Kitabı oku: «Deserted Island, Dreamy Ex»
Praise for Nicola Marsh
‘Sterling characters … and crackling sexual tension make for a great read.’
—RT Book Reviews on A Trip with the Tycoon
‘A sizzling tale of lust developing into love …’
—RT Book Reviews on Princess Australia
‘This lovers-reunited tale is awash in passion, sensuality and plenty of sparks. The terrific characters immediately capture your attention, and from there the pages go flying by.’
—RT Book Reviews on Marriage: For Business or Pleasure?
‘Marsh does an admirable job of challenging her characters to confront their innermost fears and find love in the process.”
—RT Book Reviews on Overtime in the Boss’s Bed
About Nicola Marsh
NICOLA MARSH has always had a passion for writing and reading. As a youngster she devoured books when she should have been sleeping, and later kept a diary whose content could be an epic in itself! These days, when she’s not enjoying life with her husband and son in her home city of Melbourne, she’s at her computer, creating the romances she loves in her dream job.
Visit Nicola’s website at www.nicolamarsh.com for the latest news of her books.
Deserted Island, Dreamy Ex
Nicola Marsh
MILLS & BOON
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Also by Nicola Marsh
Three Times a Bridesmaid…
A Trip with the Tycoon
The Billionaire’s Baby
Wild Nights with her Wicked Boss
Marriage: For Business or Pleasure?
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
This one’s for all my newfound friends on Twitter. Tweeting with you is a blast!
CHAPTER ONE
Stranded Survival Tip #1
Your past is only a line call away.
KRISTI WILDE picked up the single blush-pink rose, twirled it under her nose, closed her eyes and inhaled the subtle fragrance.
She should call Lars and thank him but … Her eyes snapped open, landed on the trite card he’d probably sent to countless other women, and she promptly tossed the store-bought, cellophane-wrapped rose in the bin.
The only reason she’d agreed to a date with Sydney’s top male model was to gain a firsthand look at a rival promotions company’s much touted coup in landing the Annabel Modelling Agency as a client.
The fact Lars was six four, ripped, tanned and gorgeous had merely been added incentive.
Walking into Guillaume hand in hand with a guy like Lars had been an ego trip. But that was about as exciting as things got for the night.
Lars had the looks but his personality could put a bunch of hyperactive kids to sleep. While she’d scoped out the opposition, feasted on fabulous French food and swilled pricey champagne, Lars had droned on about himself … and on … and on.
She’d faked interest, been the epitome of a dewy-eyed, suitably impressed bimbo hanging on his every word. She’d do anything for a promotion these days. Excluding the horizontal catwalk, which was exactly what Lars had had in mind the moment they’d stepped into the elevator at the end of the night.
The rose might be an apology. Then again, considering his smug assuredness she’d succumb to his charms next time, he was probably hedging his bets.
Wrinkling her nose, she nudged the bin away with her Christian Louboutin fuchsia patent peep-toes and darted a glance at her online calendar.
Great, just enough time to grab a soy chai latte before heading to the Sydney Cricket Ground for a football promotion.
She grabbed her bag, opened the door, in time for her boss to sweep into the room on four-inch Choos, a swathe of crushed ebony velvet bellowing around her like a witch’s cloak, a cloud of Chanel No 5 in her wake.
‘Hey, Ros, I was just on my way out—’
‘You’re not going anywhere.’
Rosanna waved a wad of paper under her nose and pointed at her desk.
‘Sit. Listen.’
Kristi rolled her eyes. ‘The bossy routine doesn’t impress me so much any more after watching you dance the tango with that half-naked waiter at the Christmas party last year. And after that romp through the chocolate fountain at the PR awards night. And that incident with the stripper at Shay’s hen night—’
‘Zip it.’
Despite her being a driven professional businesswoman, Rosanna’s pride in her wild side endeared her to co-workers. Kristi couldn’t imagine speaking to any other boss the way she did to Ros.
‘Take a look at this.’
Rosanna’s kohled eyes sparkled with mischief as she handed her the sheaf of documents, clapping her hands once she’d delivered her bundle.
Kristi hadn’t seen her boss this excited since Endorse This had snatched a huge client out from under a competitor’s nose.
‘You’re going to thank me.’
Rosanna started pacing, shaking her hands out, muttering under her breath in the exact way she did while brainstorming with her PR team.
Curious as to what had her boss this hyped, Kristi scanned the top document, her confusion increasing rather than di min ish ing.
‘What’s this reality show documentary about?’
It sounded interesting, if you were crazy enough to want to be stranded on an island with a stranger for a week. ‘We doing the PR for it?’
Rosanna shook her head, magenta-streaked corkscrew curls flying.
‘No. One better.’
Flipping pages, Kristi spied an entry form.
‘You thinking of entering?’
Rosanna grinned, the evil grin of a lioness about to pounce on a defenceless gazelle.
‘Not me.’
‘Then what …?’
Realisation dawned as Rosanna’s grin widened.
‘Oh, no, you haven’t?’
Rosanna perched on the edge of her desk, studying her mulberry manicured talons at length.
‘I entered your details for the female applicant.’ She gestured to the flyer, pointed at the fine print. ‘You’ve been chosen. Just you and some hot stud on a deserted island for seven days and seven long, hot, glorious nights. Cool, huh?’
There were plenty of words to describe what her boss had done.
Cool wasn’t one of them.
Kristi dropped the entry form as if it were radioactive waste, tentatively poked it with her toe, before inhaling deep, calming breaths. Rosanna might be tolerant but there was no point getting wound up to the point she could happily strangle her boss.
‘I want you to turn Survivor for a week.’
This had to be a joke, one of Rosanna’s bizarre tests she spontaneously sprang on employees at random to test their company loyalty.
Clenching her fist so hard the documents crinkled, she placed them on the desk, desperately trying to subdue the buzzing in her head to form a coherent argument to convince her boss there wasn’t a chance she’d do this.
Only one way Rosanna would listen to reason: appeal to her business side.
‘Sound’s interesting, but I’m snowed under with jobs at the moment. I can’t just up and leave for a week.’
Rosanna sprang off her desk as if she hadn’t spoken, snapped her fingers.
‘You know Elliott J. Barnaby, the hottest producer in town?’
Kristi nodded warily as Rosanna picked up a flyer, waved it under her nose. ‘He’s making a documentary, based on the reality-show phenomenon sweeping the world. Two people, placed on an island, with limited resources, for a week.’
‘Sounds like a blast.’
Rosanna ignored her sarcasm. ‘Prize money is a hundred grand.’
‘What?’
Kristi tried to read over Rosanna’s shoulder. ‘You never told me that part.’
‘Didn’t I? Perhaps I didn’t get around to mentioning it, what with your overwhelming excitement and all.’
Kristi stuck out her tongue as she speed-read the prize details.
A hundred big ones. A heck of a lot of money. And if she was crazy enough to go along with her boss’s ludicrous scheme, she knew exactly what she’d do with it.
For an instant, the memory of dinner with her sister Meg last night flashed into her head.
Meg’s shabby, cubbyhole apartment in outer Sydney, the sounds of ear-splitting verbal abuse from the quarrelling couple next door interspersed with the ranting of rival street gangs outside her window. The threadbare furniture, the stack of unpaid bills on the kitchen counter, the lack of groceries in the fridge.
And Prue, her adorable seven-year-old niece, the only person who managed to draw a smile from her weary mum these days.
After what she’d been through, Meg was doing it tough yet wouldn’t accept a cent. What if the money wasn’t part of her savings that Meg refused to touch? Would that make a difference to her sister’s pride?
‘Healthy prize, huh?’
Kristi didn’t like the maniacal gleam in Rosanna’s astute gaze. She’d seen that look before. Ros lived for Endorse This; the company wasn’t Sydney’s best PR firm for nothing. While a fun and fair boss, she was a corporate dynamo who expected nothing short of brilliance from her employees.
And every time she got that gleam, it meant a new client was up for grabs, someone whose promotion would add another feather to Endorse This’s ever-expanding cap.
Deliberately trying to blot out the memory of Meg’s apartment and the unnatural hollows in her niece’s cheeks, Kristi handed the flyer back.
‘Sure, the money’s impressive, but not worth shacking up with some stranger for a week, and having the whole disastrous experience filmed.’
Rosanna’s injected lips thinned, her determined stare brooking no argument.
‘You’re doing this.’
Kristi’s mouth dropped open and her boss promptly placed a finger under her chin and shut it for her.
‘I had a call from Channel Nine last week. They’re checking out PR firms for a new island reality show, Survivor with a twist, they said. That’s why I entered you. If you do this, we’re set!’
Oh, no. No, no, no!
If the gleam in Rosanna’s eyes had raised her hackles, it had nothing on the sickly sweet smile reminiscent of a witch offering Hansel and Gretel a huge chunk of gingerbread.
‘And, of course, you’ll be in charge of that whole account.’
‘That’s not fair,’ she blurted, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut when Rosanna’s smile waned.
‘Which part? The part where you help Endorse This score the biggest client this year? Or the part where you’re virtually assured a promotion because of it? Discounting the chance to win a hundred grand, of course.’
Kristi shot Rosanna a death glare that had little effect, Ros’s smugness adding to the churning in the pit of her stomach.
She had no choice.
She had to do this.
If the promotion wasn’t incentive enough, the chance to win a hundred grand was. Meg deserved better, much better. Her sweet, naïve, resilient sister deserved to have all her dreams come true after what she’d been through.
Forcing an enthusiastic smile that must’ve appeared half grimace, she shrugged.
‘Fine, I’ll do it.’
‘Great. You’ve got a meeting with the producer in a few hours. Fill me in on the details later.’
Rosanna thrust the flyer into her hands, glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll get back to Channel Nine, let them know the latest.’
As Rosanna strutted towards the door Kristi knew she’d made the right decision, despite being shanghaied into it.
She’d worked her butt off the last six months, desperate for a promotion, and landing Channel Nine as a client would shoot her career to the stars.
As for the prize money, she’d do whatever it took to win it. No way would she accept anything less than Meg using every last brass razoo of it.
The promotion and the prize money; sane, logical reasons to go through with this. But a week on an island with a stranger? Could it be any worse?
As she rifled through the paperwork, Rosanna paused at the door, raised a finger.
‘Did I mention you’ll be stranded on the island with Jared Malone?’
CHAPTER TWO
Stranded Survival Tip #2
Be sure to schedule your mini-meltdown for off-camera.
JARED strode into North Bondi’s Icebergs and headed for Elliott’s usual table, front and centre to the glass overlooking Sydney’s most famous beach.
His mango smoothie was waiting alongside Elliott’s double-shot espresso, his mate nothing if not predictable.
When he neared the table, Elliott glanced up from a stack of paperwork, folded his iron-rimmed glasses, placed them next to his coffee and glanced at his watch.
‘Glad you could eventually make it.’
Jared shrugged, pointed at his gammy knee. ‘Rehab session went longer than anticipated.’
Elliott’s eyes narrowed. ‘Hot physio?’
‘Hot cruciate ligament, more like it.’
The familiar pinch of pain grabbed as he sat. ‘The cruciate healed well after the reconstruction but the ongoing inflammation has the medicos baffled.’
Elliott frowned. ‘You’re seeing the best, right?’
Jared rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Putz.’
‘The putz that’s going to win you another of those film gongs you covet so much.’
Jared jerked a thumb at the pile of documents in front of him.
‘Let me guess. The usual disclaimers that anything I say or do on TV, you won’t be held responsible.’
‘Something like that.’
Elliott pulled the top document, slid it across the table towards him.
‘Here’s the gist of it.’
Jared barely glanced at the fine print, having already heard Elliott extol the virtues of his documentary at length.
Stranded on an island with a stranger for a week was the last thing he felt like doing, but if it convinced Sydney’s disadvantaged kids the Activate recreation centre was the place for them, he’d do it.
He’d spent the bulk of his life in the spotlight, his career and private life under scrutiny, providing fodder for the paparazzi. He’d hated it. Time to put all that intrusion to good use, starting with a week’s worth of free publicity money couldn’t buy.
Elliott’s award-winning documentaries were watched by millions, his cutting-edge work discussed by everyone; around water coolers, at the school gates, on the streets, everyone talked about Elliott’s topical stuff.
With a prime-time viewing slot, free advertisements would cost mega bucks so when Elliot had proposed his deal, he’d jumped at it. He’d much rather spend a billion on the centre and equipment than publicity.
Millions would see the centre on national TV, hear about what it offered, and hopefully spread the word. That was what he was counting on.
It was a win-win for them both. Elliott scored an ex-tennis pro for his documentary; Jared scored priceless advertising to tout the kids’ rec centre he was funding to the entire country.
‘So who’s the lucky lady?’
Elliott glanced towards the door, his eyebrows shooting skywards.
‘Here she comes now. And wow. You always were a lucky dog.’
Jared turned, curious to see who he’d be stuck with on the island. Not that he cared. He’d socialised on the tennis circuit for years, could fake it with the best of them. Easy.
But as his gaze collided with a pair of unusual blue eyes the colour of the cerulean-blue ocean of Bondi on a clear day, their accusatory gaze cutting straight through him, he knew spending a week on a deserted island with Kristi Wilde would be far from easy.
‘I’ll deal with you later,’ Jared muttered at a confused Elliott as Kristi strutted towards the table on impossibly high heels.
She’d always had a thing for shoes, almost as much as he’d had a thing for her.
‘Good to see you—’
‘Did you know about this?’
Though she’d cut his intro short, she had no hope of avoiding his kiss and as he ducked down to kiss her cheek the familiarity of her sweet, spicy scent slammed into him with the power of a Nadal serve, quickly followed by a host of memories.
The exhilaration of climbing the Harbour Bridge eclipsed by a laughing, exuberant Kristi falling into his arms, and his bed later that night.
Long, sultry summer nights lingering over seafood platters at Doyles on Watson’s Bay, snuggling close in a water taxi afterwards, heading back to his place, desperately trying to rein in their limited self-control.
Best of all, the easy-going, laid-back, fun-filled relationship they’d shared.
Until she’d started clinging, demanding, and he’d bolted.
With good reason. His tennis rankings had been shooting for the stars at the time, he’d had no choice but to repay the people who’d invested their time in him. He’d never wanted to be a user, someone who took their birthright for granted; like his parents.
Ironic, that what had started out as a babysitting exercise, a place the snooty Malones could offload their only child for a few hours a day, had turned into a lucrative career filled with fame, fortune and more women than any guy knew what to do with.
Strangely, only one woman had ever got close enough to see the real him, the guy behind the laid-back smile.
And he was looking straight at her.
While his career hadn’t been the only reason he’d left, seeing her here, now, just as vibrant, just as beautiful, reinforced exactly how much he’d given up by walking away from her.
His lips wanted to linger, but she didn’t give him time, stepping away with a haughty tilt of her head that might’ve worked if he hadn’t seen the softening around her mouth, the flash of recognition in her eyes.
‘Well? Did you know about this?’
Placing a hand in the small of her back to guide her to a chair, unsurprised when she stiffened, he shook his head.
‘I just learned my partner in crime’s identity in this fiasco a second before you walked through the door.’
‘Fiasco is right.’
He smiled at her vehement agreement as Elliott held out his hand.
‘Pleased to meet you. Elliott J. Barnaby, the producer of Stranded. Glad to have you on board.’
‘That’s what we need to discuss.’
Gesturing to a waiter, she placed an order for sparkling mineral water with lime, before squaring her shoulders, a fighting stance as familiar as the tilt of her head.
‘Before we begin this discussion, let me make a few things clear. One, I’m here under sufferance. Two, I’m doing this for the money.’
She held up a finger, jabbed it in his direction. ‘Three, this island better be big enough for the both of us because I’d rather swim back to the mainland than be cooped up with you for a week.’
Elliott’s head swivelled between them, curiosity making his eyes gleam.
‘You two know each other?’
She jerked her head in his direction. ‘Didn’t his lordship tell you?’
Elliott grinned. ‘Tell me what?’
‘We know each other,’ Jared interjected calmly, well aware Elliott would want to know exactly how well they knew each other later. ‘Old friends.’
Kristi muffled a snort as he shot her a wink. ‘Getting reacquainted is going to be loads of fun.’
‘Yeah, like getting a root canal,’ she muttered, her glare mutinous.
After another dreary rehab session with Madame Lash, the physio from hell, Jared had trudged in here, ready to talk business with Elliott, not particularly caring who he’d be stuck with for a week.
Now, the thought of battling wits with a sassy, smart-mouthed Kristi for seven days brightened his morning considerably.
Struggling to keep a grin off his face, he folded his arms, faced Elliott.
‘Us knowing each other shouldn’t be a problem?’
Elliott shook his head. ‘On the contrary, should make for some interesting interaction. The documentary is about exposing the reality behind reality TV. How you talk, react, bounce off each other, when confined for a week without other social interactions should make for good viewing.’
Elliott paused, frowned. ‘Old friends? That didn’t mean you lived together for any time?’
‘Hell, no!’
The flicker of hurt in Kristi’s memorable blue eyes had him cursing his outburst, but in the next instant she’d tilted her chin, stared him down, making him doubt he’d glimpsed it at all.
‘Cohabiting with a child isn’t my idea of fun,’ she said, her hauteur tempered with the challenging dare in her narrowed eyes.
She wanted him to respond, to fight back, to fire a few taunts. Well, let her wait. They had plenty of time for that. An entire seven days. Alone. With no entertainment other than each other. Interesting.
Oblivious to the tension simmering between them, Elliott rubbed his hands together.
‘Good. Because that would’ve changed the status quo. This way, your reactions will be more genuine.’
He plucked a folder filled with documents from his pile and slid it across the table towards Kristi.
‘I’m aware your boss put your name forward for this, so you need to look over all the legalities, sign the forms where asterisked, we’ll go from there.’
She nodded, flipped open the folder, took the pen Elliott offered and started reading, the pen idly tapping her bottom lip. A bottom lip Jared remembered well; for its fullness, its softness, its melting heat as it moulded to his …
Having her read gave him time to study her, really study her. She’d been a cute, perky twenty-one-year-old when they’d dated, her blonde hair wild and untamed, her figure fuller, her clothes eclectic. She’d always been inherently beautiful and while her nose might be slightly larger than average, it added character to a face graced by beauty.
Now, with her perfect make-up, perfectly straight blow-dried hair, perfect streamlined body and perfect pink designer suit, she intrigued him more than ever.
He liked her tousled and ruffled and feisty, and, while her new image might be all corporate and controlled, he’d hazard a guess the old Kristi wouldn’t be lurking far beneath the surface.
‘All looks okay.’
She signed several documents and, with a heavy sigh, handed them to Elliott. ‘Everything I need to know in here?’
Elliott nodded. ‘Do you know anything about Stranded??
She shook her head. ‘My pushy boss didn’t go into specifics.’
Jared leaned across, held his hand up to his mouth, his loud conspiratorial whisper exaggerated. ‘Now you’re in for it. He’ll give you the hour-long spiel he gave me.’
Her mouth twitched before she returned her attention to Elliott, who was more than comfortable to elaborate on his favourite topic.
‘While it’s basically a competition for the prize money, which will go to the participant who nails the challenges and gains the most hits on their Internet networking sites, I want this documentary to make a social statement on our TV viewing and the way we network today.’
While her heart sank at the conditions imposed on winning the prize—she’d always been lousy at sports and no way could she beat Jared in the popularity stakes on the Net—Elliot continued.
‘There’s a glut of reality TV at the moment. Cooking, dating, singing, dancing, housemates, you name it, there’s a reality show filming it. I want Stranded to be more than that. I want it to show two people interacting, without social distractions, without direct interference, without the fanfare, without judges, and see how they get along. I want honest feedback.’
She nodded, gestured to her folder. ‘That’s where the daily blog and Twitter updates come in?’
‘Uh-huh. It’ll give the public instant access to your immediate feelings, build anticipation for when I screen the documentary a week after you return. Building hype and viewer expectation makes for more interesting viewing.’
‘So we’re filmed all the time?’
She screwed up her nose, as enthralled with the idea as he was.
Elliott steepled his fingers like a puppet master looking forward to yanking their strings.
‘No, the cameras are motion-activated, and only situated on certain parts of the island. If you want privacy or time out, there are designated areas.’
Her relief was palpable, as Jared wondered what would make her desperate enough to do this. Sure, she’d said the money, but she’d never been money-driven so there had to be more to it. Then again, it had been eight years. How well did he really know her?
It was different for him. His life had been laid out for public consumption the last seven years, what he ate, where he went, what car he drove, all open to interpretation.
He’d learned to shut off, to ignore the intrusion, was now using it to his advantage for the rec centre.
But what did she get out of this apart from a chance to win the money?
‘Good to know.’ Jared tapped the side of his nose, leaned towards her. ‘Just in case you feel the urge to take advantage of me, you can do it off camera.’
‘In your dreams, Malone.’
‘There’ve been plenty of those, Wilde.’
To his delight, she blushed, dropped her gaze to focus on her fiddling fingers before she removed them from the table, hid them in her lap. He gave her five seconds to compose herself and, on cue, her gaze snapped to his, con fi dent, challenging.
‘You really want to do this here?’ he murmured, grateful when Elliott jerked his head towards the restrooms and made a hasty exit.
‘Do what?’
She was good, all faux wide-eyed innocence and smug mouth. Well, she might be good but he was better. He’d always lobbed back every verbal volley levelled his way, had enjoyed their wordplay as much as their foreplay.
She stimulated him like no other woman he’d ever met and the thought of spending a week getting reacquainted had him as jittery as pre-Grand Slam.
‘You know what.’
He leaned into her personal space, not surprised when she didn’t flinch, didn’t give an inch.
‘You and me. Like this.’ He pointed at her, him. ‘The way we were.’
‘Careful, you’ll break into song any minute now.’
‘Feeling sentimental?’
‘Hardly. I’d have to care to want to take a stroll down memory lane.’
‘And your point is?’
She shrugged, studied her manicured nails at arm’s length. ‘I don’t.’
He laughed, sat back, laid an arm along the back of his chair, his fingers in tantalisingly close proximity to her shoulder.
‘You always were a lousy liar.’
‘I’m not—’
‘There’s a little twitch you get right here.’ He touched a fingertip just shy of a freckle near her top lip. ‘It’s a dead giveaway.’
She stilled, the rebellious gleam in her eyes replaced by a flicker of fear before she blinked, erasing any hint of vulnerability with a bat of her long eyelashes. ‘Still delusional, I see. Must be all the whacks on the head with tennis balls.’
‘I don’t miss-hit.’
‘Not what I’ve seen.’
‘Ah, nice to know you’ve been keeping an eye on my career.’
‘Hard to miss when your publicity-hungry mug is plastered everywhere I look.’
She paused, her defiance edged with curiosity. ‘Is that why you’re doing this? Publicity for your comeback?’
‘I’m not making a comeback.’
The familiar twist low in his gut made a mockery of his adamant stance that it didn’t matter.
He’d fielded countless questions from the media over the last year, had made his decision, had scheduled a press conference. And while he’d reconciled with his decision months ago the thought of leaving his career behind, turning his back on the talent that had saved him, niggled.
Tennis had been his escape, his goal, his saviour, all rolled into one. While he’d originally resented being dumped at the local tennis club by his narcissistic parents, he’d soon found a solitude there he rarely found elsewhere.
He’d been good, damn good, and soon the attention of the coaches, the talent scouts, had made him want to work harder, longer, honing his skill with relentless drive.
He’d had a goal in mind. Get out of Melbourne, away from his parents and their bickering, drinking and unhealthy self-absorption.
It had worked. Tennis had saved him.
And, while resigned to leaving it behind, a small part of him was scared, petrified in fact, of letting go of the only thing that had brought normality to his life.
‘You’re retiring?’
‘That’s the plan.’
He glanced at his watch, wishing Elliott would reappear. Trading banter with Kristi was one thing, fielding her curiosity about his retirement another.
‘Why?’
Her gaze, pinpoint sharp, bored into him the same way it always did when she knew he was being evasive.
He shrugged, leaned back, shoved his hands in his pockets to stop them from rearranging cutlery and giving away his forced casual posture.
‘My knee’s blown.’
Her eyes narrowed; she wasn’t buying his excuse. ‘Reconstructed, I heard. Happens to athletes all the time. So what’s the real reason?’
He needed to give her something or she’d never let up. He’d seen her like this before: harassing him to reveal a surprise present, pestering him to divulge the whereabouts of their surprise weekend away. She was relentless when piqued and there was no way he’d sit here and discuss his real reasons with her.
‘The hunger’s gone. I’m too old to match it with the up-and-coming youngsters.’
‘What are you, all of thirty?’
‘Thirty-one.’
‘But surely some tennis champions played ‘til they were—?’
‘Leave it!’
He regretted his outburst the instant the words left his mouth, her curiosity now rampant rather than appeased.
Rubbing his chin, he said, ‘I’m going to miss it but I’ve got other things I want to do with my life so don’t go feeling sorry for me.’
‘Who said anything about feeling sorry for you?’
The relaxing of her thinned lips belied her response. ‘You’d be the last guy to pity, what with your jet-set lifestyle, your homes in Florida, Monte Carlo and Sydney. Your luxury car collection. Your—’
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