She should look away now …

Right now, before Nate got the wrong idea. He lifted an eyebrow. Then the corner of his mouth curled up.

She tore her gaze away. As if she’d be foolish enough to take up with a man like him. A man who wanted nothing but to get her naked and take his pleasure.

A wave of heat rolled over her.

Be honest with yourself at least, Elizabeth Jane. He fascinates you. You look at him and see every fantasy you ever had, every dirty thought you never dared share with anyone.

It was true. She found Nathan Jones sexually attractive. Extremely sexually attractive.

And he knew it. He knew she’d been struck speechless by her first sight of him in all his barechested glory this morning. How images of his big body had been slipping into her mind against her will all day. How hot and sticky she felt just thinking about touching his firm, brown skin.

Crazy. This was crazy. She’d never felt so overheated in all her life. It must be the beer. Had to be. Otherwise—

A hand curled around her forearm and tugged her toward the dance floor.

“Come on, Elizabeth,” Nate murmured, “let your hair down …”

About the Author

SARAH MAYBERRY lives in Melbourne, Australia—at the moment! With something like eight moves in the past ten years under her belt, she always keeps the cardboard boxes and packing tape within easy reach. When she’s not moving or planning to move, she’s writing, reading, cooking or trying to get motivated to do some exercise. Oh, and she loves a good movie night. By the time you read this, she also hopes that she will have become a dog owner.

Hot Island

Nights

Sarah Mayberry

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Huge thanks go to Pamela Torrance for giving up her time in the midst of her own upheaval to offer me pointers on what English people sound like. Thanks for the reality check, Pamela—consider the front end “your” part of the book!

As always, this book would not exist without the support of Chris, the heart, backbone and brain of my life. And, of course, Wanda, who never fails to knock me into shape and curb my excesses and cheer me towards the finishing line. Bless you!

Dear Reader,

Who hasn’t had the fantasy of locking eyes with a hot guy across a room and just knowing that he’s yours for the taking—if you want to take him? I’m sure it happens to some women all the time in real life, but for Elizabeth in Hot Island Nights it’s a bolt from the blue. She’s been so damned good all her life—well behaved and polite and always, always a lady. Then she meets Nathan and suddenly the temptation of exploring the other side of herself—the not-so-well-behaved, not-so-polite, not-so-ladylike part of herself—is overwhelming. Of course, what she doesn’t realise is that Nathan is a lot more than a hot, hard body.

When I was growing up, my family spent a lot of time at the beach and often we would go out on my father’s catamaran and pretend to crew for him when in fact we were simply joyriding. They’re great memories and I tried to tap into that store of sun and sand and surf when writing Elizabeth and Nathan’s story—I hope you get a whiff of suntan oil as you read!

Hearing from readers makes my day, so please drop me a line via my website at www.sarahmayberry.com if you feel so inclined.

Until next time, happy reading!

Sarah Mayberry

1

ELIZABETH MASON STARED at the wedding registry in her hand. Printed on expensive linen paper beneath the green and gold Harrods logo, it was a roll call of prestigious brand names: Villeroy & Boch, Royal Doulton, Lalique, Noritake, Le Creuset. There were two dinner sets listed—one for everyday use, one for entertaining—cookware, stemware, cutlery, a champagne bucket, various pieces of barware, vases, platters, table linens …

If their wedding guests bought even half the items listed, she and Martin would have a house full of finely crafted, beautiful things with which to start their married life. Their home would be a showpiece, perfect in every detail.

Elizabeth pressed a hand to her chest. The tight feeling was back. As though she couldn’t get enough air. She lowered her head and concentrated on regulating her breathing.

In, out. In, out.

A delicate piano sonata trickled over the sound system. A salesman brushed past, directing a customer to the Royal Worcester display. A bead of perspiration ran down Elizabeth’s side.

She had to get a grip on these panic attacks. This was supposed to be a happy time. In eight weeks she would be marrying the man she’d been dating for the past six years and starting a new life with him. She shouldn’t be feeling panicky or anxious.

“These are lovely, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth looked up to see her grandmother holding a glass from the Waterford Crystal collection. Light fractured off the highly polished surface of a champagne flute that appeared to be an exact replica of the set her grandparents had at home.

“They’re beautiful,” Elizabeth said. “But I think Martin prefers a more modern look. He’s very keen on the Riedel flutes.”

She could feel heat creeping into her face. She’d always been a terrible liar. She was the one who preferred the more modern design—Martin didn’t give a fig about glassware. But she could hardly come right out and state her preference.

“Have a closer look, see how they feel in your hand,” her grandmother said, gesturing for Elizabeth to join her.

Elizabeth opened her mouth to reiterate her objection—then closed it without saying a word. She knew what would happen once her grandmother realized Elizabeth didn’t share her taste. Grandmama wouldn’t say anything, of course, because it wasn’t her way to express displeasure so directly, but her mouth would turn down at the corners and she’d be withdrawn for the rest of the day. She might not come to dinner, or perhaps there would be some mention of her heart medication.

It was emotional blackmail, of course, something Grandmama was a master at. Over the years she’d shaped Elizabeth’s decisions and actions—major and minor—with the merest flutter of a hand or the mention of a headache or a doctor’s visit. Even though Elizabeth understood the manipulation behind the behavior, she’d always given in. It was easier that way—and, really, at the end of the day, did it matter if she and Martin drank from the Waterford glasses instead of the Riedels if it made her grandmother happy?

So instead of standing her ground, she joined her grandmother and held the glass and agreed that it had a very pleasing weight in the hand, perfect for special occasions. Her grandmother collared a saleswoman and began asking questions about the manufacturing process and whether it would be possible to order replacement glasses in the future should any breakages occur.

Elizabeth stood to one side with a small, polite smile on her face. Around her, sales staff glided amongst the displays, talking in hushed, reverential tones. Everywhere she looked there were exquisite, fragile, priceless things, arranged to appeal to even the most fastidious eye.

Her gaze fell on a nearby table of cut-glass whiskey decanters. She had a vision of herself grabbing the table and upending the whole damn thing, sending the decanters smashing to the ground. It was so real her hands curled as though they were already gripping the table edge, and she could almost hear the crash of breaking glass and the shocked cries of the staff and customers.

She took a step backward and gripped her hands together.

Not because she thought there was any danger of her actually upending the display. There was no way she’d ever do such a thing.

She took another step away.

It’s just prewedding jitters, she told herself. Nothing to worry about. Every bride feels this way before her wedding.

Except this wasn’t the only reckless, anarchic impulse she’d had to quell recently. At last week’s Friends of the Royal Academy luncheon she’d had to stifle the urge to throw back her head and scream at the top of her lungs when old Mr. Lewisham had droned on about the quality of the napkins in the Academy’s coffee shop and what it said about “society’s declining standards.” And yesterday she’d found her steps slowing outside a tattoo parlor near King’s Cross station, admiring the tribal rose motif snaking up the arm of the girl behind the counter. She’d actually taken a step inside the store before common sense had reasserted itself and she’d remembered who she was.

“Elizabeth. Did you hear a word I just said?” her grandmother asked.

Elizabeth snapped into focus. Both the saleswoman and her grandmother were watching her, waiting for her response.

“Sorry, Grandmama, I was daydreaming,” she said.

Her grandmother patted her arm fondly. “Come and have a look at the Wedgwood.”

Smile fixed firmly in place, Elizabeth allowed herself to be led away.

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON by the time she returned to her grandparents’ Georgian town house in Mayfair. Her grandmother had come back after lunch for her afternoon rest, leaving Elizabeth to keep her appointment with the florist on her own. Elizabeth had dropped in to visit her friend Violet’s boutique in Notting Hill on the way home and the hall clock was chiming six as she entered the house. She let her bag slide down her arm and started pulling off her scarf and gloves.

It was Tuesday, which meant Martin would be arriving any minute. He always ate here on Tuesday night. Just as he always played squash on Wednesdays and took her out for dinner on Fridays. If she hurried, she’d have time to freshen up before he arrived.

The housekeeper had stacked Elizabeth’s mail neatly on the hall table and she flicked through it quickly as she turned toward the stairs. An official-looking envelope caught her eye and she paused. Martin had asked her to order a copy of her birth certificate so he could apply for their marriage license, since he was unable to request the certificate on her behalf. She tore the envelope open to confirm that it had finally arrived. One more thing to cross off her to-do list.

She unfolded the single sheet of paper, glancing over it quickly to check everything was in order. Elizabeth Jane Mason, born August 24, 1980, mother’s name Eleanor Mary Whittaker, father’s name—

Her scarf and gloves slipped from her fingers to the hall floor as she stared at the name beneath the box clearly marked Father’s Given Name and Surname.

Sam Blackwell.

Who the hell is Sam Blackwell?

Her father was John Alexander Mason. Born January 16, 1942, killed in the same light-plane accident as her mother twenty-three years ago.

This had to be a mistake. It had to be.

Elizabeth focused on the closed door at the end of the long hallway. She started walking, certificate in hand, an uncomfortable tightness in her belly.

The sound of low, masculine laughter could be heard from behind the door of her grandfather’s study as she drew closer, but for the first time in her life she didn’t bother to knock.

“There’s been some kind of mistake,” she said as she barged into the room.

“Elizabeth. I was wondering when you’d get home,” Martin said.

Her fiancé stood and approached to kiss her, his gray eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. As usual he was dressed immaculately in a tailored three-piece suit and conservatively striped silk tie, his dark hair parted neatly.

Instead of offering her mouth for his kiss, she thrust the certificate at him.

“Look. They’ve made a mistake. They’ve got my father’s name wrong on my birth certificate.”

For a split second Martin stilled. Then he shot her grandfather a quick, indecipherable look before turning his attention to the birth certificate.

“I thought you were going to have this delivered to the office so I could take care of the marriage license.” Martin spoke mildly, but there was an undercurrent of tension in his voice.

Elizabeth looked at him, then at her grandfather’s carefully blank face, and she knew.

It wasn’t a mistake.

“What’s going on?” Her voice sounded strange, wobbly and high.

“Why don’t you have a seat, Elizabeth?” her grandfather suggested.

She allowed herself to be ushered into one of the buttonback leather chairs facing the formidable mahogany desk. Her grandfather waited until Martin had taken the other seat before speaking.

“There is no mistake, I’m afraid. The man you know as your father, John Mason, was actually your stepfather. He married your mother when you were two years old.”

For a moment there was nothing but the sound of the clock ticking. Elizabeth started to speak, then stopped because she had no idea what to say.

She’d been devastated by her parents’ deaths when she was seven years old. For the first few months she’d lived with her grandparents she’d cried herself to sleep every night. She treasured the small mementos she had of her childhood—the vintage Steiff teddy bear her parents had given her when she was four, the rock fossils they’d found together on a family holiday, the empty perfume bottle that had once held her mother’s favorite scent.

But now her grandfather was telling her that her parents weren’t both dead, that it was her stepfather who’d died. That her real father—the stranger whose name was listed on her birth certificate—might still be alive and well somewhere in the world.

“Why has no one ever told me this before?”

“Because it wasn’t necessary. I won’t go into details, but Sam Blackwell is not someone we want involved in your life. John Mason was your father in every other way, so we didn’t see the point in bringing up something that was best forgotten,” her grandfather said.

There were so many assumptions in his speech, so many judgments. And all of them made on her behalf, with no consultation with her whatsoever.

Elizabeth’s hands curled into fists. “Is he alive? My real father?”

“I believe so, yes.”

She leaned forward. “Where does he live? What does he do? Is he in London? How can I contact him?”

“Elizabeth, I know this is a shock for you, but when you’ve had a chance to process I’m sure you’ll agree that it really doesn’t change your life in any substantial way,” Martin said.

Elizabeth focussed on Martin for the first time. “You knew.”

“Your grandfather told me after I proposed.”

“You’ve known for six months and you didn’t tell me?”

“Don’t be angry with Martin. I requested that he respect my confidence. I didn’t see the point in getting you upset over nothing,” her grandfather said.

Nothing? Nothing?

“I’m thirty years old. I don’t need to be protected. I deserve the truth. And my father being alive is not nothing. It is very decidedly something.”

Martin shifted uncomfortably. Her grandfather placed his hands flat on the leather blotter on his desk and eyed her steadily.

“We did what we thought was best for you.”

This was usually the point in any argument with her grandparents when she retreated. They’d taken her in when her parents died and bent over backward to ensure she had a happy childhood. They’d sent her to the best schools, attended every school play and recital and parent-teacher night, taken her on holidays to France and Italy—all despite her grandmother’s heart condition and frail health. Elizabeth had grown up with a strong sense of obligation toward them and a determination that she would never be more of a burden than she had to be.

She’d excelled at school, then at university. She’d never stayed out late or come home drunk. She’d never had a one-night stand. Even her husband-to-be had come with their seal of approval, since he worked at her grandfather’s law firm.

She owed them so much—everything, really. But she also owed herself. And what they’d done was wrong.

“This was my decision to make. You had no right to keep this from me.”

Because she didn’t trust herself to say more, because rage and a bunch of unwise, unruly words were pressing at the back of her throat, she stood and left the room. She’d barely made it halfway up the hall when she heard Martin coming after her.

“Elizabeth. Slow down.”

He caught her elbow. She spun on him, pulling her arm free.

“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down or that this doesn’t matter, Martin. Don’t you dare.”

Her chest was heaving with the intensity of her emotions and he took a step away, clearly taken aback by her ferocity.

“If I could have told you without breaking your grandfather’s confidence, I would have. Believe me.” He was deeply sincere, his eyes worried.

“You’re my fiancé, Martin. Don’t you think you owe your loyalty to me before my grandfather?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Under ordinary circumstances, yes, but your grandfather and I have a professional relationship as well as a personal one.”

“I see.” And she did. Martin was hoping to be made partner at the firm this year. The last thing he wanted was to rock the boat.

He reached out and took her hand, his thumb brushing reassuringly across her knuckles. “Elizabeth, if we could go somewhere private and talk this through, I’m sure you’ll understand that everything was done with your best interests at heart.”

Her incredulous laughter sounded loud in the hall.

“My best interests? How on earth would you know what my best interests are, Martin? You’re so busy telling me what’s good for me, you have no idea who I am or what I really want. It’s like those bloody awful Waterford champagne flutes. No one cares what I think, and I’m such a pathetic coward I swallow it and swallow it and swallow it, even while I tell myself it’s because I want to do the right thing and not upset the applecart.”

Martin frowned. “Champagne flutes? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She knew he didn’t, but it was all inextricably entwined in her head: her anger at her grandparents and Martin for this huge betrayal of her trust, her feelings of frustration and panic over the wedding, the suffocated feeling she got every time her grandparents made a decision for her or Martin spoke to her in that soothing tone and treated her as though she were made of fine porcelain.

“I can’t do this,” she said, more to herself than him. “This is a mistake.”

It was suddenly very clear to her.

Martin slid his arm around her shoulders, trying to draw her into a hug. “Elizabeth, you’re getting yourself upset.”

The feeling of his arms closing so carefully around her was the last straw. She braced her hands against his chest and pushed free from his embrace.

“I want to call off the wedding.”

Martin blinked, then reached for her again. “You don’t mean that. You’re upset.”

She held him off. “Violet has been saying for months that I should stop and think about what I’m doing, and she’s right. I don’t want this, Martin. I feel like I’m suffocating.”

“Violet. I might have known she’d have something to do with this. What rubbish has she been filling your head with now? The joys of being a free and easy slapper in West London? Or maybe how to get a head start on cirrhosis?”

He’d never liked Violet, which was only fair, since her best friend had taken a violent aversion to him from the moment they’d first met.

“No, actually. She pointed out that I was going to be thirty this year and that if I didn’t wake up and smell the coffee I’d be fifty and still living the life my grandparents chose for me.”

“What a load of rubbish.”

She looked at him, standing there in his Savile Row suit, his bespoke shirt pristine-white. He didn’t understand. Maybe he couldn’t.

She knew about his childhood, about the poverty and the sacrifices his working-class single mom had made to send him to university. Elizabeth’s life—the life they were supposed to have together once they were married—was the fulfillment of all his aspirations. The high-paying partnership with the long-established law firm, the well-bred wife to come home to, the holidays on the French or Italian Riviera, membership at all the right men’s clubs.

“We can’t get married, Martin. You don’t know who I am,” she said quietly. “How could you? I don’t even know who I am.”

She turned and walked up the hallway.

“Elizabeth. Can we at least talk about this?”

She kept walking. Her grandparents were going to be upset when they heard she’d called off the wedding. It wouldn’t simply be a case of her grandmother having a headache—this would instigate full-scale damage control. They’d use every trick in the book to try to make her see sense. They’d make her feel guilty and stupid and wrong without actually accusing her of being any of those things. And she was so used to not rocking the boat, to toeing the line and doing the right thing that she was terribly afraid that she might listen to them and wind up married to Martin and unpacking all those expensive Harrods housewares in her marital home.

She needed some time to herself. To think. To work things out. Somewhere private and quiet. She thought of Violet’s apartment above her shop and quickly discarded it. Even if it wasn’t only a one bedroom, she wouldn’t find much peace and quiet in Violet’s hectic world. Plus it would be the first place her grandparents would look for her. Then she remembered what she’d said to Martin—I don’t even know who I am—and the answer came to her.

She would go to her father. Wherever he might be. She would find him, and she would go to him, and she would start working out who Elizabeth Jane Mason really was, and what she really wanted.

FOUR DAYS LATER, ELIZABETH OPENED her rental car window and sucked in big lungfuls of fresh air. Her eyes were gritty with fatigue and she opened them wide, willing herself to wakefulness. She’d been traveling for nearly thirty hours to reach the other side of the world and now the foreign, somberhued scrub of rural Australia was rushing past as she drove southwest from Melbourne toward Phillip Island, a small dot on the map nestled in the mouth of Westernport Bay.

She’d spent the past few days holed up in a hotel room in Soho while Violet leaned on her police-officer cousin to use his contacts to locate Elizabeth’s father. The moment she’d learned that Sam Blackwell’s last known place of residence was Phillip Island in Victoria, Australia, Elizabeth had booked a room at a local hotel and jumped on a plane.

She hadn’t spoken to her grandparents beyond assuring them she was fine and perfectly sane and determined to stand by her decision to cancel the wedding. Her grandfather had tried to talk her out of it over the phone, of course, but she’d cut the conversation short.

Whatever happened next in her life was going to be her decision and no one else’s.

The San Remo bridge appeared in front of her and she drove over a long stretch of water. Then she was on the island and the thought of meeting her father, actually looking into his face and perhaps seeing an echo of her own nose or eyes or cheekbones, chased the weariness away.

She had no idea what to expect from this meeting. She wasn’t even sure what she wanted from it. A sense of connection? Information about where she came from? A replacement for the parents she’d lost when she was only seven years old?

The truth was, she could hardly remember her mother and father—or the man she knew as her father. There were snatches of memory—her mother laughing, the smell of her stepfather’s pipe tobacco, moments from a family holiday—but precious little else. Her mother was always slightly sad in her few clear memories, her stepfather distant. Despite her lack of recall—or, perhaps, because of it—she’d always felt as though something profound was missing in her life. Her grandparents had been kind and loving in their own way, but their careful guardianship had not filled the gap the loss of her parents had left in her heart.

A gap she’d never fully acknowledged until right this minute. It was only now that she was on the verge of meeting her biological father for the first time that she understood how much she’d always craved the wordless, instinctive connection between parent and child, how she’d envied her friends their relationships with their parents.

Her hands tightened on the steering wheel and she gave herself a mental pep talk as she drove into the tree-lined main street of the township of Cowes, the most densely populated township on the island. It was highly likely that her father didn’t even know she existed. Arriving on his doorstep full of expectations was the best way to start off on the wrong foot. She needed to be realistic and patient. They were strangers. There was no reason to think that they would feel any special connection with each other, despite the fact that they shared DNA.

And yet her stomach still lurched with nervousness as she turned the corner onto her father’s street and stopped out the front of a cream and Brunswick-green house that had all the architectural appeal of a shoe box. Clad in vertical aluminum siding, it featured a flat roof, a deep overhang over a concrete porch, sliding metal windows and a patchy, brown front lawn.

A far cry from the elegant, historically listed homes of Mayfair. She wiped her suddenly sweaty hands on the thighs of her trousers.

She had no idea what kind of man her father was. What sort of life he’d led. How he might react to his long-lost daughter appearing on his doorstep.

She’d had a lot of time to think about what might have happened between her mother and father all those years ago. In between dodging phone calls from Martin and reassuring her grandparents, she’d made some inquiries. She’d discovered that John Mason and her mother had married in January 1982 when Elizabeth was seventeen months old—further proof, if she’d been looking for it, that the birth certificate was accurate and John was not her father.

What the marriage record couldn’t tell her was when her stepfather and mother had met or how long they’d dated before they got married or if there had been another man on the scene at the time. Her father, for example.

Her grandfather clearly didn’t have a great opinion of Sam Blackwell. She wondered what her father had done to earn his condemnation. She’d been tempted to confront her grandfather again before she departed and insist he tell her everything he knew, but after a great deal of debating she’d decided not to. She was going to meet her father and talk to him and hear his story and form her own opinion about him.

But before she did any of that, she needed to get her backside out of the car and across the lawn to her father’s front door.

She didn’t move.

Come on, Elizabeth. You didn’t fly all this way to sit in a hire car out the front of your father’s house like some sort of deranged stalker.

And yet she still didn’t reach for the door handle.

This meant so much to her. A chance to feel connected to someone. A chance to have a father.

Just do it, Elizabeth.

She curled her fingers around the cool metal of the door handle just as her phone rang, the sound shrill in the confines of the car. She checked caller ID.

“Violet,” she said as she took the call.

“E. How was your flight? What’s happening? Have you spoken to him yet?”

“Long. Not much. And no,” Elizabeth said, answering her friend’s questions in order. “I’m sitting in front of his house right now, trying to get up the courage to knock on the door.”

“You’re nervous.”

“Just a little.”

“Don’t be. Once he gets to know you, he’ll be over the moon you’ve tracked him down.”

Elizabeth pulled a face. Violet’s vote of confidence was lovely, but if her father knew she existed—a big if—he’d clearly had his reasons for keeping his distance for the past thirty-odd years.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m doing this all wrong.” Elizabeth studied the slightly shabby house doubtfully. “Maybe I should have made contact with a letter or e-mail first. Used a lawyer to break the ice …”

“No. You’ve done the right thing. And even if you haven’t, you’re there now. All you have to do is knock on his door.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Elizabeth joked.

“Come on, E. You’re a woman on a mission, remember? You’re reclaiming your life, striking out on your own. Shaking off old Droopy Drawers was just the first step.”

Elizabeth frowned at her friend’s less-than-flattering description of Martin. “I wish you wouldn’t call him that. Just because I’ve decided not to marry him doesn’t mean he’s a bad person.”

“True. It’s not as though he’s going around literally boring people to death. Although he took a fairly good stab at stifling the life out of you.”

“Vi …”

“Sorry. I just think it should be a punishable offense for someone as young as he is to carry on like a crusty old bugger. How many thirty-two-year-olds do you know wear cardigans with leather elbow patches?”

“Just because he dresses conservatively doesn’t mean he’s crusty, Vi. He’s just … conservative,” Elizabeth finished lamely.

“Conservative? I’m sorry, E, but conservative is not the word for a man who refuses to have sex in anything other than the missionary position. The word you’re looking for is repressed.”

Elizabeth kneaded her forehead with the tips of her fingers. “You have no idea how much I regret ever saying anything to you about that, Vi.”

Martin would be mortified if he knew that she’d discussed their sex life with anyone. Especially Violet.

Elizabeth blamed her dentist. If it hadn’t been for the stupid article in the stupid women’s magazine in his waiting room, there was no way she would have tried to talk to Martin about her “sexual needs and desires” instead of “vainly waiting for him to intuit” them, and there was no way she would have felt the need to seek counsel from her best friend in the embarrassing aftermath.

“I’m not going to apologize for refusing to let you sweep that sterling little moment under the rug,” Violet said. “Normal people—note I’m stressing the word normal, as opposed to uptight repressives—talk to each other about sex and explore their sexuality and have fun in bed. They don’t pat you on the head and tell you they respect you too much to objectify you, or whatever rubbish excuse he came out with after you’d finally got up the gumption to talk to him. And I love that he tried to make it all about you, by the way, and not about his hang-ups.”

“I really don’t want to talk about this again.”

But Violet was off and running on one of her favorite rants. “For God’s sake, it wasn’t as though you asked him to tie you up and go at you with a cheese grater or something. You wanted to do it doggy style, big bloody deal. There were no small animals involved, no leather or hot wax.”

“I’ve called off the wedding, Vi. This is definitely filed under The Past. You need to let it go.”

There was a small silence on the other end of the phone.

“You’re right. Sorry. He just really gets on my wick.”

“Well, you’ll probably never have to see him again, since he’s hardly going to want to know me once he’s gotten over the fact that I’ve dumped him. That should make you feel better.”

A dart of fear raced down Elizabeth’s spine as she registered her own words. She’d changed the course of her life by walking away from the wedding and she had no idea what might happen next. A terrifying, knee-weakening thought. But she refused to regret her decision. The truth was she’d never really loved Martin the way a woman should love the man with whom she planned to spend the rest of her life. She was fond of him. She admired his many good qualities. He made her feel safe. But he also exasperated her and made her yearn for … something she didn’t even have a name for.

“E. Someone’s just come into the shop and I have to go. But you can do this, okay? Just get out of the car and go introduce yourself. Whatever comes after that, you’ll handle it.”

“Thanks, coach. And thanks for all the hand-holding and tissue-passing and intel-gathering over the past few days,” Elizabeth said.

“Pshaw,” her friend said before ending the call.

Elizabeth put her phone in her handbag and took a deep breath. It was time to stop fannying about and get this over and done with.

Her heart in her mouth, she opened the car door and stepped into the hot Australian sun.

2

NATHAN JONES WOKE TO a single moment of pure nothingness. For a split second before the forgetfulness of sleep fell away, he felt nothing, knew nothing, remembered nothing.

It was the best part of his day, hands down.

And then he woke fully and it was all there: the memories, the anxiety, the guilt and shame and fear. Heavy and relentless and undeniable.

He stared at the ceiling for a long beat, wondering at the fact that he kept forcing himself to jump through the flaming hoop of this shit, day in, day out. There was precious little joy in it and plenty of pain.

Then he forced himself to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. It wasn’t like he had a choice, after all. He wasn’t a quitter. Even though there were times when it seemed damned appealing.

His head started throbbing the moment he was upright. He breathed deeply. It would pass soon enough. God knew he’d chalked up enough experience dealing with hangovers over the past four months to know.

The important thing was that he hadn’t woken once that he could remember. If the price he had to pay this morning for oblivion last night was a hangover, then so be it.

He stood and ran a hand over his hair, then grabbed the towel flung over the end of the bed and wrapped it around his waist. He worked his tongue around his mouth as he headed for the door. Water was called for. And maybe some food. Although he wasn’t certain about the food part just yet.

The full glare of the midmorning sun hit him the moment he stepped out of the studio into the yard. He grunted and shielded his eyes with his forearm. Looked like it was going to be another stinker.

He crossed to the main house and entered the kitchen. The kitchen floor was gritty with sand beneath his feet and he smiled to himself. Sam would have a cow when he came home, no doubt. Nate had never met a guy more anal about keeping things shipshape and perfect. A regular Mr. Clean, was Sammy.

The fridge yielded a bottle of water and he closed his eyes, dropped his head back and tipped it down his throat. He swallowed and swallowed until his teeth ached from the cold, then put the nearly empty bottle onto the kitchen counter. He was about to head to the shower when a knock sounded at the front door.

Nate frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Didn’t particularly want to see anyone, either. That was the whole point of being on the island—privacy. Peace and quiet. Space.

He walked through the living room to the front hallway. He could see a silhouette through the glass panel in the door. As he hovered, debating whether or not to answer, the silhouette lifted its hand and knocked again.

“Coming,” he said, aware he sounded more than a little like a grumpy old man.

The door swung open and he found himself facing a tall, slim woman with delicately sculpted features and deep blue eyes, her pale blond hair swept up into the kind of hairstyle that made him think of Grace Kelly and other old-school movie stars.

“Yes?” he said, his tone even more brusque. Probably because he hadn’t expected to find someone so beautiful on his front step.

She opened her mouth then closed it without saying anything as her startled gaze swept from his face to his chest, belly and south, then up to his bare chest again. There was a long, pregnant silence as she stared at his sternum. Then she pinned her gaze on a point just beyond his right shoulder and cleared her throat.

“I’m terribly sorry. I’m looking for Sam Blackwell. I was told this is his place of residence.”

Her voice was clipped and cultured, the kind of cut-glass accent he associated with the royal family and people who maintained a string of polo ponies.

“You’ve got the right place, but Sam’s not around right now,” he said.

“I see. Could you tell me when he’ll be back?” She darted a quick, nervous glance toward his chest before fixing her gaze over his shoulder again. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she’d never seen a bare chest before, the way she couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye. Six months ago he would have been amused and intrigued by her flustered reaction—she was a beautiful woman, after all.

But that was six months ago.

“Sam won’t be back until the new year,” he said. “Try him again after the fifth or sixth.”

He started to swing the door closed between them.

“The new year? But that’s nearly a month away.” Her eyes met his properly for the first time, wide with disbelief and maybe a little bit of dismay.

His gut told him to close the door, send her on her way. He had enough on his plate without taking on someone else’s worries.

“Not much I can do about that, sorry,” he said instead.

She pushed a strand of hair off her forehead. The movement made her white linen shirt gape and he caught a glimpse of coffee-colored lace and silk.

“Do you have a number I can contact him at?”

“No offense, but I’m not about to hand Sam’s number out to just anybody.”

She blinked. “But I’m not just anybody, I assure you.”

“If you want to leave your number and a message with me, I’ll make sure he gets it.”

She frowned. “This isn’t the kind of thing you handle with a message.”

Nate shrugged. He’d offered her a solution, but if she wasn’t interested.

“Then maybe you need to wait till Sam’s back in town.”

“I’ve travelled thousands of miles to see him, Mr….?” She paused, waiting for him to supply his name.

“Nate. Nathan Jones.”

“My name’s Elizabeth Mason.”

She held out her hand. After a second’s hesitation he shook it. Her fingers were cool and slender, her skin very soft.

“I really need to make contact with Sam Rockwell,” she said, offering what he guessed was her best social smile.

“Like I said, leave your number with me, and I’ll make sure he gets it.”

Her finely arched eyebrows came together in a frown. “Perhaps you could tell me where he is, then, if you won’t give me his number?”

“Look, Ms. Mason, whatever this is about, if Sam owes you money or something else, the best I can do for you is to pass your number on. That’s it, end of story.”

“I’m not a debt collector.” She appeared shocked at the idea.

“Whatever. That’s my best offer, take it or leave it.”

When she simply stared at him, he shrugged. “Fine,” he said, and he started closing the door again.

“He’s my father. Sam Blackwell is my father,” she blurted.

That got his attention.

Sam had never mentioned a daughter, or any other family for that matter. Not that the omission necessarily meant anything, given that Sam wasn’t exactly the talkative type.

Nate frowned. Why would Sam invite his daughter to visit when he knew he was going to be interstate?

“Sam didn’t know you were coming, did he?”

“No, he didn’t.” She gave a nervous little laugh. “In fact, I suspect he doesn’t even know I exist. Which makes me incredibly stupid to have jumped on a plane to come find him like this, but I didn’t even think about the fact that he might not even be here—”

Nate took an instinctive step backward as her voice broke and tears filled her eyes.

Should have shut the door when you had the chance, buddy.

She tilted her head back and blinked rapidly. Nate considered and discarded a number of responses before reluctantly pushing the door wide.

“You’d better come in,” he said.

She gave him a grateful look as she walked past him and into the house. He led her to the kitchen.

“You want some water?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He waved her toward one of the beat-up vinyl upholstered chairs around the kitchen table, then grabbed a glass from the cupboard and filled it at the tap.

“Thank you,” she said as he handed her the glass. “I promise I’m not normally like this. It’s just that it’s been a long flight and things have been a little crazy lately. And I really should have thought this through some more—” She shook her head. The hand holding the glass was trembling with emotion. “Sorry. I’m babbling again. I’m not normally a babbler, either.”

She offered him a tremulous smile. She looked so vulnerable sitting there, so lost and confused.

Everything in Nate screamed retreat. He didn’t need this.

“Look, I don’t want to get involved in some kind of family dispute or This Is Your Life situation,” he said.

Her smile disappeared as a deep flush rose up her neck and into her cheeks.

“I don’t believe I asked you to get involved, Mr. Jones. I was simply conveying the facts of my situation to you.”

“Well, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not know even that.”

“By all means.” Chair legs scraped across the linoleum floor as she stood abruptly. “If you’d simply give me my father’s number, I won’t bother you a moment longer.”

Nate reached for the pad and pen beside the phone and pushed them across the counter toward her.

“Give me your number, I’ll make sure Sam gets it,” he repeated.

She might be beautiful, she might even have what he suspected was a great ass under the expensive tailoring of her crumpled linen trousers, but he wasn’t about to sic her on his old friend without some kind of warning.

She stared at him incredulously. “You’re still not going to give me his contact details? Even after everything I’ve just told you?”

“Sam’s my friend.”

Her chest rose and fell as though she was fighting to restrain herself from saying something. Then her mouth firmed and her chin came up.

“Fine. Thank you for the water.”

She turned toward the door.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he said. He tapped the pen against the pad.

Her nostrils flared. Then, holding herself very upright, she strode to the kitchen counter and snatched the pen from his hand, writing her phone number in the elegant, curling strokes of a bygone era. When she was finished she dropped the pen onto the counter and lifted her chin even higher.

“I can see myself out, thank you,” she said with enormous dignity.

“Where are you staying in town?”

“I fail to see how that’s any of your business.”

“In case your phone doesn’t work for some reason, so I can leave a message for you,” he explained patiently. Although he was fast running out of that particular commodity. He hadn’t asked for Ms. Mason and her troubles to walk in the door.

“I’m sure it will be fine.”

The look she gave him was so snooty, the tilt of her head so imperious he decided he’d done his good deed for the day.

“Fair enough. Don’t blame me if I can’t contact you for some reason.”

A small muscle worked in her jaw. He had the distinct impression she was grinding her teeth.

“I’m staying at the Isle of Wight,” she finally said.

“Duly noted.”

She hovered for a second as though she didn’t quite know what to do next, then she strode to the front door. She paused on the verge of exiting, looking back at him across the width of the living room.

“And by the way, Mr. Jones, where I come from it’s good manners to put clothes on before receiving visitors,” she said.

She was so hoity-toity, so on her dignity that Nate couldn’t help himself—he laughed, the sound bursting out of him and echoing loudly off the walls. By the time he’d pulled himself together enough to notice, she was gone.

The smile slowly faded from his lips. It had been a long time since he’d laughed like that. A long time.

For no reason that he was prepared to acknowledge, he walked into the living room and pushed the curtain to one side. Despite her touch-me-not, refined air she had a sexy sway to her walk and he watched her ass the whole way to her car.

She opened the car and slid into the driver’s seat, but didn’t take off immediately. Instead, she simply sat there, her head lowered, her expression unreadable from this distance.

Trying to work out what to do next, he figured.

He told himself that she was none of his business, that he had more than enough shit to shovel in his own life, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. And he couldn’t stop thinking about the way her hand had trembled when she held the glass of water. And how lost and scared she’d sounded under all that well-educated, well-enunciated hauteur.

“Bloody hell.”

He grabbed a pair of board shorts from the laundry, tugged them on, then exited the house and walked down the hot concrete path toward her car. She didn’t notice him approaching and she started when he rapped on the passenger window. She hesitated a second, then pressed the button to lower the glass.

“Look, Sam’s in Sydney until the start of the race and won’t get into Hobart until New Year’s Eve at the soonest,” he said. “But once he knows you’re here, I’m sure he’ll come straight back.”

“Race? What race?”

“The Sydney to Hobart yacht race.”

She bit her lip. “I’ve heard of that. Isn’t it very dangerous?”

“Sam’s an experienced sailor. One of the best.”

“Is that what he does? Sail, I mean?”

“He hires out as crew mostly, and sometimes he delivers yachts for owners.”

He took a step backward to signal the question-and-answer session was over. It wasn’t his place to fill in the blanks for her. That was between father and daughter. Nothing to do with him.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve spoken to Sam,” he said.

She hesitated, then nodded. The glass slid up between them and she started the car then pulled away from the curb.

Nate watched until she’d turned the corner. Guilt ate at him. He should have helped her more. Reassured her. She’d come a long way looking for a man she knew nothing about. He could have called Sam on the spot, told him—

Nate caught himself before he let the thought go any further. Since when had he made himself Elizabeth Mason’s knight in shining armor?

He smiled grimly, the action more a show of teeth than anything else. Rescuing damsels in distress was hardly his forte, after all. Look what had happened to the last damsel who’d put her faith in him.

Tension banded his shoulders and chest. Pressure pushed at the back of his eyes and nose. His heart started to race as sweat prickled beneath his arms.

Olivia. Bloody, bloody hell.

He stared at the dry lawn beneath his feet, battling with himself. Then he strode toward the house and took the steps to the porch in one long-legged leap. Usually he tried not to drink before four o’clock, but trial and error had taught him that there was only one way to hold the anxiety at bay. He went straight to the kitchen and grabbed a can of beer from the fridge. He downed it quickly, closing his eyes and waiting for the alcohol to warm his belly. Vodka would be faster, of course, as would any other hard spirit. He wasn’t sure why he clung to beer as his therapy of choice. The illusion that it still meant he had some self-control, perhaps?

Whatever. The tight feeling banding his chest eased and he reached for his second beer with less urgency.

After this, maybe he’d phone around, see who was heading out to Summerlands or one of the other surf beaches so he could catch a few waves. Kill a few hours before he could hit the pub at a more socially acceptable time and start drinking himself toward oblivion again.

And then another day would be over. One less trial to be faced. Hip, hip, hooray.

ELIZABETH STARED AT THE peeling paint on her hotel room ceiling. The sound of laughter and the hum of conversation drifted in the open window. She’d been trying to sleep for the past three hours, but the room she’d been assigned at the Isle of Wight Hotel boasted only an old oscillating fan to combat the heat. Even though she was lying in her underwear on top of the sheets it was like being in a sauna. A really noisy, loud sauna, thanks to the fact that her window looked out over the hotel’s beer garden.

She was so tired she should have been able to sleep through a hurricane, but her mind was racing, going over and over the same ground. She didn’t know what to do. Stay and wait for her father to come home? Go to Sydney and try to track him down somehow? Or—God forbid—return to England with her tail between her legs.

She hated the idea of having come all this way for nothing, but the idea of waiting and putting her trust in Nathan Jones was enough to fill her with despair.

She made an impatient sound and flopped onto her back. Every time she thought about Nathan Jones she got annoyed all over again. The way he’d told her straight up that he didn’t trust her and that he didn’t want to get involved in whatever was going on between her and her father. The way he’d shrugged so negligently when she’d been practically throwing herself on his mercy.

“Stupid beach-bum git,” she muttered.

Because that was exactly what he was—a beach bum. He’d very obviously just rolled out of bed when he opened the door, even though it was nearly midday. His short, dark hair had been rumpled, his pale blue eyes bloodshot, and she’d caught a whiff of stale beer when she passed him on the way to the kitchen. It wasn’t hard to guess what he’d been up to last night.

As for the way he’d stood around with nothing but a frayed towel hanging low on his hips and his ridiculously overdeveloped body on display.

She stirred, uneasy about the way images of his big, hard body kept sliding into her mind. The deeply tanned firmness of his shoulders. The trail of gold-tinted hair that bisected his hard belly and disappeared beneath the towel. The way his biceps had bulged when he crossed his arms over his chest.

The way he’d laughed at her when she’d reminded him that anyone with half-decent manners would have thrown some clothes on before inviting someone into his home.

She sat up and swung her legs to the floor.

Clearly, she wasn’t going to get any sleep.

She crossed the threadbare carpet to where she’d left the shopping bags from her brief foray along Main Street earlier in the day. By the time she’d checked into her room her linen shirt had been damp beneath her armpits and perspiration had been running down the backs of her knees. She’d packed for an English summer, not an Australian one, and she’d quickly realized she would need to get a few items of lighter clothing if she was going to survive the next few days with her sanity intact. She’d bought herself a yellow-and-red sundress and a couple of pastel-colored tank tops. None of it was in her usual style—tailored, elegant—but it was light and breezy and much more suitable for the weather.

Now she pulled on the sundress and checked herself in the tarnished mirror on the back of the bathroom door. The skirt was a little shorter than she’d like—just above her knee—and the halter neck meant she couldn’t wear a bra, but there was no doubting that the cotton fabric was blessedly cool compared to her own clothes.

She spent a few minutes coiling her hair into a neat chignon, then she checked her watch. Six o’clock. The whole evening stretched ahead of her, long and empty.

Maybe she should explore Main Street more thoroughly while the light lasted. Or perhaps she could walk along the jetty, maybe even along the beach …?

She crossed to the window to close it before she left the room and her gaze fell on the life and color and movement in the beer garden downstairs. There were dozens of holidaymakers clustered around tables, dressed in shorts and swimsuits and bright summer clothes, downing beer and wine and laughing with each other.

Every time she’d ever holidayed someplace warm she’d always been traveling with her grandparents or Martin. The sort of restaurants and hotels they favored were discreet and refined—a far cry from the raucous chaos on display down below.

A peal of laughter floated up through the window and Elizabeth found herself smiling instinctively in response.

If Violet was here, she’d go down and join in the fun, a little voice whispered in her ear.

Elizabeth frowned and pulled the window closed, flicking the lock into place.

She wasn’t Violet. She couldn’t just go downstairs and buy herself a drink and become part of the noise and the laughter. That simply wasn’t the kind of person she was.

Who says? I thought this was about finding out who you really are, what you really want? Wouldn’t going downstairs be part of that? the voice piped up again. Perhaps not very surprisingly, it sounded exactly like her best friend.

“You’re a damned interfering nag, you know that?” she told her empty room.

But she knew the voice was right. She’d run away from her old life because she was afraid of the person she’d nearly become. If she was going to find herself, she needed to go looking. She needed to push against her old notions of who she was.

She grabbed her purse and her room key and made herself walk out the door before she could think herself out of it. Nerves fluttered in her belly as she descended the stairs and walked into the din of the crowded main bar. She paused for a moment to get her bearings, a little overwhelmed by the noise and the press of people and all the bare flesh on display. The smell of beer and fried food and suntan lotion hung heavily in the air, and the carpet underfoot was both sticky from years’ worth of spilled drinks and gritty with sand that had been tracked in from the beach.

It’s just a pub, Elizabeth, she told herself, and they’re just people. Nothing to be afraid of.

She took a deep breath and threw herself into the melee, slowly weaving her way toward the bar.

“What can I get you, love?” the barmaid asked.

“I’ll have a Pimm’s and lemonade, thank you.”

The barmaid frowned. “Pimm’s. God, I haven’t served that for years.” She turned toward the man working the other end of the scarred wooden bar. “Trev, we got any Pimm’s, do you reckon?”

“Pimm’s? I don’t know. Let me check out the back.” The barman glanced at Elizabeth curiously.

“It’s okay, don’t bother,” Elizabeth said, feeling foolish. Of course they didn’t have Pimm’s. She was a long way from home, after all. About as far away as she could get.

She gestured toward the frosted glass the barmaid had just handed over to the previous customer. “I’ll just have one of those.”

“A VB? Not a problem,” the barmaid said.

A minute later, Elizabeth was handed a tall, frosted glass full of beer. She took her first sip and gasped, surprised by how icy cold it was. After the heat of the day, however, it was hugely welcome and she took another big gulp as she spotted an empty table in the corner. Good. A table would give her a refuge to hide behind and make her feel less conspicuously alone.

She dodged a couple of well-muscled backs as she made her way across the bar. She was just about to put her drink down when a dark-haired woman slid her glass onto the table at the same time. They stared at each other, startled, then the other woman laughed.

“I’d call that a draw, what do you think? Should we toss for it?” the other woman said good-naturedly and Elizabeth recognized the familiar vowels of an East London accent.

“It’s fine. You got here first,” Elizabeth said politely.

It had been a mistake coming downstairs on her own, she could see that now. It was too loud, too hectic and she was jet-lagged and very uncertain about what move to make next. The sooner she drank her beer and returned to her room, the better.

“Hey! English! Cheers!” the other woman said, her face splitting into a welcoming smile. She lifted her glass to clink it against Elizabeth’s. “How long have you been in Oz for, then? Me and my bloke have been here nearly six months, in case you couldn’t tell by the tan.” The other woman proudly showed off her nut-brown arms. “Bugger skin cancer, I say.” She gave another laugh.

Her name, Elizabeth soon learned, was Lexie and she insisted that she and Elizabeth share the table since Lexie was waiting for her boyfriend to join her and had no idea when he was going to show up.

“You can help me fight off these randy Aussie blokes until he gets here,” she said with another of her loud, unselfconscious laughs. “Horny bastards, and they don’t mind having a go, let me tell you, even when you let them know you’re taken.”

Somehow Elizabeth’s one beer turned into two when Lexie insisted on treating her, then three because Elizabeth had to return the favor. By the time it was full dark outside she was feeling more than a little squiffy. By that time Lexie’s boyfriend, Ross, had arrived with the rest of their friends and Elizabeth was drawn into their circle. When music started up out in the beer garden she went along quite happily as the rest of them swept outside.

Hips swinging in time to the music, cold beer in hand, she glanced around the bar, a dreamy, happy smile on her face. Despite her initial nervousness, she’d held her own with Lexie and Ross’s loud, friendly group. No, more than held her own—she was having a good time. A great time. For the first time in her life there wasn’t someone watching, waiting to remind her of what she should say or do or how her actions might be perceived. She wasn’t worried about what Martin might think or living up to her grandparents’ expectations.

She was on her own. Free. For the moment, anyway.

Which was when she glanced across the garden and locked eyes with Nathan Jones, leaning against the far wall with a beer in his hand as he watched her with a small, speculative smile.

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