There's Something About a Rebel...

And now he was going to have to try and sleep up there after all, knowing one very attractive, very sexy woman was a few quick steps away down the hall.

The strip of golden sand was strewn with shells, driftwood and dead palm leaves where the rainforest met the sea. An azure sky, the air laden with the pungent smells of lush vegetation and decaying marine life. It should have been a tourist paradise.

Even in sleep, Blake knew it wasn’t. Because the heavy pounding at the back of his skull was gunfire.

He’d been one of five clearance divers on the beach that day. It had been a routine training exercise. Until the jungle had exploded. Exposed and caught unprepared, they’d returned fire and made a run for it. But the newest member of the unit, Torque, had frozen.

No time to think. Blake dodging bullets as he retraced his steps. Grabbing and dragging the quivering kid back across the beach with him. Then more shots, searing the air and zinging past his head. Torque’s last agonised cry as he fell against Blake, knocking him off balance. Rocks coming up to meet Blake as he fell. Then blackness…

Blake woke dry-mouthed, shaking, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was chilled to the bone, lathered in sweat, his skull reverberating as if he’d been struck from behind by Big Ben. It took a moment to draw breath, fight off the sheet, which had twisted around his legs.

He reached for the heavy-duty painkillers on the bedside table, swallowed them dry. The hospital doctor had ordered Blake to take them for at least another week. But he’d refused the sleeping pills even though he never slept more than a couple of hours at a time. If only the doc could prescribe him some magic potion to take away the nightmares.

He pushed upright and stared out of the window where the pre-dawn revealed a star-studded charcoal sky swept clear of last night’s storm. Torque had been just a kid, full of fresh-faced ideals and too damn young to die.

Blake had been that young idealist too, once.

Unwilling to subject himself to further night horrors, he rose, pulled on a pair of shorts. He almost forgot about the boat—he glanced out of the window again to make sure the thing was still afloat, then headed downstairs. Past the bedroom where Lissa dreamed untroubled dreams.

Stopping in front of the living room’s glass door, he slid it open to let the damp breeze cool his face. He could almost smell the nightmare’s beach and the decaying marine life. The hot scent of freshly spilled blood.

He heard a shuffling noise behind him. His military-honed senses always on alert, he swung around, one fist partially raised.

Lissa. In the shadows. Eyes wide. Looking as fragile as glass in that tiny excuse for a nightdress. And shrinking away from him. Perfect. He’d terrified the life out of her twice in one night.

A wave of self-loathing washed over him. Gritting his teeth, he turned back to the window. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I heard a cr—I heard a noise.’

He could hear the soft sound of bare feet as she crossed the floor and groaned inwardly, imagining those feet entwined with his.

‘What are you doing here?’

He didn’t answer. Just closed his eyes as the scent of her wafted towards him. Fresh, fragrant and untainted. She knew nothing of the atrocities committed beyond her protected little world. And he wanted to keep her that way. Safe.

Safe from him.

‘Are you okay?’ Quiet concern with a tinge of anxiety.

‘Yes. Go on back to bed.’

‘But you …’

Her hair, a drift of scent and silk, brushed his chin as she stepped in front of him. The feather touch of one small hand on his bare arm. ‘I thought I heard. Are you sure you’re okay?’

His eyes slid open. Wide eyes blinked up at him in the dimness. And those luscious lips. He could all but taste their sweetness on his own. She barely reached his shoulder. So tiny. His hands rose to hold her. To keep her away. To keep her safe. He could feel the firm muscles of her upper arms move beneath warm flesh.

Then he was sliding his hands up and over her shoulders, his thumbs grazing the petal-soft indentations just above her collarbones. He’d forgotten how smooth and silky a woman’s skin felt. How different from his own.

His whole body flexed and burned and throbbed. So easy to lean down, seal his lips to hers and take and take and take until he forgot.

But he’d never forget. He could never be that casual young guy she remembered. The remnants of his dream still clung to him like a shroud. Contaminating her. Dropping his hands, he turned away from those beguiling eyes. ‘Go away, Lissa, I don’t want you here.’

He barely heard her leave and when he glanced over his shoulder a moment later she was gone. Without another word. Relief mingled with bitter frustration. Damn it all, he didn’t want to offend her. He waited a few moments then went back to his room and pulled on his joggers. A two hour run might rid himself of some of his tension.

The street lights still cast their pools of yellow, and after last night’s turbulence the air’s stillness seemed amplified as his feet pounded the pavement.

Lissa tossed and turned for the next couple of hours as the room slowly lightened. She’d left Blake’s pillow right alone and taken a spare from another bedroom as he’d suggested. To prove that her story that she needed an extra wasn’t a lie to get her out of an embarrassing situation. Not that he’d believed her for a second and she cringed at the memory. Why the heck had she bothered? Her pillow worries wouldn’t even register on his horizon—not after seeing him downstairs in the darkness.

Hurting and alone and determined to stay that way. She’d heard him cry out. And for a moment she’d thought maybe she’d helped a little until he’d dropped his hands from her shoulders as if the touch of her skin had burned him. His curt dismissal had stung, especially when for a heart-trembling moment earlier she’d thought he was going to kiss her.

Which only proved she still had zero understanding when it came to men.

She would not take it personally. If she remembered anything about Blake at all, he’d have refused anyone’s help. Except she hated seeing anyone hurting like that.

As soon as the boat was repaired she could be out of his house. Right away from him. Away from temptation.

Except for his claim that he owned the boat.

That wasn’t a problem she could sort on her own so there was no use dwelling on it now. She threw back the sheet and rose. The storm had passed, leaving the sky a glorious violet-smeared orange. She opened the window to enjoy the bird’s dawn chorus and early humidity.

Leaning on the sill, she looked out over the palatial homes and their moored million-dollar yachts and reflections on the river. A private helicopter circled further up the river then landed on its helipad.

She could hear a steady splash beyond the high concrete fence. Their next-door neighbour, Gilda, whom Lissa had met and spoken to a few times, was taking her regular early-morning dip in the pool.

Gilda Dimitriou was a well-known socialite, heavily involved in charitable works. Her husband, Stefan, was some bigwig in finance and they frequently entertained. Lissa was probably the only person within a hundred-kilometre radius without a high-flying job and a bulging bank account.

A fact that Blake Everett did not need to know. No one knew about her financial situation. Not even her family. Especially not Jared. She didn’t want or need his help. Hadn’t she spent the past year and a half proving that she could manage just fine in Mooloolaba on her own? Mostly.

Except that the interior design shop she’d worked for had gone out of business due to a dodgy accountant, leaving her with no income apart from a casual three-hour-per-week stint cleaning a couple of local offices. She’d had to put off the repairs out of financial necessity.

She’d hit a little bump in the road, that was all. She collected the clothes she’d brought with her. Determined not to see Blake until she’d showered and tamed her hair, no matter what dire circumstances and humiliations she was about to face, she headed for the en-suite.

And what an en-suite. It was as big as her entire houseboat. White tiles, gold taps, thick fluffy towels in marine colours of aqua and ultramarine. She breathed in their new and freshly laundered scent and switched on the shower.

After the boat’s mere trickle, the water pressure was an absolute luxury and she took her time, pondering her bump in the road. She still wanted to start her own business. It had been a bitter source of tension between her and Jared which had led to her moving here. She so badly wanted to prove she was capable.

Mooloolaba was a wealthy man’s town on Queensland’s Sunshine Coast. Plenty of people here would think nothing of paying exorbitant prices for a home makeover. She just needed to find them and convince them they needed her services.

Somehow.

For months now she’d taken cleaning jobs while scouring the papers and searching the Internet for the kind of work she wanted. Nothing. She’d had no response to her ads in the paper and on the net. The locals went for the services of the big, well-known, well-respected names. Lissa needed to come up with something different, something unique, get out there and make herself known.

Yes, she could drop Jared’s name. His reputation for building refurbishments was well known around these parts. She wrenched off the taps and swiped the towel off the rail. No way. Absolutely out of the question. Because that would be admitting to Jared that he’d been right, that she couldn’t do it on her own. And after walking out the way she had, she was too … ashamed.

So she’d have to settle for second best for a while longer. Which meant finding a full-time job—of any description. Which were few and far between. Back to square one.

And right now she had to face breakfast with a man she didn’t know how to react to this morning.

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