Praise for Kelly Hunter

“Hunter’s emotionally rich tale will make readers laugh and cry along with the characters. A truly fantastic read.”

—RT Book Reviews on

Revealed: A Prince and a Pregnancy

“This is a dynamite story of a once-forbidden relationship, featuring two terrific characters who have to deal with the past before they can finally be together.”

—RT Book Reviews on

Exposed: Misbehaving with the Magnate

“This story starts out on a light, fun and flirty note and spins into an emotional and heartfelt tale about coming to terms with the past and embracing the future.”

—RT Book Reviews on

Playboy Boss, Live-In Mistress

About the Author
About Kelly Hunter

Accidentally educated in the sciences, KELLY HUNTER has always had a weakness for fairytales, fantasy worlds, and losing herself in a good book. Husband … yes. Children … two boys. Cooking and cleaning … sigh. Sports … no, not really—in spite of the best efforts of her family. Gardening … yes. Roses, of course. Kelly was born in Australia and has travelled extensively. Although she enjoys living and working in different parts of the world, she still calls Australia home.

Kelly’s novels Sleeping Partner and Revealed: A Prince and a Pregnancy were both finalists for the Romance Writers of America RITA® award, in the Best Contemporary Series Romance category!

Visit Kelly online at www.kellyhunter.net

Also by Kelly Hunter

Cracking the Dating Code

Flirting With Intent

The Man She Loves To Hate

Red-Hot Renegade

Untameable Rogue

Revealed: A Prince and a Pregnancy

Exposed: Misbehaving with the Magnate

Playboy Boss, Live-In Mistress

The Maverick’s Greek Island Mistress

Sleeping Partner

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

With This Fling…

Kelly Hunter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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If wishes were fishes, beggars would fly

PROLOGUE

THERE was a lot to be said for fictional fiancés, decided Charlotte Greenstone as she settled into the saggy vinyl hospital chair for yet another night-time vigil by her dying godmother’s side. The room had seen decades of sickness and death but the elderly Aurora refused entry to gloom and opted instead to remember a life well lived and speculate quite outrageously on what might come after death.

Ashes seemed inevitable given that Aurora wanted to be cremated, but, if not dust, Aurora pondered the layout of heaven, the hierarchy within it, and how long the waiting list for reincarnation as a house cat might be.

This night, unfortunately, wasn’t shaping up to be one of Aurora’s better nights. Tonight Aurora was morphined-up and fretful, her main concern being that once she was gone Charlotte would have no one. Not nothing—for when it came to worldly possessions Charlotte had more than enough for any one person. But when it came to family and a sense of belonging … when it came down to the number of people Charlotte could turn to for comfort and company … Aurora’s concerns weren’t entirely unfounded. Hence the invention of Charlotte’s tailor-made handy-dandy fictional fiancé. A wonderfully useful man if ever there was one.

Dashing.

Deliciously honourable.

Modest yet supremely accomplished.

And, last but not least, absent.

Once the awkwardness of the initial deception had passed, the fictional fiancé had provided endless hours of bedside entertainment. More to the point, his presence—so to speak—had provided valuable reassurance to a godmother who needed it that Charlotte would be loved. That she wouldn’t be lonely. Not with the likes of Thaddeus Jeremiah Gilbert Tyler around.

Not that anyone actually called the man Thaddeus to his face, oh, no. His research colleagues called him Tyler, and they uttered the name respectfully given his status as an independently wealthy globetrotting botanist, humanitarian, eco warrior, and citizen of Australia. His mother called him TJ. Always had, always would. Thaddeus Jeremiah Gilbert’s father called him son, and bore a startling resemblance to Sean Connery. The adventurous Mr Tyler had no siblings—easier just to make him like Charlotte in that regard.

Charlotte called him Gil and laced the word with affection and desire, and Aurora believed.

Gil was in Papua New Guinea, somewhere up the Sepik River where phones were few and contact with the outside world was practically non-existent. Charlotte had managed to get a message through to him though … finally … and he’d sent a tribesman back to Moresby with a message for her. He hoped to be there soon, for he’d missed Charlotte most desperately and never wanted to be parted from her again. He wanted to meet Aurora, for he’d heard so much about her: accomplished businesswoman, artefact collector, godmother and all round good fairy; he wanted to meet the woman who’d raised his beloved Charlotte.

Aurora wanted to meet him.

The wonderfully eccentric Aurora Herschoval being the closest thing to family Charlotte had ever had, for her parents were long dead, over twenty years dead now, and little more than a glamorous memory.

The cancer-ridden and increasingly morphine-medicated Aurora had a tendency to confuse Gil with Charlotte’s father. Easy enough to do, Charlotte supposed, seeing as she’d modelled the man on the bits of her father she remembered.

Gil, aka TJ, aka Thaddeus Jeremiah Gilbert Tyler, in other words her fictional fiancé, also paid homage to Indiana Jones—complete with hat; Captain Kirk—probably best not to try and figure out why; and a swaggering Caribbean pirate or two—minus the hygiene issues. Yes, indeed, Charlotte’s fiancé was quite a man.

She’d miss him dreadfully when he was gone. His zest for life and new experiences. His tenderness and his wit. His company, as daft as that sounded, for he had kept her company these long anxious nights. He’d helped her keep the tears at bay and given her the strength to face what was coming.

Aurora passed away right on time. Two months from the discovery of the cancer to the finish, just as the good doctor had predicted.

This time, the thought of Gilbert did not hold Charlotte’s tears at bay. She wept with relief that Aurora’s pain had finally ceased. She wept with grief for the loss of a mother and friend.

She just wept.

Gilbert didn’t make it home to Australia in time to meet Aurora—an unforgivable act of negligence as far as Charlotte was concerned. Poetic justice came swiftly.

Gilbert, in his haste to return to her, had ventured into territory he had no business venturing into. Once there, the reckless—yet noble—fool had tried to prevent the kidnapping of tribal daughters by a renegade hunting party, so it was said. Authorities had little hope of recovering his remains. The words ‘long pig’ had been whispered.

It was a double blow, his demise coming so soon after Aurora’s, and in the wee small hours of the night Charlotte mourned for him.

She really did.

CHAPTER ONE

‘CHARLOTTE, what are you doing here?’ Professor Harold Mead’s panicked expression didn’t quite fit his soothing fatherly tone. Then again, a lot of things about her boss didn’t quite fit. Like his version of Ancient Egyptian history as opposed to everyone else’s, for example. Or his idea of a regular working week, which was somewhere in the vicinity of seventy hours as opposed to, say, the fifty everyone else put in.

Granted, it was seven-thirty on a Monday morning and she didn’t usually start work quite this early, but still … she did have every right to be here. ‘Charlotte?’ he repeated.

‘Working?’ she offered helpfully. ‘At least, that’s the plan. Is there something wrong with the plan?’

‘No, but we were hardly expecting you in today. We thought you might take a few days to come to terms with your loss, what with your godmother’s funeral yesterday.’ Which he’d attended. Which had been nice of him, seeing as he hadn’t known Aurora well at all.

‘It was a good funeral,’ she said softly. ‘A celebration of a life well lived. That’s what I think. That’s what I know. And thank you for attending.’

‘You’re welcome,’ said the Mead. ‘And if you do need to take a few days’ leave …’

‘No,’ said Charlotte hastily. ‘Please. No leave. I’m fine.’ She tried on a smile, and saw from the deepening concern in the Mead’s eyes that he’d seen it for the falsehood it was. ‘Really. I’m ready to work. I think I have a lead on what the pottery fragments coming out of the Loess site might be.’

‘It can wait,’ said the Mead. ‘Or you could pass that work on to someone else. Dr Carlysle, perhaps? Seeing as he’s on site? Dr Steadfellow values him quite highly.’

‘I’m sure he does.’ Steadfellow’s reports had been full of the man. ‘But I’d rather not.’ The Loess site had been one of her finds. Hers and Aurora’s. She’d given Steadfellow that site—coordinates, preliminary work, everything—on condition that she took part in the analysis. Alas, the good Dr Steadfellow seemed to be in danger of forgetting their arrangement now that the highly valued Dr Carlysle had joined the team. ‘Harold, I know Dr Steadfellow and Dr Carlysle feel they can take it from here. I know they’re eminently qualified to do so but that’s not the point. I feel like I’m being sidelined and that wasn’t the arrangement.’

‘Charlotte, be reasonable,’ said the Mead soothingly. ‘Everyone knows you pulled together the funding for the Loess dig. No one doubts your claim to significant project input, but is this really a good time to be challenging your colleagues? Might they not simply be trying to help you through a difficult personal patch?’

Charlotte heard the words. She wanted to believe in them. Wanted to trust that Steadfellow would honour his word and acknowledge her contribution to the discovery, but in all honesty she just didn’t know if he would. Her judgement was shot, these days. Too many sleepless nights. Too much weaving in and out of imaginary realities because it had hurt too much to stay in this one. ‘I’ll talk to Steadfellow. And Carlysle,’ she said quietly. ‘We’ll sort something out.’

‘Excellent.’ The Mead beamed. ‘I knew you’d be generous about this. You already have more publications than most archaeologists three times your age. A tenured position is just around the corner for you.’

‘Even if I’m seen as a pushover?’ she asked quietly and Harold had the grace to flush.

‘Charlotte,’ he said. ‘I know your godmother was of great assistance to you when it came to contacts in the archaeology world. I know your family name engenders a great deal of goodwill. God knows, I’ve never seen an archaeologist pull funding from the private sector the way you do. But your godmother’s gone now, and a lot of people will be looking to see if your legendary contacts went with her.’ He took a breath and fixed her with what he probably thought was a kindly gaze. ‘Charlotte, you’re a wonderful asset to this department, but if you’ll take an old man’s advice—and I do hope you will—losing ground on the Loess dig is the least of your problems. You need to think about taking to the field for a while and renewing your contacts in person. You need to think about getting back out on site and heading up your own digs. That’s what I’d be doing if I were you and I really wanted to get back in the game. Your position then would be unassailable. If that’s what you want.’

If that’s what you want.

Truth was—Charlotte didn’t know what she wanted any more, when it came to her work.

And the Mead knew it.

‘Charlotte, I know you’re not given to discussing your private life with your work colleagues,’ the Mead began awkwardly. ‘But I heard what happened to your fiancé in PNG. Bad business, that. Terrible.’

‘You, ah … heard about that?’ Charlotte’s heart thumped hard against her chest, and if her smile was a little strained it was only because the situation warranted it. Thaddeus Jeremiah Gilbert Tyler was supposed to have lived only in her mind and Aurora’s. No one else’s. ‘How?’

‘One of the palliative care nurses up at the hospital is married to Thomas over in Statistics. He’s been keeping us abreast of various … things.’

‘Oh.’ Charlotte offered up another sickly smile, dimly registering the collision of planet fiction with planet reality but having no idea how to wrest them back apart. Why couldn’t she have simply broken her fictitious engagement to her fictitious fiancé in a sane and sensible manner, rather than killing him off? That way the formerly useful Gil could have gone paddling up the Sepik for ever, and she and Harold would not be having this conversation.

‘At least with your godmother you were prepared for her death. But with your fiancé, and without the body … Anyway, enough of that. Charlotte, I reiterate—if you need to take some extended leave, please do.’

‘I—thank you.’ Charlotte’s voice shook alarmingly. The Mead took a giant step back, as if downright horrified at the prospect of Charlotte in tears. He wasn’t the only one to be horrified by such a notion. Stop it, Charlotte. Shoulders back. Don’t you dare break down. A Greenstone never breaks down. Chin up, Charlie, and smile. The last was pure Aurora.

Slowly, very slowly, Charlotte collected her composure and offered up what she hoped would pass for a smile. ‘Thank you, Harold. I appreciate your concern and your advice, I really do. But right now, I’d really rather work.’

If Charlotte thought her early morning conversation with the Mead had been bad, morning tea in the staffroom was worse. Kind words cut deep when they weren’t deserved, and there were a lot of kind words for Charlotte this morning on account of her loss.

Losses.

She cut out fast, back to her little corner office, taking her cup of tea with her. Once there she slumped into her chair and stared at her computer screen without really seeing it. Surely things would be better tomorrow? Surely this overwhelming sense of loss on the one hand and guilt on the other would fade? All she had to do was ride out these next few days. Maybe she could resurrect Gil and then dump him? Or have him dump her. Mutually agree to part ways …

‘How’re you holding up?’ said a voice from the doorway. Millie, seeking entry, offering solace. Millie, who deserved better than lies from her.

‘So-so.’ Charlotte offered up a weak smile. ‘Sympathy on account of Aurora’s death I can handle. I’m not so sure I can handle any sympathy on account of Gil.’

‘It’s not so much sympathy as rampant curiosity,’ said Millie as she came in and perched her skinny rear on the edge of the table. ‘We’ve been friends and co-workers for, what, almost two years now? Why didn’t you tell me you were engaged? And why aren’t you wearing his ring?’

‘It was a fairly loose arrangement,’ said Charlotte awkwardly. ‘Really loose.’

‘How long since you’d seen him?’ asked Millie.

‘A while. Gil was very independent. Adventurous.’ For a moment, Charlotte let herself dream. ‘Gil was a law unto himself. Passionate and focused. Energetic. Patient …’

‘Stamina?’

‘That too.’

‘I’m beginning to see the appeal,’ said Millie.

‘Unless you actually happened to want him around.’

Charlotte snapped out of her Gilfest with a wry smile. ‘Well, there was that.’

‘Do I sense a shred of relief that you’re no longer tied to such an independent adventurer?’

‘You might,’ murmured Charlotte. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Millie and everyone else to think that she’d recover quickly from her fiancé’s demise? Why on earth, then, should she feel so disloyal to Gil?

‘Do you have a picture of him?’ asked Millie.

‘What?’

‘A photo. Of your fiancé.’

‘Somewhere I do.’ The lies, they just kept coming. ‘Honestly, Millie. I’m okay. I may have embellished Gil’s importance for Aurora’s benefit. Just a little.’

‘You should dig out a picture,’ said Millie gently. ‘Put it up. Swear at it if it makes you feel better. Even if he wasn’t the marrying kind, even if your engagement was a colossal mistake, you should celebrate the time you spent with him. It’s okay to feel conflicted about his death, Charlotte. It’s okay to get angry with him for putting himself in a position to get eaten. It’s all part of the grieving process and it’s perfectly normal.’

‘It’s really not,’ said Charlotte faintly. Nothing about these last two months had been normal. ‘Everything’s gone a little bit crazy. Starting with me.’

‘That’s because prolonged bedside vigils will do that to a person. Which is why you shouldn’t be here,’ said Millie earnestly. ‘Seriously, Charlotte. Why don’t you take a few days’ leave? Head for the coast. Rent a lighthouse. Refresh your spirit. Allow yourself to grieve.’

Charlotte shook her head, hot tears not far from falling. ‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I need to keep busy.’ She gave Millie the truth of it, and felt marginally better for doing so. ‘I need to be around other people, people I know, even if they do think I’m a spoiled archaeology heiress with fading networking skills and no brains.’

‘Says who?’ said Millie sharply. ‘Did the Mead say that to you?’ And without waiting for Charlotte’s reply, ‘Moron.’

‘He didn’t say that.’ Charlotte felt obliged to defend him. ‘He was really very kind. He just …’

‘Implied it,’ said Millie darkly. ‘I know how he works.’

‘Maybe he didn’t imply it,’ said Charlotte. ‘Maybe I did. Maybe it’s just a big day for self doubt.’ And loneliness. It was a hell of a day for that. ‘Thing is, I need to feel as if I’m part of a community today, and this community is the only one I’ve got. Does that sound needy?’

‘No.’ Millie’s smile came free and gentle and washed over Charlotte like a balm. ‘It sounds like your community needs to lift its game.’

For all her inquisitiveness, Millie Peters had a good heart and for the rest of the day she did everything in her power to ensure that Charlotte had company. Half the archaeology department went to the cinema with them that evening. The following evening Millie and her latest beau, Derek, invited Charlotte to dine with them at a local pub.

Derek was an archaeology student with a builder’s licence in his back pocket, a double degree in geology and ancient history, and a blissfully practical outlook for someone bent on becoming a field archaeologist.

They found a small round table over by the window, not too sticky, not too wobbly, and settled in for the duration. Derek bought the first round of drinks and the barman went back to filling his fridges, and the pool players went back to smacking their balls around as lazy jazz played softly through oversized speakers. Not bad. Infinitely better than being at home.

‘The crispy pork sounds good,’ said Derek, and Millie glared meaningfully at him.

‘The crispy pork does not sound good,’ countered Millie. ‘Have the beef. Or the duck. No mistaking duck for anything but duck.’ Millie’s face disappeared behind her menu. ‘Remember what I told you about the long pig incident,’ she muttered to Derek as quietly as she could, which wasn’t nearly quietly enough.

Derek slid Charlotte a lightning glance and promptly disappeared behind his menu too. ‘Where’s the duck?’ he said.

‘Halfway down the specials list,’ murmured Millie. ‘Have it braised.’

‘Why not barbecued?’ Derek whispered back. ‘You’re just assuming he was barbecued. They could have braised him. They could have boiled him.’

‘You’re right,’ muttered Millie. ‘Order the vegetable combo.’

At which point Charlotte reached across the table and pulled Millie’s menu down past eye level. ‘Psst.’

‘What?’ Millie eyed her warily.

‘Millie, let the poor man eat pork. I don’t care if he wants it crucified, I promise I won’t see it as a metaphor for him eating Gil.’

Derek’s menu dipped slowly. Derek’s eyes appeared, followed by a nose, very nice cheekbones, and a wide wry smile.

‘I knew she was saner than you,’ Derek told Millie and barely winced when Millie’s menu clipped his shoulder. They were very broad shoulders. Millie might just have to keep this one.

‘So what was he like?’ asked Derek. ‘Your fiancé.’

‘He’s hard to define, but if I had to sum him up I’d probably go with useful,’ said Charlotte. Nothing but the truth.

‘Useful as in “Honey, could you fix the hot water system?”‘ asked Millie.

‘I’m sure he could have fixed the hot water system,’ said Charlotte. ‘Had it needed fixing.’

‘Can’t everyone?’ countered Derek.

‘Sadly, no,’ said Charlotte.

‘I dare say Gil was modest too,’ said Millie, glancing pointedly at Derek.

‘What?’ said Derek. ‘I can be modest.’

‘Of course you can,’ murmured Charlotte, eyeing Derek’s frayed shirt collar and shaggy hair speculatively. ‘Gil was a snappy dresser too, in a rustic, ready for anything kind of way.’

‘Window dressing,’ said Derek. ‘It’s the body beneath the clothes that counts and don’t either of you try and tell me different.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Charlotte. ‘But just for your information, that was superb too.’

‘Well, it would be,’ said Millie. ‘What with all that paddling up the river. I bet the man had fabulous upper-body definition.’

‘I was a lumberjack once,’ said Derek.

‘Of course you were,’ murmured Millie consolingly.

A youthful waitress stepped up to their table, smile at the ready as she asked them if they were ready to order.

‘I’ll have the pork,’ said Derek. ‘But could I have it beaten first?’

‘Chef runs it through a tenderiser,’ said the waitress. ‘You know—one of those old-fashioned washing-machine wringer things with the spikes?’

‘Perfect,’ said Derek.

‘Unlike some things around here,’ murmured Millie.

‘No man is perfect,’ said Derek. ‘Especially in the eyes of women. A determined woman can turn even a man’s good qualities into major flaws of character given time and motive, and half the time the motive is optional. It’s just something you do.’

‘There’s got to be an ex-wife in your past somewhere,’ murmured Charlotte. ‘C’mon, Derek. Spill.’

‘Never.’

‘Maybe an overcritical mother,’ said Millie.

‘I’m an orphan,’ said Derek. ‘Never knew my parents. Never got adopted. Ugliest baby in the world, according to Sister Ramona.’

‘That explains a lot,’ murmured Millie. ‘Though it doesn’t explain how you got to be quite so handsome now. In a craggy, hard-living kind of way.’

‘Thank you,’ said Derek blandly.

‘You’re welcome.’

They finished ordering their meals. They started in on their drinks.

‘Here’s to the wonderful Aurora Herschoval,’ said Charlotte. ‘The best godmother an orphan could have.’

‘Hear hear,’ said Derek. ‘Good for you. And here’s to Useful Gil. May he be blessed with more brains in his next life.’

‘Derek!’ said Millie, aghast. ‘We can’t toast to that.’

‘Why not?’ said Derek, aiming for an expression of craggy, hard-lived innocence. ‘Sweetie, he may have been handy, handsome, modest, and built like Apollo, but let’s be honest here … the man got eaten.’

CHAPTER TWO

A WEEK passed, and then another, and Charlotte kept busy. She applied herself diligently, if not wholeheartedly, to her work. She considered the merits of Harold’s suggestion to hit the archaeology road again for a while and came to no firm conclusion. She inherited Aurora’s wealth and her Double Bay waterfront estate on Sydney Harbour.

And when it came to dead fictional fiancés, she kept right on lying.

Was it too late to tell Millie the truth about Gil? To tell everyone the truth?

The question plagued her. ‘When, when, when?’ her conscience demanded. And, ‘Too late, too late, too late,’ the devil kept saying smugly. Bad friend to Millie. Too late to tell the Mead that Gil had been nothing more than a figment of her imagination. That time had passed. Her detractors within the archaeology world and the university system would flay her if she did.

‘What did I tell you?’ they would say smugly to each other. ‘I always knew she was too reckless to hold down a position of responsibility, no matter what pull her family name has in high places.’ Then they’d shake their heads and say what a loss Charlotte’s parents had been to archaeology with one breath, and castigate them for being too bold on the other. ‘Crazy runs in the family,’ they’d say. ‘And the godmother was cut from the same cloth. Always chasing rainbows. No wonder poor Charlotte has trouble separating fantasy from reality …’

‘Charlotte!’

A distant voice, sharp and concerned.

‘What?’ Charlotte blinked and there was Millie. Tortoiseshell glasses framing earnest hazel eyes set in a heart-shaped face.

‘You didn’t hear me come in. You didn’t hear me calling your name.’

‘Sorry,’ murmured Charlotte. ‘Must’ve been daydream ing.’

Millie winced. Probably because she thought Charlotte had been spending a little too much time in that state of late.

‘What’s up?’ said Charlotte, determined to forestall any actual complaint about her not entirely firm hold on reality.

Millie hesitated. Millie fidgeted. Millie was not in a good place right now and Charlotte didn’t quite know why. Time to ask Millie what was wrong and see if there was any way in which she could help. Good friend, Charlotte. Good friend.

‘Don’t kill me,’ said Mille anxiously.

‘O-kay,’ said Charlotte carefully. Not quite the response she’d been expecting.

‘I was only trying to help,’ said Millie next.

‘And?’

‘And I emailed the Research Institute in PNG to see if they had a photo of Gil anywhere that they could send to you. A memento. Something tangible for you to remember him by. I, ah, signed it in your name.’

‘And?’ said Charlotte, with an impending sense of doom.

‘And his secretary wrote back and said she’d see what she could find and was it okay to send everything to your university address. To which I said yes.’

‘And?’

‘And there’s a huge packing box downstairs, addressed to you from PNG. I think it might be Gil’s effects.’

Charlotte blinked. ‘His … effects?’

Millie nodded. ‘I swear all I asked for was a photo. I never once implied that you were his next of kin or that you wanted all his stuff. I mean, he does have other family, right? Parents and so forth.’

‘Right,’ said Charlotte faintly.

‘And you know how to contact them, right?’

‘Er … right.’

‘So, do you want the box up here or in your car? At the moment it’s sitting by the stairs on the ground floor.’

Charlotte blinked again. ‘I think I need to see it.’ Hopefully the trip down two flights of stairs would give her time to think.

A dozen flights of stairs would have been better.

All too soon, Charlotte and Millie stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring at a large removalist box with her name and university address on it. A nervous giggle escaped Charlotte. She countered by putting one hand to her mouth and the other hand to her elbow. The Standing Thinker pose.

‘So …’ said Millie. ‘Where do you want it?’

‘I’m thinking we take it upstairs for now,’ Charlotte muttered finally. ‘I may need to send it … on.’

There was no lift in the building.

‘I’ll get a trolley,’ said Millie. ‘And Derek.’

‘Thanks,’ murmured Charlotte, still staring at the box.

They got the box upstairs and into Charlotte’s office eventually. Neither Millie nor Derek seemed of a mind to linger. They fled.

Charlotte tried ignoring the box, at first. That didn’t go well.

The compulsion to open the box and find out exactly what the good souls at the PNG Research Institute had seen fit to send her took control. A pair of office scissors later and the flaps on top of the box sprung open. Tentatively, Charlotte folded them back.

The first thing she saw was a man’s collared business shirt, the really expensive wash-n-wear kind of dress shirt that didn’t need ironing and always looked fabulous. Size: Large. Colour: Ivory. A hat came next, an honest to God, Indiana Jones-style Akubra that looked as if it had been trampled by a herd of elephants and then dragged through a river backwards. Well-worn jeans came next, the kind that had earned their faded knees and ragged hems the old-fashioned way. Then some scuffed leather walking boots and thick socks. No other smalls whatsoever. Commando Indy.

Books came next, an extensive library of botany books and journals. Then came file upon file of research papers in haphazard order. A laptop had been tucked in between them. There was a round wall clock that still worked but told the wrong time. A handful of USB storage devices had been sealed inside an envelope. She unearthed a plastic takeaway container full of the stuff one might find in an office drawer. There were no photos.

The last thing she pulled from the box was a door tag with the name Dr G Tyler printed on it, the lettering no-nonsense black on a white background. A similar contraption graced her own door, and almost every other door in this building.

Charlotte stood back, ran unsteady hands through already wayward curls and surveyed the items strewn around her. She didn’t need to be an archaeologist to know what she had here.

Heaven help her, they’d sent her someone’s office.

The first thing to do was not panic.

So what if Dr G Tyler was going to be mighty unhappy when he discovered that his research wasn’t where he left it? That someone had packed up the contents of his office and shipped it off to … her? Belongings could be returned. Repacked and returned to sender with a brief note of apology for the confusion. Email! His computer would have his email address on it. She could send him an email and let him know that his office was on its way back to him. Of course, said email might not be received by him given that she also had his laptop, but surely the man would be accessing his emails from another computer. He’d be doing that, surely?

Unless the man was dead.

‘I did not wish you dead,’ she muttered. ‘Please don’t be dead. You’ll get your stuff back, I promise. Or if you do happen to be dead, I’ll make sure this gets to your family.’ Only … what if he had a wife? Children! ‘I’ll explain everything,’ she said fervently. No way would she allow G Tyler to emerge from this mess with a reputation as a cheating, lying husband with a mistress on the side. ‘I will come clean.’

I promise.

Greyson Tyler wasn’t an unreasonable man. He understood what it took to get scientific research done in remote locations. He tolerated inefficiency in others, applied leeway when needed, and pressure when needed too. He took his time, worked his way calmly and methodically through the red tape associated with such endeavours, and eventually he got his way. He always got his way, eventually, and he always got results.

He’d known he was tempting fate when he’d boxed his office effects up, ready to ship back to Australia, and hadn’t personally delivered the box into the hands of the freight carrier. He’d thought twice before leaving that task up to Mariah, the latest in a long line of temporary secretaries. Mariah had potential. She might even make a halfway decent administrative assistant one day. Presuming, of course, that she mastered the art of punctuality.

He’d left her a note with the name of the freight company he wanted to use. He’d left ‘Please Send To’ details right there on her desk. He’d set his misgivings aside and departed on his final field trip up-river without talking Mariah through the process.

Bad move.

She had used the freight company he’d recommended, that was something.

But she swore blue that she’d never seen the mailing address Grey had left for her, so when the email from his fiancée had come in—asking for a photo of him—and said fiancée had also been agreeable to Mariah sending the rest of his things her way, well … Problem solved.

A chain of events that showed initiative and even sounded halfway reasonable, except for one small anomaly.

He didn’t have a fiancée.

He did, however, have a shipping address, and a phone call to the University of Sydney’s information line gave him a work phone number for his beloved intended.

Charlotte Greenstone was her name, and she was an Associate Professor of Archaeology, no less.

He’d never heard of her.

He was prepared to be considerate, given that there had clearly been a mistake, and that she presumably did have a fiancé in these parts with a similar name to his. He was prepared to give her some leeway when it came to the return of his possessions. And if she didn’t have his office effects already in her possession, he could warn her that they’d be arriving soon and that he’d be by to collect them.

He’d just completed his final set of measurements. Three years’ worth of research all done, which meant he could be out of here.

Not a moment too soon in the opinion of some.

He could be back in Sydney by tomorrow. He could collect his office contents, head for his catamaran moored on the Hawkesbury River just north of Sydney, find a suitably secluded cove to anchor in, and analyse his data from there. His cat was ocean-going and had all the amenities he would need. He’d lived on her before.

He could kiss goodbye lawlessness and brutality and live for a time in a place where one’s possessions had a halfway chance of staying in one’s possession.

Tempting.

He put a call through to Charlotte Greenstone’s number and got her answering machine. A warm and surprisingly youthful voice told him to leave a message and she’d get back to him.

It was six-thirty on a Friday afternoon, Sydney time. Chances were that Associate Professor Charlotte had skipped for the weekend already, which meant the soonest he could reasonably expect a call back was Monday morning, her time. By which time he could be at her office collecting his office. He could be on the catamaran, set up and working, by Monday afternoon.

Aspro Charlotte had left a mobile phone number on her answering machine for urgent requests. Probably a good idea to check with her before he left PNG that she hadn’t turned his belongings around already.

This time when he called he got her in person. Same smooth velvety voice. The kind of voice that slid down a man’s spine and reminded him that he hadn’t had a woman in a while. He cleared his throat, nonplussed by the notion that he’d responded to the voice of a woman his mother’s age. Associate professorship took time.

‘Hello?’ she said again, and damned if his body didn’t respond again and to hell with her advancing years.

‘Professor Greenstone, my name’s Grey Tyler,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Dr Grey Tyler, botanist. I’m calling from PNG.’

Silence at that.

‘We’re not acquainted but I’m hoping you can help me.’ There. He was politeness itself. His mother would be proud. Charlotte Greenstone would be impressed. ‘I’m based in Port Moresby, although I spend a lot of time travelling between research sites in the country’s interior. I’ve just returned from such a trip to find that the contents of my office have been shipped to you by mistake.’

‘Yes,’ she said faintly. ‘Yes, Dr Tyler, your belongings arrived today. Did you get my email?’

‘Email?’ he echoed.

‘The one I sent you from your computer in the hope that you were still accessing your emails,’ she said. ‘Although judging by the several hundred emails that subsequently popped in to your inbox, I wasn’t all that hopeful.’

‘You accessed my computer?’ What about his password protection? The supposedly unassailable drive he kept his research files on? ‘How?’

‘Actually, it was the IT guy who did the accessing,’ she confessed. ‘He’s very good. And we only accessed your emails and we only did that to get your contact details. I tried calling the number in your signature line but you no longer seem to have a functioning phone.’

‘Forget the phone, you accessed my computer?’

‘Dr Tyler, why don’t you just tell me where you want your box sent?’ Not so mellow now, that gorgeous voice. Impatience had crept in, firing up his own.

‘Nowhere. Don’t send it anywhere. I’ll pick it up on Monday.’

‘What?’ For some reason, Charlotte Greenstone didn’t sound overly enamoured of the notion.

‘Monday,’ he repeated. ‘Preferably Monday morning.’

‘No!’ she said. ‘That plan’s really not going to work for me.’

‘Then outline a course of action that will,’ he countered. ‘I need my office back, Professor. I’ve work to do.’

‘Will you be in Sydney on Sunday?’ she asked.

‘I hope to be.’ Plane ticket willing.

‘I’ll go and get your box from work tomorrow, Dr Tyler. You can pick it up from my private address on Sunday or I will drop it in to wherever you’re staying. Does that suit?’

Decisive woman. And yes, it suited him just fine. She gave him her address. They arranged a collection time.

And when he got off the phone, the memory of her voice stayed with him and refused to go away.

‘Keep it simple,’ Charlotte said to herself for the umpteenth time that morning. Sunday morning, to be exact. Sunday morning at Aurora’s, no less, for that was the pickup address she’d given Grey Tyler.

Dr Greyson Tyler was a water weed control specialist. She’d discerned this from the research papers he’d authored and co-authored. Lots of them, and he didn’t bother submitting to the smaller journals either. Quality work, all the way.

Maybe she’d read one of his papers years ago and filed his name and that larger than life persona of his somewhere in the dim recesses of her mind. Maybe that was why, when she’d needed an absent fictional fiancé, she’d picked the name Tyler, only she’d used Gil for a first name instead of Greyson. Greyson being far too formidable a name for any fiancé, fictional or otherwise.

Not that it mattered, for within an hour his box would be gone and so would he, and after that there would be no more fictional fiancés ever and certainly no doing away with them. ‘This I pledge,’ she said fervently.

By the time the doorbell finally rang, a good two hours later than expected, Aurora’s house was spotless and Charlotte had taken to fretting that Dr Greyson Tyler wouldn’t come for his box at all today but would turn up at her workplace tomorrow, thus exposing the entire fictional fiancé debacle to all and sundry, thus sealing her reputation as a complete and utter nutter, and ruining her professional reputation along with it.

She opened the door hastily and found herself staring straight at a broad and muscled chest. She dragged her gaze upwards and finally came to his face. A tough, weathered face, not young and not yet old. Strong black brows framed eyes the colour of bitter coffee, easy on the milk. His hair colour hovered somewhere between that of eyebrows and eyes. He had excellent facial bone structure and an exceptionally fine mouth. A mouth well worth staring at. She had a feeling she’d stared at it before, but where?

Eventually the edge of it tilted up a little and she remembered her manners and stepped back politely and fixed a smile to her own face.

‘I’m looking for Professor Greenstone,’ he said, his voice a perfect match for the rest of him. Rough around the edges but with a fine baritone centre. Gil had also been in possession of such a voice. A voice to make a woman swoon.

‘That would be me,’ she said. ‘Dr Tyler, I presume?’

‘Yes.’ His eyes had narrowed. His mouth twisted wryly. ‘You’re young for an associate professor.’

‘My parents were archaeologists,’ she said. ‘I was raised by my godmother, who was also an archaeologist. I grew up chasing lost cities and ate breakfast, lunch and dinner at tables covered in maps. I was working dig sites by the time I turned six. I had a head start.’

‘Sounds like quite a childhood.’

‘Worked for me,’ she murmured, although it hadn’t exactly provided her with an altogether firm grip on reality. Not when there were so many ancient and different realities to choose from. Where had she seen his face before? A glossy magazine ad for something sumptuously male and decadently expensive? A magazine article? ‘World’s Sexiest Scientists’, perhaps? Oh, hell. New Scientist.

Charlotte sped back in time to a hospital waiting room, and an old waiting room copy of New Scientist magazine with an article on water weeds in it. There’d been a picture of the weeds. A picture of this man. She’d skimmed the article while waiting for the specialist to finish with Aurora.

Gil Tyler—fictional fiancé extraordinaire—hadn’t been a figment of her imagination at all.

The parts of Gil that hadn’t been based on movie superheroes and a long dead father had been based on this man.

‘Your box is here in the hall,’ she said, stepping back and opening wide the huge slab of petrified oak that doubled as a door. ‘I taped it back up for your convenience but you’re welcome to go through it while you’re here if you want to. It’s all there.’

The good doctor stepped into the hall and eyed the box balefully.

‘Okay, let me rephrase,’ she murmured. ‘Everything they sent me is in that box, and I’m really sorry if it’s not all there.’ Charlotte’s dismay hit a new low at the thought of Greyson Tyler losing important possessions on her account. ‘Extremely sorry.’

Greyson Tyler studied her intently. Finally he put his hand to the back pocket of his trousers, stretching fabric tight across places no well-brought-up woman should be looking. Charlotte averted her gaze and watched the unfolding of the paper instead. He held it out to her. ‘I understand you have a fiancé working in PNG and that he and I share a surname.’

Charlotte took the paper from those long strong fingers and reluctantly scanned the email printed on it. The request was a simple one for a photo of the late TJ (Gil) Tyler, botanist, if there was one about. Just as Millie had explained it to her.

‘Thing is, PNG is a small place,’ he continued conversationally. ‘Especially for scientists. I know my colleagues. Your fiancé wasn’t one of them. I checked the records. No sign of him there either.’

‘It’s complicated,’ she said, queen of the understatement. ‘This email, for instance. Unfortunately, one of my work colleagues sent it on my behalf, without my knowledge, but with the very best intentions.’ Charlotte felt herself shrinking beneath that penetrating dark gaze. ‘To be fair, the information I gave her about my fiancé wasn’t quite correct.’

‘Exactly how wrong was it?’ he asked silkily.

‘You mean on a scale of one to ten with one being almost correct and ten being a whopping great lie with a momentum all its own?’

‘If you like.’ He could be droll, this man, when he wasn’t so busy being stern.

‘Ten.’

‘And the lie?’

Charlotte shoved her hands in her pockets and moved past him, back through the door so she could stand on the top step of the portico and look out over Aurora’s immaculately kept grounds. ‘My godmother was dying,’ she said, her voice surprisingly even. ‘She was the closest thing to family I’d ever had and she was worried about leaving me alone in the world. I invented a fiancé. A botanist, working in PNG. His name was Thaddeus Jeremiah Gilbert Tyler.’

‘You named your fiancé Thaddeus?’

‘It was 3 a.m. I wasn’t exactly thinking straight. Yes, I named him Thaddeus.’

‘Go on,’ he said.

‘Aurora lasted another month. Gil became a regular topic of conversation.’

‘Gil?’ he queried.

‘Thaddeus.’ Charlotte closed her eyes, shook her head. Felt her lips curve in memory of some of those late night conversations with Aurora. ‘You were right about the name. No one called him Thaddeus except his mother when she was annoyed with him. I called him Gil.’

‘Go on.’

‘There’s not much more to tell,’ she murmured, coming back to the present with a start and shooting Greyson an apologetic sideways glance. ‘Aurora died. Two days later I did away with Gil, only by that time someone had told my work colleagues about him so the lie continued to grow. Everyone now thinks I’m mourning both Aurora and a fiancé. My colleague Millie went in search of a photo of Gil that I could put up somewhere. To help me grieve, or maybe to help me rejoice in the time I’d spent with him. Something like that.’

‘And then?’

‘Someone in PNG sent me an office.’ Charlotte risked another glance in his direction. Greyson Tyler was staring back at her as if reluctantly, unaccountably fascinated. ‘And here you are. I’m not usually this …’ She stopped, lost for words.

‘Batty?’ he said. ‘Irresponsible?’

‘Like I said, your belongings are in the box in the hallway,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll reimburse you for the cost of your airfare and your time. I’ll make a considerable donation to your research fund. There won’t be any more confusion. I’ll be telling my boss and my colleagues the truth of the matter tomorrow. Your PNG colleagues too, if that’s what it takes. And then there’ll be no more lies.’ No more good reputation or friends either, but the devil would have his due and Charlotte only had herself to blame. ‘You’re not married, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Excellent,’ she said faintly.

He’d heard madder explanations. Not often, but it could be done. Grey vacillated between wanting to comfort the apologetic Charlotte and wanting to strangle her.

‘Excuse me for a moment,’ he muttered, and headed back inside towards the box. The tape gave way easily beneath his hands. Probably his temper showing. Clothes came first and he tossed them aside as befitting their importance. Hard copies of various research papers came next—it looked as if they were all there. He pulled out his laptop and his back-up drives. Reference books, all of them. It was all there.

‘What’s missing?’ Associate Professor Charlotte had joined him, she of the velvet voice and excessive imagination. The horror of losing work was something she appeared to understand.

‘Nothing,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve decided not to strangle you.’

‘You’re a rare and generous man,’ she said.

‘I know.’

‘Humility too.’

Sexy velvet voices could be dry as dust and still make his blood stir. Who knew? ‘Let’s not get carried away.’ A warning, and not just for her. He started piling books and references back in the box. The good Charlotte retrieved his clothes and handed them to him at the end.

‘I’ve packing tape in the library,’ she said, and Grey glanced down the hallway towards the innards of the house. The library. Of course. It was the kind of house that ran to libraries, a billiards room, conservatory, tennis court, pool and gym. Family estate, he figured. Unless she’d made her fortune before embarking on a career in archaeology. Possibly as a novelist. Thaddeus. Grey snorted. Possibly not.

‘Don’t worry about the tape. You’d do better worrying about how your work colleagues are going to react when you tell them there’s no fiancé, dead or otherwise. You do realise that your personal and probably your professional integrity is going to be called into question? Assuming you had some in the first place?’

Charlotte’s eyes flashed. Temper temper, and it looked very fine on her but she held her tongue. Not a big woman, by any means, but fragile wasn’t a word he would have used to describe her either. Slender, she was that, but she had some generous curves and an abundance of wavy black hair currently tied back in a messy ponytail. She also possessed a heart-shaped face and a creamy complexion that would put Snow White to shame. A wanton’s mouth. One that turned a man’s mind towards feasting on it. Big doe eyes, with dark curling lashes. ‘Are you really an archaeologist?’

‘Yes,’ she said grimly. ‘And before you start making comparisons between me and a certain tomb-raiding gun-toting female gaming character, I’ve heard them all before.’

And been neither flattered nor amused, he deduced. He hefted the box. She held the door open for him.

‘Do you need any travel directions to wherever it is you’re heading?’ she asked. ‘Provisions, so you can be on your way? Can of drink? Box of crackers?’

‘How did he die?’ asked Grey. ‘This fiancé.’

‘Heroically. Very honourably.’ No need for details, decided Charlotte. Details were bad. ‘It was the least I could do.’

‘Has anyone ever told you that your grip on reality’s a little shaky?’ he murmured.

‘Hello,’ she said dryly. ‘Archaeologist. It’s part of the job description.’

A smile from him then. One that chased the sternness right out of him and left devilry in its place. Charlotte stared, drinking in the details. Greyson Tyler was a dangerously handsome man when he wanted to be. Handsomer than Gil.

‘Hnh,’ she said.

Greyson’s smile widened. ‘You’ll let me know if anything else of mine happens your way?’ he said.

‘Of course.’

His gaze had shifted to her lips and his smile was fading. Something else started moving into place. Something fierce and heated.

‘Will you be staying in Sydney long?’ she all but stuttered. ‘Is there a contact number or address I can reach you at?’

‘I’ll be here for a while,’ he said. ‘And yes, there is.’ Not that he seemed inclined to part with that information. ‘This predicament you’ve got yourself in …’

‘Which one?’

‘The fake dead fiancé. The lie that just keeps getting bigger.’

‘Oh. Right. That predicament.’

‘There is a way around it without necessarily having to come clean about the lie,’ he offered. ‘You’d be indebted to me, of course, but I figure that’s a small price to pay, and I do happen to know of a way in which you could repay me. All strictly above board and harmless, more or less.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘Resurrection.’

‘Pardon?’

‘You’re not the only one with an ex-fiancé,’ he murmured. ‘Although mine happens to be real and she’s not yet dead. She’s also been welcome at my parents’ place since childhood. She’s part of the family, the daughter my mother never had.’

‘No wonder you went paddling up the Sepik afterwards,’ said Charlotte. ‘Who ended the engagement?’

‘I did.’

‘Were you heartbroken?’

‘Do I look heartbroken?’

‘I really don’t know you well enough to tell. Was she heartbroken?’

‘The engagement was a mistake,’ said Greyson Tyler curtly. ‘Sarah wants a conventional husband. One who’s home more often than not. One who’s ready to settle down and start a family.’

‘How unusual,’ murmured Charlotte and wore Greyson’s steel-eyed glare with equanimity.

‘That’s not me. I don’t know if it’ll ever be me, only Sarah—’ He gave a tiny shake of his head. ‘Sarah wants to pick up where we left off. With my family’s blessing.’

‘You’re a big boy. Just say no.’

‘I have. No one seems to believe me. No one wants to believe me. I’m running out of gentle ways of saying no, but maybe you can help me. Maybe I can help you.’

‘How?’

‘I need a woman at my side for a family barbecue next weekend. Preferably one who’s ecstatic about me, my way of life, and what I can give her—which is, needless to say, not a lot. A free spirit who can make Sarah and my family believe that everyone should just move on. In return, I’ll play your back-from-the-dead fiancé whom you can produce, bicker with, and shortly thereafter cut loose in good conscience. No need to admit your original lie at all. Do we have an agreement?’

Charlotte hesitated, a twinge of something that felt a whole lot like wariness riding her hard. An ex-fiancée who wanted Greyson still, maybe even loved him still. A barbecue at which he—they—would dash her hopes as gently as they could. Except that there would be nothing gentle about his ex-fiancée coming face to face with proof positive that Greyson was indeed serious about Sarah needing to move on. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have another shot at discussing this between yourselves?’ she said. ‘Somewhere nice and private? Bring out the steely resolve. Maybe you could say no louder this time.’

‘I have,’ he said darkly. ‘It’s not working. Bringing you along might.’

And still Charlotte hesitated.

‘Never mind.’ His face was closed, his voice clipped. ‘Bad idea.’

‘Wait,’ she said tentatively. ‘How long is it since you broke up?’

‘Two years.’

‘And you really think there’s no other way to dissuade her?’

‘Look, I don’t want to hurt Sarah. I don’t want her to feel that she’s no longer welcome at my parents’ place. I just want her to see …’

See being the operative word.

‘Couldn’t you just tell her that you’ve found someone else?’

Silence from Greyson Tyler. Silence and a bleak black glare. ‘You already have,’ said Charlotte slowly. ‘And now you have to produce her.’

Bingo.

‘You’re as reality challenged as I am,’ she said next.

‘Hardly.’

‘Oh, give it time.’

Another glare from the behemoth. The one who was offering to help with her fiancé problem if she would only help him with his. ‘I don’t do animosity,’ she said firmly. ‘If we do this, we do it with as little hurt as possible.’

‘Agreed.’

‘You arrive at my office tomorrow and things seem a little strained between us,’ she continued. ‘I can take it from there. I attend your family barbecue next weekend, thus providing Sarah with visible evidence that you’ve moved on, and you can take it from there.’

‘Agreed,’ he said. ‘So do we have a deal?’

More lies aside, Greyson Tyler’s suggestion really did seem to solve a multitude of problems. ‘We do.’

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