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Swinging her overnight bag over one shoulder, she decided against dumping it in her room first. If she found the comfort of a private room it would be unlikely she’d come back out. Suck it up, Chantal. You’ve made your bed, now lie in it!
Outside the crowd heaved, and she had to dodge the patrons who thought their ticket to the show meant they had a right to paw at her. This was not the dream she’d had in mind when she’d first stepped into a dance studio at the age of seven.
Her skin crawled. She wanted out of this damn filthy bar. Perhaps a potential lawsuit was worth the risk if it meant she never had to come back.
She was midthought when she spotted Brodie, standing alone by the stairs. Where had everyone else gone? Her blood pumped harder, fuelling her limbs with nervous energy.
As always, his presence unnerved her. His broad shoulders and muscular arms were barely contained in a fitted white T-shirt; his tanned skin beckoned to be touched. His shaggy blond hair sat slightly shorter than it had used to, though the ends were still sun-bleached and he wore it as though he’d spent the day windsurfing. Messy. Touchable.
But it was his eyes that always got her. Crystal green, like the colour of polished jade, they managed to seem scorching hot and ice-cold at the same time. When he looked at her it was easy to pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist.
‘The others have gone to the boat,’ he said, motioning for her to join him. ‘I didn’t want you to walk on your own.’
She followed him, watching the way his butt moved beneath a pair of well-worn jeans. He’d filled out since she’d seen him last—traded his boy’s body for one which was undeniably adult. She licked her lips, hating the attraction that flared in her and threatened to burn wild, like a fire out of control.
It was strange to be attracted to someone again. She hadn’t felt that way in a long time… possibly not since Weeping Reef. Her marriage hadn’t been about attraction—it had been about safety, security… Until that security had started to feel like walls crushing in on her.
They made their way out of the bar and into the cool night air. The breeze caught her sweat-dampened skin and caused goosebumps to ripple across her arms. She folded them tight, feeling vulnerable and exposed in the sudden quiet of the outdoors.
‘You didn’t have to wait,’ she said, falling into step with him.
Their steps echoed in the quiet night air, their strides perfectly matched.
He turned to her and shook his head. ‘Of course I did. I was worried you wouldn’t make it out of the bar on your own, let alone down the street.’
The disapproving tone in his voice made her stomach twist. The last thing she needed was another over-protective man in her life.
‘I can take care of myself.’
‘Your bravado is admirable, but pointless. Even the smallest guy in there would have at least a head on you.’
His face softened into a smile—he never had been the kind of guy who could stay in a bad mood for long.
‘Not to mention those skinny little chicken legs of yours.’
‘I do not have chicken legs.’ She gave him a shove and he barely broke stride, instead throwing his head back and laughing.
The bubble of anxiety in her chest dissolved. Brodie always had that effect on her. He was an irritating, lazy charmer, who talked his way through life, but he was fun. She often found herself smiling at him even when she wanted to be annoyed—much to her chagrin.
‘No, you don’t have chicken legs… not any more.’ He grinned, his perfect teeth flashing in the night. ‘You grew up.’
‘So did you,’ she said, but the words were lost as a motorcycle raced down the road.
They had eight years and a lot of issues between them. Issues, of course, was a code word for attraction. But issues sounded a little more benign and a little less like a prelude to something she would regret.
‘I thought your husband would be here to watch out for you.’ He was back to being stern again. ‘He should be keeping you safe.’
‘I think he’s keeping someone else safe these days.’ She sighed. Why did all guys think it was their job to be the protector? She’d been happy to see the back of her ex-husband and his stifling, control-freak ways.
‘So that means you’re single?’
She nodded. ‘Free as a bird and loving it.’
‘All the more reason to have someone look out for you.’
Chantal bit her down on her lip and kept her mouth shut. No sense in firing him up by debating her ability to look out for herself. She wasn’t stupid, her mother had made her take self-defence classes in high school, and she was quite sure she could hit a guy where it hurt most should the need arise.
They walked in silence for a moment, the thumping bass from the bar fading as they moved farther away. The yacht club glowed up ahead, with one large boat sticking out amongst a row of much smaller ones. She didn’t have to ask. Of course he had the biggest boat there.
‘Are you over-compensating?’ Chantal asked, using sarcasm to hide her nervousness at being so close to him… at being alone with him.
‘Huh?’
‘The boat.’ She pointed. ‘It’s rather… large.’
‘You know what they say about men with large boats.’ He grinned, his perfect teeth gleaming against the inky darkness.
She stifled a wicked smile. ‘They have large steering wheels?’
He threw his head back and laughed again, slinging an arm around her shoulder.
The sudden closeness of him unsettled her, but his presence was wonderfully intoxicating when he wasn’t waxing lyrical about her need for protection. He smelled exactly the same as she remembered: ocean spray and coconut. That scent had haunted her for months after she’d left Weeping Reef, and any time she smelled a hint of coconut it would thrust her right back onto that dance floor with him.
Her hip bumped against his with each step. The hard muscles of his arm pressed around her shoulder, making her insides curl and jump.
‘It’s not my personal boat. My company owns it.’
‘Your company?’ Chantal looked up, surprised.
Brodie was not the kind of guy to start a company; he’d never had an entrepreneurial bone in his body. In fact she distinctly remembered the time Scott had threatened to fire him for going over time on his windsurfing lessons because his students had been having so much fun. He had a generosity of spirit that didn’t exactly match bottom-line profits.
‘After I left Weeping Reef I bummed around for a while until I got work with a yacht charter company off the Sunshine Coast. It was a lot of fun. I got promoted, and eventually the owners offered me a stake in the company. I bought the controlling share about a year ago, when they were ready to retire.’
‘And now you run a yacht tour company?’
He nodded as their conversation was interrupted by a loud shriek as they strolled onto the marina. The girls had clearly got into the champagne and were dancing on deck, with an amused Scott watching from the sidelines. Willa waved down to her and motioned for them to join the party.
Chantal’s old doubts and fears crept back, their dark claws hooking into the parts of her not yet healed. She was not the person she claimed to be, and they would all know that now. They would know what a fraud she was.
Her breath caught in her throat, the familiar shallow breathing returning and forcing her heart rate up. She had a sudden desire to flee, to return to the dingy bar where she probably looked as if she belonged.
She didn’t fit in here. Not with these classy girls and their beautiful hair. Not with Brodie, who’d made a success of himself, and not with Scott, whom she’d betrayed.
She sucked in a deep breath, her feet rooted to the ground. Panic clutched at her chest, clawing up her neck and closing its cold hands around her windpipe. She couldn’t do it.
‘Chantal?’ Brodie looked down at her, his hand at the small of her back, pushing gently.
She bit down on her lip, shame seeping through her every limb until they were so heavy she couldn’t move. Why did you come? You’re only setting yourself up to be laughed at. You’re a failure.
‘Come on.’ Brodie grabbed her hand and tugged her forward. ‘We don’t want to get left behind.’
CHAPTER THREE
BRODIE WANTED TO look anywhere but at Chantal, yet her dancing held him captive. Her undulating figure, moving perfectly to the beat, looked even more amazing than it had at the bar. In casual clothes, with her face relaxed, her limbs loose, she looked completely at ease with the world.
Unable to deal with the lust flooding his veins, he’d caved in and had a beer. The alcohol had hit him a little harder since he’d been abstaining the past few weeks. But he needed to dull the edges of his feelings—dull the roaring awareness of her. He’d hoped the uncontrollable desire to possess her had disappeared when he’d left the reef. However, it had only been dormant, waiting quietly in the background, until she’d brought it to full-colour, surround-sound, 3-D life.
When they’d first stepped onto the yacht Chantal had hesitated, almost as if she wasn’t sure she should be there. But Scott had given her a friendly pat on the shoulder and a playful shove towards the girls. They’d brought her into the fold and she’d relaxed, dancing and giggling as though she’d been there all night. Every so often Brodie caught her eye: a quick glance here or there that neither of them acknowledged.
‘You should get out there and dance with her.’ Scott dropped down next to him, another beer in his hand.
Brodie’s eyes shifted to Scott and he waited to see what would come next. He’d harboured a lot of guilt over the way things had ended between them at Weeping Reef—not just because he’d hurt Scott, but because he’d hurt Chantal as well.
‘Come on, man. You know there’s no hard feelings.’ Scott slapped him on the back. ‘We talked about this already.’
‘It’s not your feelings I’m worried about.’
‘Since when do you worry about anything?’
Brodie frowned. People often took his breezy attitude and laissez-faire approach to mean he didn’t care about things. He knew when Scott was teasing him, but still…
‘Some things are meant to be left in the past.’ Some people were meant to be left in the past… especially when he couldn’t possibly give her what she deserved. Not long-term anyway.
‘You sound like a girl.’ Scott laughed. ‘Don’t be such a wuss.’
He was being a wuss, hiding behind excuses. Besides, it was only a dance. How much harm could it do?
Keep telling yourself it’s harmless—maybe one day you’ll believe it.
Brodie pushed aside his gut feeling and joined the girls. Loud music pumped from the yacht’s premium speakers and the girls cheered when he joined their little circle. His eyes caught Chantal’s—a flicker of inquisitive olive as she looked him over and then turned her head so that she faced Amy.
He took a long swig of his beer, draining the bottle and setting it out of the way. Moving closer to Chantal, he brushed his hand gently over her hip as he danced. She turned, a shy smile curving on her lips. She wasn’t performing now—this was her and only her. Green eyes seemed to glow amidst the smudgy black make-up… Her tanned limbs were moving subtly and effortlessly to the beat.
‘Want a refill?’ Brodie nodded to the empty champagne flute she’d yet to discard.
She hesitated, looking from the glass to him. Was it his imagination, or had Willa given her a little nudge with her elbow?
‘Why not?’ She smiled and followed him into the cabin. The music seemed to throb and pulsate around them, even at a distance from the speakers. But that was how music felt when she moved to it. It came to life.
‘I’m sad to say this yacht is bigger than my apartment.’ She held out her champagne flute. ‘Well, my old apartment anyway.’
Brodie reached for a fresh bottle of Veuve Cliquot and wrapped his hand around the cork, easing it out with a satisfying pop. He topped up her glass, the fizzing liquid bubbling and racing towards the top a little too quickly.
She bent her head and caught the bubbles before they spilled. ‘You’re a terrible pourer.’
He watched, mesmerised, as the pink tip of her tongue darted out to swipe her lips. Her mouth glistened, tempting and ripe as summer fruit.
‘I’m normally too busy driving the boat to be in charge of drinks. But I’ll make an exception for you.’
‘How kind.’ She smirked and leant against the white leather sofa that curved around the wall. ‘Are you always on the boats?’
‘No, I have to run the business, which keeps me from being out on the water as much as I’d like. I have a townhouse on the Sunshine Coast, but it’s a bit of a tourist trap up there. Sometimes I stay with the family in Brisbane, and then other times I stay on the yacht.’
‘What a life.’ Her voice was soft, tinged with wonder. ‘You float along and stop where you feel like it.’
‘It has a little more structure than that… but essentially, yeah.’
‘Now, that sounds a little more like the Brodie I know.’
Her words needled him. He wasn’t the surfer bum loser she’d labelled him in Weeping Reef. Sure, he might have dropped out of his degree and taken his time to find his groove, but he was a business owner now… a successful one at that.
‘How’s the arts world treating you?’ It could have sounded like a swipe, given what he’d seen tonight, but he was genuinely interested.
She managed a stiff smile. ‘Like any creative industry, it can be a little up and down.’
A perfectly generic response. Perhaps her situation was worse than he’d thought. He stayed silent, waiting for her to continue. For a moment she only nodded, her head bobbing, as if that would be enough of an answer. But he wanted more.
‘I’m waiting to hear back from a big company,’ she continued, her voice tight.
He suspected it wasn’t true, or that she’d coloured the truth.
‘Tonight was one of those fill-the-gap things. I’m sure it wasn’t what you were expecting to see.’
Her eyes dipped and her lashes, thick and sultry, fanned out, casting feathery shadows against her cheekbones. She gathered herself and looked up, determined once more.
‘It wasn’t what I expected,’ Brodie said, watching her face for subtle movements. Any key to whether or not she would let him in. ‘But that’s not to say I didn’t enjoy it.’
How could he possibly have felt any other way? Watching her work that stage as if she owned the place had unsettled him to his core. A thousand years wouldn’t dull that picture from his memory. Even thinking about it now heated up his skin and sent a rush of blood south, hardening him instantaneously.
‘I could have done without the men ogling you.’
Her lips curved ever so slightly. ‘You say that like you have some kind of claim over me.’
It was a taunt, delivered in her soft way. She hit him hardest when she used that breathy little voice of hers. It sounded like sin and punishment and all kinds of heavenly temptation rolled into one.
Brodie stepped forward, indulging himself in the sight of her widening eyes and parted lips. She didn’t step back. Instead she stilled, and the air between them was charged with untameable electricity—wild and crackling and furious as a stormy ocean. She tilted her head up, looking him directly in the eye.
Brodie leant forward. ‘I did see you first.’
‘It doesn’t work like that.’ Her voice was a mere whisper, and she said it as though convincing herself. ‘It’s not finders keepers.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘It’s nothing.’
He grabbed her wrist, his fingers wrapping around the delicate joint so that his fingertips lay over the tender flesh on the inside of her arm. He could feel her pulse hammering like a pump working at full speed, the beats furious and insistent.
‘It’s not nothing.’
She tried to pull her wrist back. ‘It’s the champagne.’
‘Liar.’
A wicked smile broke out across her face as she downed her entire drink. A stray droplet escaped the corner of her mouth and she caught it with her tongue. God, he wanted to kiss her.
‘It’s the champagne.’
‘Well, if you keep drinking it like that…’
‘I might get myself into trouble?’ She pulled a serious face, her cheeks flushed with the alcohol.
She’d looked like this the night he’d danced with her at Weeping Reef. Chantal had always been the serious type—studious and sensible until she’d had a drink or two. Then the hardness seemed to melt away, she loosened up, and the playful side came out. If she’d been tempting before, she was damn near impossible to resist now.
‘You always seem to treat trouble like it’s a bad idea.’ He divested her of her champagne flute before tugging her to him.
‘Isn’t that the definition of trouble?’ Her hands hovered at his chest, barely touching him.
He shouldn’t be pulling her strings the way he usually did when he wanted a girl. He liked to wind them up first. Tease them… get them to laugh. Relax their boundaries. He was treating Chantal as if he wanted to sleep with her… and he did.
He was in for a world of pain, but he couldn’t stop himself.
‘Bad ideas are the most fun.’
She stepped backwards, cheeks flushed, lips pursed. ‘Come on—we’re missing all the action out there. I want to dance.’
Only someone like Brodie would think bad ideas were fun. She could list her bad ideas like a how-to guide for stuffing up your life—have the hots for your boyfriend’s BFF, pick the wrong guy to marry, lose focus on your career.
No, bad ideas were most definitely not fun.
Brodie was smoking hot, and it was clear that their chemistry still sizzled like nothing else, but that didn’t mean she could indulge herself. He was still a bad idea, and she’d established that bad ideas were a thing of the past… well, once she’d got out of her current contract anyway.
If only she could tell her heart to stop thudding as if a dubstep track ran through her body, then she would be on her way to being fine. The throbbing between her legs was another matter entirely.
She stepped onto the deck, wondering for a moment if she’d dreamed herself onto his boat. The ocean had been engulfed by the night, but the air still held a salty tang. The smell reminded her of home… and of Brodie.
Shaking her head, she approached the girls. Kate extended her hand to Chantal and drew her in. She had decided almost immediately that she liked the gorgeous, witty redhead, and it was clear neither she nor Scott held any ill feelings towards her. It was a relief, all things considered.
‘And where were you?’ Willa eyed her with a salacious grin, her cheeks pink from champagne and dancing. She brushed her heavy fringe out of her eyes and swayed to the music.
‘Just getting a refill.’ The champagne was still fresh on her tongue… her mind was blurred pleasantly around the edges.
‘Riiiight.’ Willa smirked.
Chantal could feel Brodie close behind her, his hands brushing her hips every so often. Everything about the moment replicated that dance eight years ago. The alcohol rushed to her head, weakening the bonds of her control. The heat from his body drew her in, forcing her to him as if by magnetic force.
‘I always said pretty girls shouldn’t have to dance on their own,’ he murmured into her ear.
‘And I always said I would never fall for your cheesy lines.’ She turned her head slightly, meaning to give him the brush-off, but his arm snaked around her waist and closed the gap between them. Her butt pressed against his pelvis and she resisted the urge to rock against him. ‘Besides, I’m not on my own.’
‘I know. You’re with me.’
He spun her around and drew her to him. In sneakers, she could almost reach his collarbone with her lips, and she had an urge to kiss the tattoo that peeked out of his top. She was always fascinated by ink. The idea of permanence appealed to her. But life had taught her that everything was fleeting: money, success, love…
‘I’m not with you, Brodie. You should stop confusing fantasy with reality.’
‘It’s hard to do when you have all that black make-up on.’
Her cheeks flamed and he laughed, holding her tight. It was all she could do to remain upright. With each knock of his hips, his knees, his thighs, her resolve weakened. Maybe one kiss wouldn’t hurt—just so she could see if it was as good as she’d always imagined. Just so she could see if he tasted as amazing as he smelled.
His hand skated around her hip, a finger slipping under the hem of her tank top to trace the line of skin above her shorts. She squeezed her legs together and willed the throbbing to stop. Clearly she had a little pent-up frustration to deal with, but that wasn’t an excuse to let Brodie unravel her.
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