She narrowed her eyes. ‘Have you been married before?’

‘No.’

Do I look stupid? She received his message loud and clear.

‘Right.’

She wrote ‘COMMITMENT-PHOBIC’ in her ‘Getting Acquainted’ column. She believed in marriage when two people loved and trusted each other and were committed to making it work. She just didn’t believe that she personally could do the long-term bit. Or maybe she was afraid to believe.

Did that make her as commitment-phobic as him? she wondered momentarily. Not at all, she told herself. She wasn’t phobic, just … careful. Right?

‘I’m also serious about sharing a little pleasure around the business aspect,’ he said.

‘Well, maybe I’m not.’ She added ‘APPROACH AT OWN PERIL’ to the list and slapped her notepad shut.

‘You were enjoying it fine a few moments ago.’

His eyes dared her to take issue with the inconvenient truth.

‘You didn’t give me time to … to change my mind,’ she said of their kiss. ‘I wasn’t ready.’

‘You’ve been ready since the last time we bumped lips.’

Bracing his forearms on his knees, he gave her that sexy grin that made her want to throw herself onto the couch next to him and beg him to do it again …

About the Author

ANNE OLIVER was born in Adelaide, South Australia, with its beautiful hills, beaches and easy lifestyle. She’s never left.

An avid reader of romance, Anne began creating her own paranormal and time travel adventures in 1998 before turning to contemporary romance. Then it happened—she was accepted by Harlequin Mills and Boon for their Modern Heat™ series in December 2005. Almost as exciting, her first two published novels won the Romance Writers of Australia’s Romantic Book of the Year for 2007 and 2008. So, after nearly thirty years of yard duties and staff meetings, she gave up teaching to do what she loves most—writing full time.

Other interests include animal welfare and conservation, quilting, astronomy, all things Scottish, and eating anything she doesn’t have to cook. She’s travelled to Papua New Guinea, the west coast of America, Hong Kong, Malaysia, the UK and Holland.

Sharing her characters’ journeys with readers all over the world is a privilege and a dream come true.

You can visit her website at www.anne-oliver.com

Recent titles by the same author:

THE PRICE OF FAME

THE MORNING AFTER THE WEDDING BEFORE

THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT A REBEL

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

Marriage
in Name Only?
Anne Oliver

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CHAPTER ONE

AT LEAST SHE was going to die in spectacular fashion.

Chloe Montgomery clenched her fingers around the tacky tar-smelling rope and tried to imagine that she wasn’t suspended who knew how high? above the pitch-black auditorium in one of Melbourne’s finest entertainment venues.

A rough knot below her feet scratched her bare soles. The way-too-small-barely-there costume dug into her ribs, making breathing almost impossible—especially when every shallow gasp could be her last.

‘You’ll be fine, Chloe,’ the guy behind her whispered as he made a final adjustment to the slim safety harness at the back of her waist. ‘Trust me, you’ll be the highlight of the evening’s entertainment.’

‘Trust you …’ Her voice came out reed-thin, a touch hysterical and barely audible above the rushing sound in her ears. How was she going to get one note of Happy Birthday out when her throat was closing over? She was no singer at the best of times.

‘Ready?’ the guy murmured.

‘Mmm-hmm,’ she managed between tightly pressed lips. What insane reasoning had convinced Chloe that she was up for this—in any way?

Because she wanted—needed—to prove to her new boss that she was an asset to her event-planning business. No task too hard, no unforeseen circumstance she couldn’t handle.

So when the artist booked for the event was involved in a car accident on the way here, Chloe had stepped up to the plate—or, in this case, the rope. And if everything went as planned, she’d be lowered onto the birthday boy’s lap, kiss him on the cheek, someone would be there to unfasten her harness and she could escape to the venue’s kitchens, challenge met and dignity intact. Dana would be only too grateful and impressed and desperately keen to take on such a valuable, flexible employee full-time.

A single spotlight exploded into life, blinding her with its brilliance and holding her captive in its hot white light. The audience’s hushed murmur of anticipation rose into the stratosphere and she could feel every pair of eyes focused on her. Chloe, who’d spent her life trying and mostly failing to be someone people noticed, was finally the centre of attention.

A pity she was going to be remembered for all the wrong reasons.

Thought fled as the rope shuddered and began its descent. You’re supposed to sing, she reminded herself. Find the target, focus on him. She squinted through the glare to the table directly beneath her. The cake, flickering with candles amongst champagne flutes, red foil stars and silver-ware, marked her destination.

A man was staring up at her with a faint smile—or was it a smirk?—on his lips. Hard to tell in the spotlight’s dazzle but there was enough candle-glow to make out that they were, indeed, very nice lips. Forget the lips—imagine him naked—wasn’t that what people afraid of public speaking were supposed to do? It couldn’t hurt here either.

Except that his wife had organised this surprise. Which reminded her she had a job to do …

Clearing the constriction from her throat, she launched into a wobbly, out-of tune rendition of Happy Birthday, keeping her eyes pinned to his as she descended. Not imagining him naked. Much.

Brilliant timing; she sang the last note as she reached table height and safety. She had to manoeuvre herself and the rope a little to ensure she landed on his lap. Her body prickled hot and cold all over when her barely covered bottom came into contact with a pair of rock-hard thighs, and she had to shift slightly to keep from falling off. Which would be easy to do because her whole body was trembling.

Warm palms slid firmly to her waist to steady her and she stifled a gasp at the electrifying contact. How embarrassing. How wrong. She lifted her chin and met his gaze. Up close his eyes were blue. A piercing, blinding blue that, to her shame, melted her insides to mush. ‘Happy Birthday …’ she finished in her best Marilyn Monroe voice, then came to a breathless pause. What the heck was his name again? Oh, my, he was …

Not available, Chloe.

She leaned in to brush the expected kiss over his cheek, caught the whiff of his enticing masculine skin before his head turned and his lips were somehow on hers. Warm, firm. Friendly. Too friendly. Appalled, she peeled her lips away to stare at him. He stared back, those fascinating blue orbs sending all the wrong signals for a married man.

‘I’m not the birthday boy,’ he told her, before she could blink. He leaned closer so that his breath tickled her ear and murmured, ‘But then you already knew that, didn’t you?’

Huh?

He jerked a thumb at the man on his left and leaned back, his hands dropping away from her waist. ‘Sadiq’s the one you should be kissing.’ The tone of bored cynicism belied the heat in his eyes.

She felt the safety harness being unclipped and realised she was still sitting on his lap. And … she went completely still … was she turning him on?

Not waiting to find out, she slid off immediately, her legs barely supporting her. ‘Hey, you kissed me,’ she whispered into his ear, keeping her smile in place, but furious with his dismissive attitude and furious with herself for making the mistake in the first place.

She turned her attention to the handsome black-haired, dark-eyed man who’d have looked right at home in one of those desert romance books. Way less unsettling. He was watching the two of them with an amused look, apparently unconcerned she’d stuffed up so sensationally.

‘Sadiq,’ she said with forced brightness and leaned down to kiss him to a roomful of enthusiastic applause. She wished him an enjoyable evening or some such but her mind was stuck on the previous thirty seconds.

You already knew. The weird—and incorrect—accusation burned like a hot wire in her blood. How dared he—whoever the hell he was—insinuate she’d contrived this act to somehow seduce him?

Sexual harassment. The taste of bile rose up her throat. An employee’s word over some fancy schmuck with the wealthy connections? Like that was ever going to happen. One word of complaint from him and Dana was so going to fire her.

Jordan Blackstone watched the blonde’s pretty cheeks flush, her well-endowed cleavage on full view as she made a fuss of his friend, privately enjoying her discomfort … and more than a little disconcerted at his own. Thankfully, she’d stood up before things had got too awkward. Another moment of her cute rhinestone-encrusted butt squirming on his lap, he’d have been in real trouble.

Women were always contriving new ways to meet him and he had to admit this one was unique. As was his body’s response to hers. He hadn’t expected to find his dormant libido awakening so fast and so hard.

He watched her drop a quick kiss on Sadiq’s cheek. His own lips tingled at the memory of how they’d felt beneath his. Soft and sweet. What the hell had possessed him? Sheer momentary madness obviously, because in that pulse-pounding moment he sure as hell hadn’t been himself.

She didn’t hang around. He’d barely blinked and she was gone in a flash of sparkles and skin. The sort of shimmering flash that lingered on your retina long after the moment had passed.

He shook his head to clear the image. Soft and sweet was just a facade. No matter that she’d played the innocent mistake game, she was the type of out-there, attention-grabbing, rich-man-hungry woman he avoided. And that costume—what there was of it—was obviously intended to over-enhance her curves. Even if said curves were every man’s fantasy, it was hardly appropriate for this occasion.

And she couldn’t sing to save herself.

He picked up his glass, drained the bubbly mineral water to moisten his throat, which he realised had gone dust-dry, and watched Sadiq blow out his candles. A hovering waitress whisked the cake away to cut and distribute to the roomful of elite guests.

The band struck up a party number and dancers hit the polished floor amongst the bobbing helium balloons. Jordan gazed at the ceiling as the rope snaked upwards and disappeared over a balcony. ‘Well. That was … interesting.’

Sadiq chuckled. ‘Not as interesting as the look on your face when the lady landed on your lap, my friend. And that kiss … Want to tell me what you were thinking?’

Jordan scowled. ‘I wasn’t thinking.’ And that was the problem. He had to be grateful for Sadiq’s request to ban the media from inside the venue or he’d be front and centre in tomorrow’s gossip rags.

His friend leaned closer and spoke over the noise. ‘A discreet word here or there and you could get lucky tonight.’

‘I make my own luck.’ A sultry image involving him peeling that costume from her lithe and voluptuous body danced on his eyelids. He blinked it away. ‘And she’s hardly my type.’

Another chuckle. ‘You have a type?’

Jordan didn’t bother to reply, just reached for the water carafe and filled his glass. Not his type? Hell, certain parts of his anatomy obviously begged to differ. She was hot, no question. And wasn’t that all he was looking for in a woman these days? Hot and single and temporary?

The sounds of merriment swirled around him as the music quickened, its throb beating low and heavy in his sensitised groin. He drained his glass, then tugged at his collar. Ever since she’d plonked that sexy butt on his lap and he’d felt her womanly assets graze his chest, his clothing had felt two sizes too tight. He could still smell her fragrance—warm and spicy and sensuous, making him think wicked thoughts; like lying naked with her in front of a roaring fire, her skin flushed with heat from their love-making.

Then there were the eyes. The colour of aged Scotch. He hadn’t missed that initial flare of attraction, that quick clash of heat on heat, gone before he could think hot night in paradise. No, he hadn’t misinterpreted that, but recognition …? He frowned. Had he got it wrong?

Because after the kiss and the accusation, those eyes had burned with a very different kind of heat—indignation. If there hadn’t been an audience, he had a suspicion he’d have felt the hot sting of that anger in one way or another.

And now that he thought about it, quite possibly he’d have deserved it. Maybe she was already in a relationship? But she hadn’t worn rings—and why he’d noticed was beyond him.

He relegated the confounding incident to the back of his mind, glanced at his watch and pushed up. Unfortunate timing, but his mate’s thirtieth birthday bash clashed with important business. He clasped Sadiq’s shoulder on his way. ‘Gotta go. Teleconference with Dubai in an hour.’

His friend nodded. ‘Good luck. You’re still on for lunch tomorrow?’

‘I’ll be there.’ He dropped a light kiss on Sadiq’s wife’s cheek. ‘‘Night, Zahira. Great party. By the way, I loved your surprise.’

Zahira’s dark exotic eyes smiled. ‘Wasn’t she delightful? And so brave to step in at literally a moment’s notice.’

Jordan, who’d already turned to leave, swung back. ‘Is that so?’

‘The original artist had an accident earlier tonight,’ she explained. ‘A member of Dana’s staff volunteered to take her place.’

Jordan felt a prick of guilt. Not a professional entertainer then, but a girl with maybe no experience who’d stepped in to save the day. That accounted for the debacle of a performance. It excused her actions; it didn’t excuse his. ‘Good for her,’ he mumbled. Then because he admired people prepared to give it a go and he’d treated her less well than he might have, he said, ‘She deserves a bonus at the end of the evening.’

Zahira flicked him one of those unreadable female looks. ‘I’ll tell her you said so when I hand it to her, shall I, Mr Blackstone?’

An odd sensation prickled the back of his neck. ‘That’s not necessary—I’ll tell Dana tomorrow at lunch.’ He pulled his car key from his pocket. ‘Enjoy the rest of the evening.’

Except for her boss, Chloe was the last to leave the building when she exited through the staff entrance at two a.m. She pulled on the worn leather jacket she’d bought at a charity shop and swung her backpack onto her shoulders, glancing at the sky’s heavy underbelly and hoping she could make it home before it rained. The birthday boy’s wife, Zahira, had stopped by with praise aplenty and a nice fat wad of notes. And Dana had asked her if she wanted to take on regular work. Chloe did a little happy dance right there on the footpath.

What an evening! One minute she’d been swirling raspberry liqueur sauce over the desserts and wondering how she was going to make ends meet, and the next she’d been dangling over a balcony in a borrowed costume and singing in public.

Of course, it hadn’t all gone according to plan. She’d got the wrong guy, after all. And Mr Wrong had smirked at her—she was sure of it. She’d be the first to admit she couldn’t sing, and she was dead scared of heights, but she’d tried, hadn’t she? Jerk.

Then he’d kissed her. Tingles shivered through her body at the memory. The drugging taste of those lips, the way he’d held her safe on his lap so she wouldn’t fall, his musky masculine smell. Until he’d all but pushed her off with some ridiculous accusation that she knew him.

Double jerk.

Chloe dismissed him with a snarl, then jammed on her helmet and headed for her scooter parked a few metres away and looking all the more ancient in front of a shiny new maroon SUV. Forget him. The important thing was she’d come out on top. So it hadn’t been the world’s best performance; she’d made twice as much money in one night than she had since she’d stepped back on Australian soil a fortnight ago, and a regular job with reasonable pay would give her a realistic chance to resave the money she’d lost.

She slowed her steps, rubbed her arms against the chilly winter air. And then it just might be time to consider reconnecting with her family. A friend she’d made while overseas had lost her chance to reconcile with hers when an accident had taken both parents. Chloe didn’t want to have the same regrets.

A sharp meep spiked the air and she glanced at the parked car as its lights blinked, then behind her at the sound of brisk footsteps. A man was approaching, a black overcoat over one shoulder. He was tall and broad with a lanky stride.

As he drew nearer the amber street light turned his shirt a white-gold and washed over his face so she could make out his features. Dark brows, firm jaw. Generous full lips even at this distance.

She stifled a gasp inside her helmet. She knew those lips. She knew how they felt, how they tasted. Her pulse took off on its own wild journey as she watched him cross the footpath, open the door. He glanced at her over the roof as he climbed into his car but didn’t recognise her with her helmet on.

Was she just going to stand there and let him go without giving him a piece of her mind? No, she was not. She was beside his big bad wheels in seconds, stepping off the kerb in front of him, rounding the bonnet as the lights beamed on. ‘Hey!’ She rapped on the driver’s window. ‘Hey.’

The window lowered halfway. Now she could see the blue intensity of his eyes, the thick brows above them raised in concern. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked her. ‘Do you need assistance?’

She lifted her visor and stared at him. Watched the blue in his eyes grow deep and focused as recognition sharpened his features. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, without giving him time to draw breath. ‘No, actually I’m annoyed. You’re arrogant and rude and I don’t know why you’d think I’d know you or why on earth you’d think I’d want to come on to you. Who are you anyway? No—’ She slashed a hand through the air. ‘Don’t tell me—I don’t want to know.’ And flipped her visor down.

She hadn’t given him so much as a microsecond to open his mouth. Jordan leaned back in his seat and watched her walk—rather, stalk—to the decrepit-looking scooter in front of him. She was even smaller than he’d thought and dressed entirely in black leather now with a lumpy backpack on her shoulders. So … He’d got under her skin, had he? Was she itching all over with the memory of that kiss?

He damn well hoped so.

Because he hadn’t been able to rid himself of the feel of her compact body against his. Because she’d distracted him during an important conference call. Because she’d made him forget his coat, which was why he was back here at two o’clock in the morning.

And she was going to give him an exceedingly restless night.

Her scooter sputtered into life and took off down the street in a cloud of fumes. He gave her—and himself—a minute, then pulled away from the kerb and headed for home.

A short time later, he caught sight of her again when he drew up behind her at a red traffic light. The lights changed and she zoomed off ahead, her hair streaming behind her from beneath the helmet. Dammit—he wanted a chance to apologise, preferably while running his hands through that silky gold.

And that was the thing; he didn’t go for blondes—especially small mouthy blondes. He preferred his women tall and dark, poised and sophisticated. But he’d felt the tiny quivers running through her limbs, the surprising fit of her small body against his. The fury in her eyes, all the more eloquent for its silence.

An almost-grin tugged at his lips. Any other night he might have enjoyed the challenge—a night to slake his lust with a nameless woman. A woman who didn’t know him. A feisty woman who’d give as good as she got. He had a feeling the little surprise package riding ahead of him ticked all three boxes.

But his conference call to Dubai hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped and his fist tightened on the steering wheel. Yes, he could have done with a bloody good distraction.

Suddenly, without warning, she veered to the side of the street. By the time Jordan had pulled over and climbed out with the honourable intention of asking if she was okay, she was standing on the footpath, helmet in hand, windswept hair tangled around her face, expression stony. Her free hand was curled into a fist and tapping against her thigh. Music floated from an all-night jazz bar nearby. A light rain misted the air.

‘So I can add stalker to my list.’ She shuffled her feet on the concrete, drawing his attention to clumpy knee-high boots.

He raised his hands to shoulder height. ‘I’m on my way home. Forgot my coat earlier.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘R-i-ght.’

‘Look, I—’

‘No, you look, whoev—’

‘Stop!’ He jabbed the air with a finger. ‘Give me a chance to open my mouth, will you?’

A beat of silence filled the air between them. ‘Fine.’ She huffed out a breath, her spine stiff, mouth tight. ‘Say what you have to say and leave.’

‘This is my usual route home. I am not following you. And I will not follow you.’ He paused, hopeful. ‘Unless you ask me to.’

She didn’t reply but he imagined he saw the tiniest glimmer of that earlier heat in her eyes, instantly doused.

‘Though I do have to ask,’ he continued carefully, ‘are you sure it’s safe for a woman to be riding that thing alone late at night?’

‘I don’t need a bodyguard.’ She glanced skywards. ‘And I’d like to make it home before I drown.’

‘Think that’s possible?’ He glanced at the scooter. ‘That’s not the most reliable-looking transport I ever saw.’

‘The Rolls is in for a service.’ She flicked at her dampening hair as the rain thickened but there was a touch of humour around her mouth and her voice had lost some of its sting.

‘My name’s Jordan. Jordan Blackstone.’

She studied his face a moment. ‘Should I have heard of you?’

‘Dana knows me,’ he said, then, ‘I’ve had one hell of a night, and I know you have.’ He gestured to the nearby bar. ‘I’ll buy you a nightcap. I think we could both use one.’

‘I don’t drink and drive on an empty stomach, ‘specially when I’m tired.’

‘Coffee, then.’

‘Thanks, but no, thanks.’ She turned towards her bike.

Something inside him snapped—he didn’t want to be alone tonight. He didn’t want to go home and think about his messy situation. And he wasn’t used to women turning him down cold.

‘Wait.’ He reached out, his hand encircling her wrist, keeping his touch light, giving her a choice. Her eyes widened at the contact but she didn’t pull away. The tip of her head barely reached his shoulders, arousing his protective instincts. ‘Is anyone expecting you?’

She hesitated. ‘No. But my housemates will know if I’m … late.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Chloe.’

‘Chloe.’ He smoothed his thumb over the delicate skin at her wrist, felt her rapid pulse thrumming in time with his own. ‘I want a chance to explain about earlier.’

She shook her head but left her hand in his, confusing him further. ‘Why?’ Dark eyes skewered into his. ‘It wasn’t as if it was memorable or anything.’

That brought a smile to his lips. ‘You enjoyed it as much as I did.’ He couldn’t resist; he shifted closer, smelled leather and spice and warm woman.

She didn’t back away and he heard the tiny hitch in her breath, saw the flare of heat in her eyes even as she said, ‘You really are an arrogant piece of w—’

‘Ring Dana. If anything happens …’

‘Nothing’s going to happen.’ She withdrew her hand and pointed up the street. ‘See that neon sign? I’m going to sit down in there in the nice bright public light where there are people and eat a burger.’ Then she pulled on her helmet.

He watched her shapely black-clad legs, the curve of her backside as she climbed onto her scooter, and his groin hardened at the mental image of her astride him, thighs clenched around his hips, her head thrown back in passion as she tangled her fingers in her own hair and shouted his name. His blood simmered and smoked in his veins. I could give you the ride of your life.

She didn’t so much as glance his way before she zoomed off. Which was probably a good thing.

But it was a clear invitation and he jumped into his car and followed. The evening might not end so badly after all.

CHAPTER TWO

JORDAN GAVE HER a few moments to order and waited until she’d taken up residence at a table before following her inside. She was munching on a burger by the time he sat down opposite her with his own and a side order of fries.

He slid a foam cup in front of her. ‘I didn’t know what you like. Most people like cappuccino.’

‘Not at ridiculous o’clock in the morning if you want a decent night’s sleep,’ she said around a mouthful of bun. ‘But thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘So are you a movie star or something? On one of those Aussie soaps? I’ve been out of the country for eight years. I’m not up on the latest celebrities.’

Obviously fame didn’t impress her, which made for a refreshing change. ‘I’m in the mining industry.’

She studied him curiously. ‘Why did you think I’d know you, then?’

He shrugged, wishing he’d never made the accusation in the first place. Except he wouldn’t have been sitting here sharing burgers with her if he hadn’t. ‘The company’s had some publicity over the past couple of years.’ Which he didn’t want to go into. ‘What I said … What I did …’ He was unwrapping his snack but paused. ‘I apologise. I was out of line. And you’re right, it was rude and arrogant.’

‘Something we can agree on.’ She arched a slim brow. ‘Do you make a habit of kissing random women?’

‘Only beautiful ones who fall into my lap at birthday parties. About that—I’m hoping we can do it again sometime.’

She blinked, her burger halfway to her mouth. ‘My sixty seconds of fame. I’m not likely to be repeating that any time soon.’

But he knew she knew exactly what he meant. As he watched her cheeks turned pink, her eyes darkened and met his for a few unguarded seconds before she reached for her coffee. She took a sip, leaving a tempting fleck of foam on her upper lip.

‘I didn’t know you filled in at the last minute until Zahira told me,’ he went on. ‘That was a pretty game stunt you pulled. I’m ashamed to say, I’d have had second thoughts about the safety of that rope myself.’

‘Yes, well, that’s me. Always up for a challenge.’ She licked the foam off with the tip of her tongue and said, ‘Apology accepted, by the way. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you follow me home.’

‘You don’t need to worry.’ No matter how he’d have preferred to end the evening.

She nodded. ‘Thanks.’

‘Eight years is a long time to be away.’ She only looked around twenty. ‘How old were you when you left?’

‘Nineteen. I’m an adventureholic, couldn’t wait to leave.’ She snaffled one of his fries. ‘The freedom and independence. No one telling you what to do. No one to tell you you’re doing it wrong.’ Her voice turned sombre and the light faded from her eyes.

A man? he wondered. And things hadn’t ended well. ‘So what brought you back?’ Or chased you away.

She chewed a moment, studying the table. When she looked up again, she was smiling, but she didn’t fool him for a second. ‘Family,’ she said brightly, mask in place. ‘You know how it is.’ A haunted desperation flickered in her eyes before she looked away again, fingers tense around her bun.

Yes, he thought, those same emotions running through him, he knew how it was to owe family, but his bet was still on the man. He waited until she met his gaze once more then murmured, ‘What did he do to you?’

Colour drained from her cheeks. ‘Who?’

‘The guy who put those clouds in your eyes.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about—there’s no guy, I was talking about my family.’

He nodded slowly. ‘They’re glad to have you back, then? Your family?’

‘They live in Sydney.’ Biting her bottom lip, she rewrapped the remains of her meal in record time, screwed it up and stood. ‘I have to go.’

‘Hang on.’ He stood too. ‘Can I see you again?’

‘I don’t think so.’ She swung her backpack onto her shoulders, swiped up her helmet. Cool, guarded eyes met his. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’ Her tone was reasonable enough but the message was clear and final. A one-eighty-degree turnaround from the vibes he’d felt earlier in the evening when she’d swung down towards him.

Fine. He didn’t need the complication in his life right now, anyway. ‘You’re welcome, and ride safely.’

He resumed his seat, studying her through the windows as she walked into the damp night, her blonde hair washed moon-pale beneath the car park’s lighting. What was her story? She’d said she’d come back for family but hadn’t caught up with them? She’d tripped over her tongue with that one and hadn’t been able to get away from him fast enough.

Nope. She could deny it all she wanted—only a love gone wrong would elicit that lost-soul response he’d seen in her Scotch-coloured eyes.

And he ought to know.

His gaze lingered on her a moment more, then he turned away. She worked for Dana; she’d be easy to find. Tonight he had more important things on his mind than casual sex and other people’s problems.

Such as how he was going to sweet-talk Sheikh Qasim bin Omar Al-Zeid into buying his gold.

Jordan’s mother had inherited the majority shares in Rivergold when his father had died, and she’d nearly bankrupted the company—his father’s love and life’s work. Jordan had finally bought her out with the trust fund he’d inherited on his thirtieth birthday, but it had taken him two years of solid work and little sleep to bring it up to anything approaching its former glory.

His fingers automatically felt for the leather thong beneath his shirt. And he was back in time to eight years ago and he could see his dad lying on his office floor, barely breathing when Jordan had found him. He’d not been there in time because he’d been too busy heating up the sheets with a fellow student when his elderly father had demanded he come home to Perth to discuss his latest poor academic performance at one of Melbourne’s finest unis.

He was the reason his father had died that day… .

‘Jordan … you came …’ His old man’s voice was barely audible.

He dropped to his knees beside his father, knowing it was already too late. ‘I’m here, Dad, the ambulance is on its way. Just hang in there a few more moments and they’ll be here and we can have that talk.’

‘I don’t have … that long …’

He barely raised a trembling hand, and Jordan grasped it, felt the thin, papery skin, saw the grey pallor of his lined face, the glazed eyes sunken into his skull. When had his dad grown so old? But seventy-nine was old. He should have known the bull of a man wouldn’t last forever. Jordan should have been here. He should have made his father proud. ‘Hang on, Dad, just hang on. Please.’ One more chance to show you I’m worthy.

‘Jordan, promise me …’ Even through the pain he was fighting, the way he’d fought all his life.

Jordan leaned closer, heard the wheezing sound in his father’s chest. ‘What, Dad? Anything.’

‘You’ll inherit Rivergold one day. My dream, the gold … for you and your mother. Study hard, make Rivergold proud. Make me proud …’

He closed his eyes, the effort of talking taking its toll, and Jordan watched him fading away through misted eyes even as the wail of approaching sirens split the air. ‘I promise. Dad, you’ll—’

‘My nugget. Wear it for me.’

Jordan looked at the irregular thimble-sized chunk of gold on its leather thong resting on his father’s chest—the first gold he’d discovered while prospecting in the remote Western Australian outback.

‘It’s yours now, son. Rivergold needs you.’ He spoke faster now, wanting to get it all out before the end. ‘I want my … gold in a necklace … give your mother. Those negotiations in the UAE … so important to me …’

‘I’ll make it happen, Dad,’ Jordan said, and meant it down to the last cell in his body.

‘Tell Ina I love …’

Then he was gone, his empty shell a shadow of his former self.

The paramedics hadn’t been able to revive him. If Jordan had been there earlier, as requested, he might have been able to get him help in time. The man might not have had a heart attack at all. If he’d been there.

Jordan gulped down the remains of his coffee, bitter-tasting now, and reflected on the evening’s tele-conference. Qasim hadn’t mentioned it, but Jordan had heard via a source close to Sadiq that the prestigious Dubai jewellery manufacturer billionaire was also considering X23 Mining. X23’s owner, Don Hartson, was Jordan’s most bitter rival. And married to Jordan’s mother.

How was that for irony? Not that she’d been any kind of mother to Jordan. The woman had married Hartson five minutes after Dad’s death. Which had left Jordan to draw the obvious conclusion—Ina Blackstone had been having an affair behind her elderly husband’s back.

Too distracted by her glamorous new lifestyle with a younger man, she’d let the company slide over the next few years, and, with Jordan powerless to prevent it, those negotiations his father had set up had fallen through.

But the day he’d turned thirty he’d bought out her shares, taken control of the company and reaffirmed the promise he’d made to a dying man.

He’d spent the last two years modernising Rivergold, refusing to lay off staff, some of whom had given his father years of loyalty. It had been tough—still was—but he was now consolidating. Increasing his exports. With Sadiq’s contacts in the UAE, Jordan had been able to turn his negotiations to the reputed City of Gold once again.

And now that long-ago promise he’d made to his father was so close he could almost reach out and kiss it.

But apparently the elderly gold manufacturer had a reputation for extreme conservatism. Blowing out a slow breath that seemed to take a part of him with it, Jordan stepped out of the restaurant and into the chill evening. He’d never been one to toe the line, but for this long overdue deal he’d do whatever it took.

CHAPTER THREE

CHLOE’S HEART SKIPPED a beat when she checked her phone for messages while dressing for Sunday brunch and saw an email from her sister. It wasn’t tragic news, thank God, but it was disturbing news just the same.

Donna’s message was brief and clear and to the point and included a bank account number. Their parents were facing tough times. Losing the family home was more than likely. And since neither her brother nor Donna could help out financially at this time—her sister outlined their perfectly valid reasons why they couldn’t in bullet point format—they’d really appreciate Chloe’s financial support since she had a high-paying job and lived in a virtual palace with a member of the aristocracy.

Stewart. Chloe beat back the pain with a sharp stick and thwacked that stick at the man she’d fallen in love with. The gorgeous hunk of widower who’d employed her to care for his son then used her for sex, except she’d been too naive and blinded by love to see it that way until it was too late.

Of course she’d told her family; she’d relished telling them about her successes, her career as a nanny, the palatial home in rural England. The man in her life.

And four years ago when it had all turned to crap, telling them she’d made a mistake and that she didn’t fit into the world of the rich and famous and never would hadn’t been on her list of priorities.

She flicked the email off, tossed her phone in her bag. She’d have to come clean and tell Donna the bad news, and she wasn’t looking forward to it.

An hour later, she swiped sweaty palms down her best jeans then adjusted the belt over her thigh-length tunic and hoped she’d dressed appropriately. She’d caught public transport to avoid the dreaded windswept, helmet-hair look. Hitching her bag higher on her shoulder, she stared at the massive two-storey mansion as she walked up the long, curved drive. Dana’s early-morning phone call had come out of the blue. Sadiq and his wife had extended an invitation to Chloe to attend an informal meal as a thank-you for helping to make last night’s entertainment a success.

She’d been stoked. Dana’s Events was one of the city’s premier event-planning businesses, catering to the elite, and this was a brilliant opportunity for Chloe to get to know the clients.

The only downside was the probability that Jordan Blackstone would be there. And after the relentless dreams she’d had of the two of them last night … The residual heat was still stroking her abdomen, and her skin felt tight and tingly. Worse, she was mortally afraid he’d see it in her eyes. He was the type of man who could read women’s minds. He’d read hers last night, hadn’t he? She should never have stopped for that burger. A momentary weakness she would not be repeating no matter how attracted she was to him.

Rich and influential, like Stewart. Not the type of man she needed in her life—a lesson she’d learned the hard way. And there were limits to how much risk one should take, both personally and financially. She’d learned that lesson the hard way too.

A smartly uniformed staff member welcomed her at the front door. Chloe followed her across a huge tiled foyer where a heavy chandelier threw rainbows over brass and honeyed wood, along a wide passage hung with a mix of Eastern and European art.

The aroma of barbecued meat and Asian cooking wafting from the garden met her nose as she walked through an airy glass atrium filled with tropical potted plants.

Zahira turned from the intimate group of guests as Chloe stepped outside. ‘I’m so glad you could make it, Chloe,’ she said in her lightly accented voice, her dark eyes smiling. ‘Welcome. Here’s our brave little entertainer from last night,’ she announced, and had every head turning their way. ‘Chloe Montgomery, a member of Dana’s capable team.’

‘Hi.’ She smiled at the group in general but there was only one pair of eyes she saw. Jordan Blackstone’s. Blue and even more intense in the winter sunshine. Startling against his tanned complexion and spiky dark hair, which riffled around his temples in the breeze.

No avoiding him, she thought, as he said something to the knot of people he was standing with and began walking towards her. Her pulse thrummed fast and her breathing quickened while she watched him approach.

Unlike the rest of the guests who wore casual, he was dressed for business. A suit and tie for a Sunday brunch? Still, she couldn’t help but be impressed by the clean-cut corporate image. Hopefully he was on his way to forge some milliondollar deal with some other mining magnate and she could relax and not think about sharing Sunday brunch with him in an entirely more intimate way.

‘Morning, Chloe.’ His smile was polite, his tone precise, almost professional. Only his eyes betrayed the hint that he hadn’t forgotten last night’s kiss either.

‘Jordan. Hello.’ She felt her face warm and prayed her expression didn’t give away her inner turmoil. Her dreams, her restless night.

Not to mention the fact that she’d almost blurted out her most private personal problems at the diner.

Then Zahira smiled enigmatically and made some vague comment about leaving her in Jordan’s capable hands—which had her body tingling anew—and walked away, leaving the two of them standing alone together in the middle of the lawn.

‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked, motioning a waiter who was at her side in three seconds flat.

‘Soda water, please. I skipped breakfast. Running late,’ she added, though why she felt she had to explain …

‘You didn’t sleep well?’

Was that humour in his voice? ‘Slept like a baby, thanks for asking.’

‘The coffee didn’t keep you tossing and turning all night?’

Not the coffee. But she knew he already knew that and was relieved when the waiter returned with her glass of bubbles. ‘I was tired—that usually does it.’ She took a cooling sip of her water and deflected his attention from her hot cheeks with, ‘Do you always dress so formally for a barbecue?’

‘I have a meeting in the city later.’

‘Hello.’

Chloe looked down at the sound of the young voice to see a small girl with dusky skin and long black hair looking up at her. ‘Hello, there.’

‘What’s your name?’ she asked, fiddling with a gold brooch pinned to her dress. ‘My name’s Tamara. It means date tree. Mummy’s is Zahira and it means blossoming flower and Daddy’s is Sadiq and it means trooful. Daddy says I should always tell the troof.’

Chloe glanced at Jordan and they exchanged a smile before she leaned down. ‘Your daddy’s right. And my name’s Chloe.’

‘What does Chloe mean?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll have to find out, won’t I?’

Tamara’s inquisitive gaze flicked between them. ‘Is Jordan your boyfriend?’

‘No,’ Chloe said, startled. ‘We … don’t know each other very well.’

‘Not yet,’ Jordan murmured, sending ripples of awareness down Chloe’s spine. He didn’t look at Chloe as he ruffled the small girl’s hair. ‘How’s it going, Tams?’

‘I’m five now,’ she announced proudly, holding up her fingers. ‘And I go to school so I’m allowed to help light the candles on my daddy’s birthday cake later.’

Chloe nodded. ‘I’ll be sure to be watching.’

‘I think your daddy has something for you,’ Jordan said, jutting his chin in the direction of the barbecue.

Tamara followed his gaze. ‘Yum, sausages. Bye.’ She waved a hand, setting a dozen gold bangles jangling along her arm, her frilly party dress shimmering in the sun as she skipped across the lawn to her father.

‘She’s a cutie,’ Chloe said, meeting Jordan’s eyes, still unsettled by the boyfriend question but determined not to let him see. ‘And obviously likes to be the centre of attention.’

‘Reminds me of someone else last night.’ His eyes twinkled at her.

Oh, no. Too awkward. She loved attention but singing to an audience in a costume two sizes too small? And worse, kissing the wrong man? She coughed out a laugh. ‘Please, I’d rather forget.’

‘Well, I, for one, am not likely to forget any time soon.’ He watched her without speaking a moment. Not that she was looking at him now—she was smiling and giving a finger wave to Tamara, who was holding up her sausage like a trophy—but she could feel the heat of his gaze, bathing her like sunshine and not letting her forget either. ‘You like kids,’ he said.

‘You kinda need to if you want to work as a nanny.’

‘Guess so. That job kept you busy a good while, then?’

Eighteen wonderful months of being a nanny to Brad while falling hopelessly in love with his father … Don’t go there. She forced herself to meet Jordan’s eyes. ‘Only until I had enough money to get me to the next port of call.’

A tiny line furrowed between his brows, as if he was weighing up the truth of what she’d said. ‘So … what else did you do while you were overseas? The usual waitressing to fund the campervan to Europe?’

‘I wanted more than that,’ she went on quickly, relieved the nanny topic was over. ‘I picked grapes in France, trekked Nepal, worked on a trail restoration project in the Grand Canyon. Won a wet T-shirt contest in Rome and lost my money in—’ Appalled, she bit her lips together. Please tell me I didn’t just say that. To a man she barely knew. A rich and successful man who’d never have been so careless where money was concerned. She couldn’t even blame her runaway tongue on too much wine.

This was the however many time in less than twelve hours that she’d said too much to Jordan Blackstone. It was none of his business. She should blame him. It was his fault she wasn’t thinking straight.

‘You ran out of funds,’ he finished for her.

‘Ye—No.’ She chewed on her lip then plastered a smile on her face. He probably thought she had a gambling problem or something. ‘Family—I told you already. Last night.’

‘So you did,’ he said slowly, watching her through eyes that were far too perceptive. ‘I wasn’t sure.’

Now he probably thought she’d come back to sponge off her parents. If he only knew it was the other way round. She eyeballed him back. ‘Money’s not important to me. Never has been, never will be.’

He didn’t believe her, she could tell. And okay, money hadn’t been important until now. She looked away from his unsettling assessment and watched the wait staff setting platters of salads and aromatic Eastern dishes on a long glass table.

When she saw the tray of steaming barbecued delights arrive at the table, Chloe moved fast. ‘Looks like the food’s ready,’ she said over her shoulder as she walked away. ‘I’m starved.’

Chloe used the buffet meal to mingle with the other guests under the covered pergola. She didn’t speak with Jordan again, but as she chatted she knew where he was at any given time by the way the hairs on the back of her neck tingled as if they were mini antennae seeking a signal.

So when Tamara asked her to come and look at her new cubby house, Chloe was only too happy to escape.

The little hideaway stood a metre or so off the ground. It was a perfect replica of a gingerbread house, crammed with child-sized furniture, books and toys. Tamara had just settled on a cushion when she jumped up and scrambled to the door. ‘I forgot my princess crown in my bedroom. Wait, okay?’

‘Okay.’

Chloe watched the child skip off across the manicured lawns in her designer dress and shiny shoes with what had to be a fortune in Dubai gold glittering on her arm and blew out a sigh.

Obviously this child was loved, indulged, no struggle to be accepted by her doting parents. Was just wanting to be loved and accepted for who she was too much for Chloe to ask? She stared around at the cubby, luxurious enough to live in.

Okay, money had never been a priority, but right now she could do with a fraction of that wealth. Who knew where her parents might end up without the home they’d lived in for forty years?

And why should she care? Why should Chloe Montgomery, an accidental offspring who’d never fitted in, never lived up to their expectations and had escaped overseas the moment she was old enough, feel any sort of familial obligation?

She rubbed a dull ache that had taken up residence in her heart since Donna’s email last night. Because they were family, bonded through blood—however fragile that connection was.

As fragile as life itself, Chloe thought, remembering how devastatingly final Ellen’s loss had been. Ellen had argued with her family and left without a goodbye and life had been sweet and exciting. But a couple of months ago her parents’ car had been swept away crossing a flooded river in rural Victoria. Chloe would never forget the despair in Ellen’s eyes as they’d said goodbye to each other at Vancouver airport.

A couple of months later, Chloe had decided maybe it was time to come home, too, and re-establish some sort of connection, but she’d needed just a little more cash …

Tamara scrambled up the little steps and burst through the doorway with a sparkling crown on her head and a skateboard under one arm. ‘Can you read me a story?’

Chloe loved telling stories—making up her own adventures where the heroine always won in the end. She’d been doing it since she was Tamara’s age. ‘I can do better than that,’ she told her. ‘I’ll tell you one.’

‘How did last night’s conference call go?’ Sadiq asked Jordan as they wandered away from the group.

‘I was right—I need to be there in person.’ He tightened his jaw, stared out over the garden. ‘If I can talk to Qasim face to face, I know I can convince him. I’ve made an appointment to meet with him next week.’ He turned to his friend. ‘You understand the way things are done there. What’s it going to take?’

‘Stability. Focus. Commitment.’

‘You know me—I’m all three.’

‘Where business is concerned, I agree one hundred per cent, but in other aspects of your life …?’ Sadiq shook his head. ‘It doesn’t help when you’re frequently in the media spotlight with a different woman superglued to your arm every night of the week.’

‘Women have never interfered with my business priorities. They—’

‘And Qasim’s not going to like the possible repercussions for his own business,’ Sadiq continued over the top of Jordan. ‘He’s old school, set in his ways, and has always been of the opinion that married men are more likely to put in the effort. He builds his business deals around that.’

‘And you agree with that reasoning?’

Sadiq shrugged, as if it were nothing. ‘I was brought up that way. Marriages have been arranged around business for centuries. My own marriage was arranged when we were ten years old.’ His gaze searched out his wife amongst the women. She looked their way at that moment and they exchanged an intimate smile.

And Jordan felt something that might have been envy. If he were the type to play happy families. He’d learned he wasn’t the hard way. He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘I’m living proof that he’s wrong. What’s more, I’m going to prove it to him.’

‘If anyone can, it’s you.’ Sadiq nodded encouragement. ‘Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have an advantage.’

‘Like what?’

‘Why don’t you speak to Dana, check out Chloe’s references?’ A speculative gleam flicked briefly in his mate’s eyes. ‘Couldn’t hurt.’

Frowning, Jordan studied him more closely. ‘What do—?’

‘What are you two looking so serious about?’ Zahira appeared as if summoned by the couple’s earlier exchange of glances and laid a hand on Sadiq’s arm. ‘This is no time for business talk—we’ve got a home-made party cake coming up. Tamara helped bake it and she’s been looking forward to lighting the candles for weeks.’ She looked about. ‘I haven’t seen her in a while. Do you know where she is?’

‘I saw her heading in the direction of the cubby house with Chloe in tow,’ Jordan said. He’d been watching Chloe all afternoon; he’d known exactly where she was at any given moment. He immediately turned in that direction. ‘You two go ahead. I’ll tell her she’s been summoned.’

The little door was open and Tamara was still for once, utterly focused. They were cross-legged on the floor, facing each other, and Chloe was telling Tamara a story.

Jordan stilled too, equally intrigued, watching the way Chloe’s small, slender hands moved as she talked. Listening to the vitality in her voice. Her flyaway hair was too messy for his taste, her eyes incongruously big in her small pixie face. But she could spin an adventure story out of thin air and make it sound believable. She could charm any age group. She could conquer high balconies and risky ropes at a moment’s notice …

An impossible idea was coalescing at the back of his mind. Now the flicker of expression in Sadiq’s eyes made some sort of sense. Didn’t it?

Attraction aside, she wasn’t the usual acquiescent kind of woman he dated, just as he very much doubted he was her type of guy—if she had a type. According to her, she didn’t stay long in any one place so she’d probably never formed any close attachments. And that had to be an advantage because they could walk away at the end, no complications …

He smiled to himself. Not such an impossible idea. Chloe Montgomery might just be the up-for-anything kind of girl he needed.

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