ said someone else. ‘But men are men, Brooke. They’re visual creatures. They have to like what they see.’

‘You’re missing the point.’ Brooke was feeling hot, and she knew she should probably stop but she couldn’t. She needed to say what she had to say. ‘Your perfect match will be attracted to you. To your face and your body and your eyes—and your bum. Not because it’s perfect, and not because it’s out on display. Think about it—when you’re attracted to someone you just are. You can’t help it. And it doesn’t matter if they have a crooked nose or thinning hair. When that chemical attraction takes hold all their imperfections are gorgeous. They make them who they are. You don’t see them as negatives—you see everything about them as gorgeous.’

‘That’s true, Brooke, and I’m not saying we’re all perfect. I’m saying that it doesn’t hurt to introduce the men to some of our...imperfections.’

Alissa smiled, but Brooke didn’t. She turned back to smug Jack Douglas and realised her mistake immediately. He was rocking on his heels with his hands in his pockets. Satisfied. Triumphant.

‘And, cut!’

Horrified, Brooke turned to face the camera now on her face. Jack sauntered towards her and came in closer than he ever had before, the heat of his skin making her cheeks burn.

‘Ratings gold.’

That deep, calm voice didn’t calm her this time. But it did make her whole body break out in a rash.

‘Good Job, Ms Wright.’

Then he moved back, smiled wide, turned and walked away—while eleven girls stood silently behind her and a lone camera beeped to indicate that it was back on and recording.


THREE (#ulink_76c93b5e-f1db-5605-9e5a-e8efe8787d3f)

Jack’s head was beating incessantly. Over and over. It had started with a throbbing in the back of his head and had now moved to right behind his temple. He resisted the urge to rub at it. All eyes were on him. Now wasn’t the time to show any weakness.

‘Keep rolling.’

‘But, Jack...’

‘Keep rolling.’

Jack’s calm was slipping. As a matter of fact it was now sliding right out of him and creeping into the ocean, where Contestant Number Three was being hauled up into a lifeboat by three lifeguards. She couldn’t swim. A fact she’d failed to mention when they’d told the women they’d be surfing today. So desperate to find her ‘perfect match’, the crazy woman would rather drown than lose the opportunity to go on a date with a man she’d never met.

Jack tried to relax. The lifeguards had this. But his shoulders stayed tense. He wasn’t sure why he was so anxious. Maybe it was the fact that these twelve women were his responsibility. All of them. For the entire six weeks of taping. No matter how much he wanted to stay out of it, the truth was he had to make sure they were safe, make sure they were happy, and make sure they all stayed right where he needed them—in front of the cameras.

Most of them were proving to be easy to manage—except Stephanie Rice, out there, and Ms Wright. The petite blonde. The fiery woman with the sparkling eyes. The woman he couldn’t get out of his mind and he suspected the reason his shoulders remained tight even as the lifeguard pulled the flailing contestant out of the water.

Her rousing speech kept going through his mind. Her pink cheeks, her clenched fists. She hadn’t just been spouting words back there—she’d felt it. ‘When you’re attracted to someone you just are. You can’t help it.’

He didn’t want her to be right about that. She couldn’t be right about that. It was his responsibility to find perfect matches for these women. But what if she was right?

Attraction didn’t make sense. It wasn’t logical. A questionnaire could tell you about likes and dislikes, but it couldn’t predict that physical blow right in your chest when you met someone and they blew you away. Not just because of their body or their looks, but because of something else. Something you couldn’t explain. Something he was becoming very afraid he felt when he looked at Brooke Wright.

She was a beautiful woman, that was obvious—but it wasn’t her beauty that made his heart beat faster when she was around. It was something else. A look she gave him when she was standing up for what she believed in. Attraction was purely physical, wasn’t it? Why couldn’t he just think about one of the other women? They were beautiful. And they all looked magnificent in a bikini.

But every time he tried to think of another woman his thoughts wandered back to Brooke. To her body in that tiny red bikini. To the way she’d tried to rouse the girls. To the way her eyes had glowed brighter and her hair had moved as she’d bounced around, encouraging the girls to fight. Holding her sword aloft against the fire-breathing dragon to protect her people. She was brave and strong and smart and perfect.

But of course she wasn’t perfect. She was argumentative and difficult—and if he was honest her mouth was too wide for her face. But somehow that just made him want to look at her even more. He wanted to stare at her and he had to force himself to look away. He was sure he was becoming obvious.

Sex. Lust. That was all it was. Physical attraction. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t felt it before. He just had to push the feeling down. Easy. He did it all the time. It was just a stupid crush. But somehow it felt different, and that irritated him. She wasn’t different. She’d be like all the others—after something. His money, his influence, his name. He’d not met anyone yet who liked him for him. It was what his father had always warned him about and unfortunately the old man had been right. Every damn time.

He couldn’t trust anyone—he knew that. And he definitely couldn’t trust Brooke Wright. And not just because he hadn’t figured her angle out yet—because she was beginning to occupy his mind a little more than he was comfortable with. And right now he needed to focus on the show. On his father’s threats and the executive producer his father was pushing him to take on. And on the contestant they were now struggling to get on an inflatable rescue boat.

He needed to concentrate on how he was going to introduce more twists and turns to keep viewers tuned in. But every time he thought of something he also thought of Brooke’s reaction and what she would say. And he wasn’t sure why. Why did it even matter what she said or did? He barely knew her. She was just another contestant. But the way she’d spoken about the way the show was representing women stuck in his chest. It forced him to think of his mother and the way his father treated her. How he lied to her, cheated on her, threatened her, bullied her. He hated it. He hated seeing the look in her eyes when his father said something cruel or thoughtless or failed to turn up again.

This was nothing like that. This was just a game—just a TV show—surely she could see that? It wasn’t real.

But Brooke had no idea. She was too sincere. Too ethical.

Jack ran a hand through his hair. Nothing came easy. Between ensuring this show became a hit, protecting his mother from the truth about his father and trying to earn enough money to buy himself out of his contact, he was wondering when it would let up. When he’d get a break. And now Brooke Wright had come along and embedded herself under his skin. Questioned him. Argued with him. He didn’t need that, and he definitely didn’t need to feel attracted to her.

He wondered for a minute how someone so small could be so much trouble. And why was she so much trouble? The woman seemed constantly angry. Why?

He’d thought he knew all about her. Just as he’d had all the other contestants researched, he’d had her researched. Marketing Manager of a family-owned company, one of five sisters. Seemed to have had a comfortable upbringing. Seemed to get along with everyone. No enemies anyone could find. No psycho ex-boyfriends. Currently single. Financially stable.

She had every reason to be perfectly happy, yet clearly she wasn’t. At least she wasn’t when he was around. Maybe something about him made her mad? Maybe he reminded her of an ex-boyfriend or someone else who had annoyed her?

From experience he knew that the way people reacted to each other almost never reflected how they felt about that person—it was more about what was happening in their head. The story they’d made up or the conclusion they’d come to almost never had any bearing on reality. Women were experts at it.

He made a conscious effort to work with facts. Not to read too far into things, to take each moment for what it was. Don’t look forward and don’t look back. So far that approach was working for him, and every time he found himself reflecting or looking forward to something he pushed those feelings right back down where they belonged. Out of sight and out of mind.

Some people called him cold. Distant. One particularly upset woman had called him soulless. But that wasn’t true. The truth was everyone had an ulterior motive and you couldn’t trust anyone. He was just protecting himself.

The lifeguards’ boat had reached the woman in the waves. She was still afloat, waving her arms. Her calls could be heard faintly billowing on the wind as it blew towards shore. His shoulders hurt from holding them so tight but he didn’t move his eyes. They had to keep rolling.

He had their number—these women on the show. He knew the ones who were doing it just to get famous, the ones who were looking for true love and the ones who were hoping it would change their lives.

His mind turned back to the Tiny Terror. He wasn’t sure what her angle was yet. She seemed sincere when she spoke, but she could just be a very good actress—most women were. She also seemed determined not to spend too much time on-camera. She’d come in, see the camera, smile awkwardly and move towards it, then she’d seem to change her mind and hightail it out of the room, or—more often—give him a tongue-lashing and then leave.

He hadn’t figured her out yet, but he would. He always did. Everyone had an angle, and sooner or later they slipped up—giving him the perfect opportunity to see them for what they really were.

‘Aren’t you going to do anything?’

Jack turned to see the woman he’d just been thinking of. Dripping wet in that small red bikini. It was a very small bikini. A bikini that was in danger of exposing even more than it already was. He stood, transfixed. Not by her face but by her body. Her petite but muscular body. It was perfect. It curved in where it should and was soft where there should be softness. But where there was no softness it was hard, glistening with sea water when the sun hit her. His throat went dry and his eyebrows felt heavy.

‘She’s drowning!’

Her manic cry snapped his head back up to her face. Her forehead was creased and her wide mouth was hanging open. He watched as she drew her bottom lip in and held it against her teeth. His already tense shoulders seized up. She was angry again. Getting ready to tell him off. But rather than annoying him right then it was turning him on.

Not many women argued with him. Not many people in general argued with him. And when they did he could normally talk them down, make a joke and defuse the situation, but she seemed determined to disagree with him. It should annoy the hell out of him, but it didn’t. Nothing about her was turning him off right now.

Lust. Physical attraction. That was all this was.

‘What?’ he asked absently as her lip bounced out from between her teeth again.

‘Alissa! She’s drowning out there and all you can do is stand and watch.’

Jack’s face moved back to the ocean. He remembered Contestant Number Three and the action that was unfolding out on the sapphire-blue water among the white tips of the waves that were crashing relentlessly to the shore.

‘She’s fine. The lifeguards have her.’

No point panicking. She was in good hands. He hoped she hadn’t swallowed too much water. She was a long way out but he could see her moving into the boat. She was flailing about a lot. So much so that one of the lifeguards had just received a nice hefty slap up the side of his head. She was fine.

His shoulders relaxed a little and he allowed a smile to lift one side of his mouth.

‘You think this is funny?’

Jack felt Brooke move closer. He didn’t move a muscle.

‘This isn’t funny! She could have drowned. She could have died. All for the chance to meet some man she doesn’t even know if she’s going to like! Don’t you see how crazy this is?’

She’d moved now and was standing in front of him. He wished she wasn’t. She was angry—that was obvious. He wanted to listen to her and calm her down, but it was hard when she stood dripping in front of him. Her breasts peeped out of her brief bikini top—so much so he was sure that if she just moved a little more he’d be able to see the darkness of her nipple.

‘Are you looking at my breasts?’

Busted.

‘Yes.’ He met her eyes. No point in lying. She’d caught him—and why wouldn’t he look? They were lovely, and she wasn’t exactly trying to cover them up. For someone who had spent an hour arguing about why they should be wearing wetsuits instead of bikinis earlier that morning, she’d chosen herself one of the briefest and sexiest ones he’d ever seen.

‘You make me sick.’

‘Well, clearly I make you something...’ He nodded towards her breasts, where her nipples now stood to attention. She was either excited or cold and he didn’t mind which. There was something incredibly hot about hard nipples showing through a bikini.




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