Wedding Date with Mr Wrong

CHAPTER TWO

CALLIE stared at Archer in disbelief.

The cocky charmer was blackmailing her.

As if she’d let him get away with that.

She folded her arms, sat back, and pinned him with a disbelieving glare. ‘Never thought I’d see the day hotshot Archer Flett resorted to blackmail to get a woman to shack up with him.’

His eyes sparked with admiration and she stiffened. She didn’t want to remember how he’d looked at her in a similar way during their week in Capri, his expression indulgent, bordering on doting.

As if. He’d bolted all the same, admiration or not, and she’d do well to remember it.

For, as much as she’d like to tell him where he could stick his business contract, she needed the money.

‘Blackmail sounds rather harsh.’ He braced his forearms on her desk and leaned forward, immediately shrinking the space between them and making her breath catch. ‘A bit of gentle persuasion sounds much more civilised.’

That voice... It could coax Virgins Anonymous into revoking their membership. Deep, masculine, with a hint of gravel undertone—enough to give Sean Connery healthy competition.

There was nothing gentle about Archer’s persuasion. If he decided to turn on the full arsenal of his charm she didn’t stand a chance, even after all this time.

That irked the most. Eight long years during which she’d deliberately eradicated his memory, had moved on, had dealt with her feelings for him to the extent where she could handle his online marketing without flinching every time she saw his picture or received an e-mail.

Gone in an instant—wiped just like that. Courtesy of his bedroom voice, his loaded stare and irresistible charm.

‘Besides, living together for the week is logical. My house has plenty of room and we’ll be working on the campaign 24/7. It’s sound business sense.’

Damn him. He was right.

She could achieve a lot more in seven days without factoring in travel time—especially when she had no clue where his house was or its vicinity to Torquay.

However, acknowledging that his stipulation made sense and liking it were worlds apart.

‘You know I’m not comfortable with this, right?’

‘Really? I hadn’t picked up on that.’

He tried his best disarming grin and she deliberately glanced away. Living with him for the week might be logical for business, but having to deal with his natural charm around the clock was not good.

‘Anything I can do to sweeten the deal?’

Great—he was laying the charm on thick. Her gaze snapped to his in time to catch his damnably sexy mouth curving at the corners. Her lips tingled in remembrance of how he’d smile against her mouth when he had her weak and whimpering from his kisses.

Furious at her imploding resistance, she eyeballed him with the glare that had intimidated the manager at her mum’s special accommodation into giving her another extension on payment.

‘Yeah, there is something you can do to sweeten the deal.’ She stabbed at an envelope with a fingertip and slid it across the desk towards him. ‘Sign off on my new rates. Your PA hasn’t responded to my last two e-mails and I need to get paid.’

His smile faded as he took the envelope. ‘You’re having financial problems?’

If he only knew.

‘No. I just like to have my accounts done monthly, and you’ve always been prompt in the past...’

Blessedly prompt. The Torquay Tan account had single-handedly launched her business into the stratosphere and kept it afloat. If she ever lost it...

In that moment the seriousness of the situation hit her. She shouldn’t be antagonising Archer. She should be jumping through whatever hoop he presented her with—adding a somersault and a ta-da flourish for good measure.

She had to secure this new campaign. CJU Designs would skyrocket in popularity, and her mum would continue to be cared for.

She had no other option but to agree.

‘Just so we’re clear. If I accompany you to Torquay, the surf school campaign is mine?’

His mocking half salute did little to calm the nerves twisting her belly into pretzels.

‘All yours, Cal.’

She didn’t know what unnerved her more. The intimate way the nickname he’d given her dripped off his tongue or the way his eyes sparked with something akin to desire.

She should be ecstatic that she’d secured the biggest campaign of her career.

Instead, as her pulse ramped up to keep pace with her flipping heart, all she could think was at what price?

* * *

Archer didn’t like gloating. He’d seen enough of it on the surf circuit—arrogant guys who couldn’t wait to glory over their latest win.

But the second Callie’s agreement to accompany him to Torquay fell from her lush lips he wanted to strut around the office with his fists pumping in a victory salute.

An over-the-top reaction? Maybe. But having Callie by his side throughout the Christmas Eve wedding festivities—even if she didn’t know it yet—would make the event and its guaranteed emotional ra-ra bearable.

He’d suffered through enough Torquay weddings to know the drill by now. Massive marquees, countless kisses from extended rellies he didn’t know, back-slapping and one-upmanship from old mates, and the inevitable matchmaking between him and every single female under thirty in the whole district.

His mum hated the dates he brought home each year, and tried to circumvent him with less-than-subtle fix-ups: notoriously predictable, sweet, shy local girls she hoped would tempt him to settle down in Torquay and produce a brood of rowdy rug-rats.

It was the same every wedding. The same every year, for that matter, when he returned home for his annual visit. A visit primarily made out of obligation rather than any burning desire to be constantly held up as the odd one out in the Flett family.

It wasn’t intentional, for his folks and his brothers tried to carry on as if nothing had happened, but while he’d forgiven them for shutting him out in the past the resultant awkwardness still lingered.

He’d steadily withdrawn, stayed away because of it, preferring to be free. Free to go where he wanted, when he wanted. Free from emotional attachments that invariably let him down. Free to date fun-loving, no strings attached women who didn’t expect much beyond dinner and drinks rather than an engagement and a bassinet.

His gaze zeroed in on Callie as she fielded an enquiry on the phone, her pen scrawling at a frenetic pace as she jotted notes, the tip of her tongue protruding between her lips.

Callie had been that girl once. The kind of girl who wanted the picket fence dream, the equivalent of his ultimate nightmare. Did she still want that?

The finger on her left hand remained ringless, he saw as he belatedly realised he should have checked if she was seeing anyone before coercing her into heading down to Torquay on the pretext of business when in fact she’d be his date for the wedding.

Then again, she’d agreed, so his assumption that she was currently single was probably safe.

Not that she’d fallen in with his plan quickly. She’d made him work for it, made him sweat. And he had a feeling her capitulation had more to do with personal reasons than any great desire to make this campaign the best ever.

That flicker of fear when she’d thought he might walk and take his business with him... Not that he would have done it. Regardless of whether she’d wanted to come or not CJU would have had the surf school campaign in the bag. She’d proved her marketing worth many times over the last few years, and while he might be laid back on the circuit he was tough in his business.

Success meant security. Ultimately success meant he was totally self-sufficient and didn’t have to depend on anyone, for he’d learned the hard way that depending on people, even those closest to you, could end in disappointment and sadness and pain.

It was what drove him every day, that quest for independence, not depending on anyone, even family, for anything.

After his folks’ betrayal it was what had driven him away from Callie.

He chose to ignore his insidious voice of reason. The last thing he needed was to get sentimental over memories.

She hung up the phone, her eyes narrowing as she caught sight of him lounging in the doorway. ‘You still here?’

‘We’re not finished.’

He only just caught her muttered, ‘Could’ve fooled me.’

As much as it pained him to revisit the past, he knew he’d have to bring it up in order to get past her obvious snit.

He did not want a date glaring daggers at him all night; his mum would take it as a sure-fire sign to set one of her gals onto him.

‘Do we need to clear the air?’

She arched an eyebrow in an imperious taunt. ‘I don’t know. Do we?’

Disappointed, he shook his head. ‘You didn’t play games. One of the many things I admired about you.’

Her withering glare wavered and dipped, before pinning him with renewed accusation. ‘We had a fling in the past. Yonks ago. I’m over it. You’re over it. There’s no air to clear. Ancient history. The next week is business, nothing more.’

‘Then why are you so antagonistic?’

She opened her mouth to respond, then snapped it shut, her icy façade faltering as she ran a hand through her hair in another uncertain tell he remembered well.

She’d done it when they’d first met at a beachside vendor’s, when they’d both reached for the last chilled lemonade at the same time. She’d done it during their first dinner at a tiny trattoria tucked into an alley. And she’d done it when he’d taken her back to his hotel for the first time.

In every instance he’d banished her uncertainty with practised charm, but after the way they’d parted he doubted it would work in this instance.

‘Cal—’

‘Us being involved in the past complicates this campaign and I’m not a huge fan of complications.’

She blurted it without meeting his eye, her gaze fixed on her laptop screen.

He wished she’d look at him so he could see how deeply this irked, or if she was trying to weasel out of the deal.

‘You said it yourself. It’s in the past. So why should it complicate anything?’ He didn’t want to push her, but her antagonism left him no choice. ‘Unless...’

‘What?’ Her head snapped up, her wary gaze locking on his, and in that instant he had his answer before he asked the question.

The spark they’d once shared was there, flickering in the depths of rich brown, deliberately cloaked in evasive shadows.

‘Unless you still feel something?’

‘I’m many things. A masochist isn’t one of them.’

She stood so quickly her chair slid backward on its castors and slammed into the wall. The noise didn’t deter her as she stalked towards him, defiant in high heels.

With her eyes flashing warning signals he chose to ignore, he stepped back into the office, meeting her halfway.

Before he could speak she held up her hand. ‘I’m not a fool, Archer. We were attracted in Capri, we’re both single, and we’re going to be spending time together on this campaign. Stands to reason a few residual sparks may fly.’ Her hand snagged in her hair again and she almost wrenched it out in exasperation. ‘It won’t mean anything. I have a job to do, and there’s no way I’ll jeopardise that by making another mistake.’

He reached for her before he could second-guess, gripping her upper arms, giving her no room to move. ‘We weren’t a mistake.’

‘Yeah? Then why did you run?’

He couldn’t respond—not without telling her the truth. And that wasn’t an option.

So he did the next best thing.

He released her, turned his back, and walked away.

‘And you’re still running,’ she murmured.

Her barb registered, and served to make him stride away that little bit faster.

CHAPTER THREE

CALLIE strode towards Johnston Street and her favourite Spanish bar.

Some girls headed home to a chick-flick and tub of ice-cream when they needed comfort. She headed for Rivera’s.

‘Hola, querida.’ Arturo Rivera blew her a kiss from behind the bar and she smiled in return, some of her tension instantly easing.

Artie knew about her situation: the necessity for her business to thrive in order to buy the best care for her mum. He knew her fears, her insecurities. He’d been there from the start, this reserved gentleman in a porkpie hat who’d lost his wife to the disease that would eventually claim her mum.

She hadn’t wanted to attend a support group, but her mum’s doc had insisted it would help in the disease’s management and ultimately help her mum.

So she’d gone along, increasingly frustrated and helpless and angry, so damn angry, that her vibrant, fun-loving mother had been diagnosed with motor neurone disease.

She’d known nothing about her mum’s symptoms until it had been too late. Nora had hidden them well: the stumbling due to weakness in her leg muscles, her difficulty holding objects due to weak hands, her swallowing difficulties and the occasional speech slur.

The first Callie had learned of it was when her mum had invited her to accompany her to see a neurologist. Nora hated needles, and apparently having an electromyograph, where they stuck needles in her muscles to measure electrical activity, was worse to bear than the actual symptoms.

The diagnosis had floored them both—especially the lack of a cure and mortality rates. Though in typical determined Nora fashion her mum had continued living independently until her symptoms had made it impossible to do so.

Nora had refused to be a burden on her only daughter, so Callie had found the best care facility around—one with top neurologists, speech, occupational and physiotherapists, psychologists, nurses and palliative care, while trying not to acknowledge her mum’s steady deterioration.

It was as if she could see the nerve cells failing, resulting in the progressive muscle weakness that would eventually kill her mum.

So she focussed on the good news: Nora’s sight, smell, taste, sensation, intellect and memory wouldn’t be affected. Nora would always know her, even at the end, and that thought sustained her through many a crying jag late at night, when the pain of impending loss crowded in and strangled her forced bravery.

To compound her stress she’d had to reluctantly face the fact she had a fifty-fifty chance of inheriting it too. She hadn’t breathed all through the genetic testing consultation, when the doctors had explained that Nora’s motor neurone disease was caused by mutations in the SOD1 gene. That tiny superoxide dismutase one gene, located on chromosome twenty-one, controlled her fate.

Insomnia had plagued her in the lead-up to her testing, and the doctor’s clinical facts had been terrifying as they echoed through her head: people with the faulty gene had a high chance of developing MND in later life, or could develop symptoms in their twenties.

Like her.

She’d worried herself sick for days after the test, and even though it had come back clear—she didn’t carry the mutated gene—she’d never fully shaken the feeling that she had a swinging axe grazing the back of her neck, despite the doc’s convincing argument that many people with the faulty gene didn’t go on to develop MND.

Then the worry had given way to guilt. Guilt that she was the lucky one in her family.

During this time the support group had been invaluable. Artie had been there, just as frustrated, just as angry. He’d lost his wife of forty years.

They’d bonded over espresso and biscotti, gradually revealing their bone-deep resentment and helpless fury at a disease that had no cure. Those weekly meetings had led to an invitation to Rivera’s, a place that had instantly become home.

She loved the worn, pockmarked wooden floor, the rich mahogany bar that ran the breadth of the back wall, the maroon velvet embossed wallpaper that created a cosy ambience beckoning patrons to linger over delicious tapas and decadent sangria.

This was where she’d started to thaw, where the deliberate numbness enclosing her aching heart at the injustice of what her mum faced had melted.

This was where she’d come to eat, to chat and to dance.

She lived for the nights when Artie cleared the tables and chairs, cranked up the music, and taught Spanish dances to anyone eager to learn.

Those nights were the best—when she could forget how her life had changed that momentous day when she’d learned of her mum’s diagnosis.

She nodded at familiar faces as she weaved through tables towards the bar, her heart lightening with every step as Artie waved his hands in the air, gesturing at her usual spot.

‘You hungry, querida?’

Considering the knot of nerves in her stomach, the last thing she felt like doing was eating, but if she didn’t Artie would know something was wrong.

And she didn’t feel like talking about the cause of her angst. Not when she’d spent the fifteen-minute walk to the bar trying to obliterate Archer from her mind.

‘Maybe the daily special?’

Artie winked. ‘Coming right up.’

As he spooned marinated octopus, garlic olives, banderillas, calamares fritos and huevos relleños de gambas onto a terracotta platter, she mentally rummaged for a safe topic of conversation—one that wouldn’t involve blurting about the blackmailing guy who had once stolen her heart.

He slid the plate in front of her, along with her usual espresso. ‘So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong before your coffee or after?’

She opened her mouth to brush off his astute observation, but one glance at the shrewd gleam in his eyes stalled her. She knew that look. The look of a father figure who wouldn’t quit till he’d dragged the truth out of her.

‘It’s nothing, really—’

He tut-tutted. ‘Querida, I’ve known you for more than seven years.’ He pointed to his bald pate and wrinkled forehead. ‘These may indicate the passage of time, but up here...?’ He tapped his temple. ‘As sharp as Banderas’s sword in Zorro.’

She chuckled. If Artie had his way Antonio Banderas would be Spain’s president.

He folded his arms and rested them on the bar. ‘You know I’m going to stay here until you tell me.’

‘What about your customers?’

‘That’s what I pay the staff for.’ He grinned. ‘Now, are you going to tell, or do I have to ply you with my finest sangria?’

She held up her hands. ‘I’m starting work early tomorrow, so no sangria.’

How tempting it sounded. What she wouldn’t give to down a jug of Artie’s finest, get blotto, and forget the fact she had to accompany Archer to Torquay tomorrow.

‘Fine.’ She pushed a few olives around her plate before laying down her fork. ‘CJU Designs scored its biggest account ever today.’

Artie straightened and did a funny flamenco pirouette. ‘That’s brilliant. Well done, querida.’

‘Yeah, it’ll take care of mum’s bills for the next year at least, thank goodness.’

Artie’s exuberance faded. ‘How is Nora?’

‘The same. Happy, determined, putting on a brave face.’

Something she was finding increasingly hard to do when she visited and saw the signs that her mum’s condition was worsening. While Nora coped with her wheelchair, relaxed as if she was lounging in her favourite recliner, Callie watched for hand tremors or lapses in speech or drifting off.

She couldn’t relax around her mum any more. The effort of hiding her sadness clamped her throat in a stranglehold, taking its toll. She grew more exhausted after every visit, and while she never for one second regretted spending as much time as possible with her mum, she hated the inevitability of this horrid disease.

Artie patted her hand. ‘Give her my best next time you see her.’

‘Shall do.’

That was another thing that bugged her about this Torquay trip. She’d have to give all her attention to the account in the early set-up—and to the account’s aggravating owner—which meant missing out on seeing her mum for the week before Christmas or long drives to and from the beachside town. Which would lead to Archer poking his nose into her business, asking why she had to visit her mum so often, and she didn’t want to divulge her private life to him.

Not now, when things were strictly business.

‘If this account has alleviated some of your financial worries, why do you look like this?’ Artie’s exaggerated frown made her smile.

‘Because simple solutions often mask convoluted complications.’

‘Cryptic.’

‘Not really.’ She huffed out a long breath. ‘The owner of the company behind this new account is an old friend.’

‘Ah...so that’s it.’

She didn’t like the crafty glint in Artie’s eyes much—his knowing smile less.

‘This...friend...is he a past amor?’

Had she loved Archer? After the awful break-up, and in the following months when she’d returned to Melbourne and preferred reading to dating, she’d wondered if the hollowness in her heart, the constant gripe in her belly and the annoying wanderlust to jump back on a plane and follow him around the world’s surfing hotspots was love.

She’d almost done it once, after seeing a snippet of him at the Pipeline in Hawaii three months after she’d returned from Europe. She’d gone as far as logging on, choosing flights, but when it had come to paying the arrow had hovered over ‘confirm’ for an agonising minute before the memory of their parting had resurfaced and she’d shut the whole thing down.

That moment had been her wake-up call, and she’d deliberately worked like a maniac so she could fall into bed at the end of a day exhausted and hopefully dream-free.

Her mum had been diagnosed four weeks later, and as a distraction from Archer it had been a doozy.

Now here he was, strutting into her life, as confident and charming and gorgeous as ever. And as dangerously seductive as all those years ago. For, no matter how many times she rationalised that their week together would be strictly business, the fact remained that they’d once shared a helluva spark. She’d better pack her fire extinguisher just in case.

Artie held up his hands. ‘You don’t have to answer. I can see your feelings for this old amor written all over your face.’