Who could resist this man?

Amy looked at Quinn, standing there with his dark hair shining in the light from the streetlamp. He had been her knight in shining armour tonight, riding up out of nowhere and vanquishing her enemies. Her heart swelled with old, foolish emotions.

Even though it wasn’t the smartest thing to do given her unrequited crush, Amy pressed a kiss to Quinn’s cheek. His arms came around her, and the next thing she knew she was clamped against his chest. His wool coat was as soft as silk beneath her hands, his body beneath it big and strong. Amy closed her eyes and inhaled the smell of expensive wool and subtle, woody aftershave.

A rush of warm emotion washed over her. One look, one touch and she was thinking about all the things she’d never have. It was too hard. Too cruel. Yet still she wanted him.

Dear Reader,

This book was inspired by my good friend Helen’s recounting of how she and her husband moved from friends to lovers. They were renovating an old theatre, and through the long hours of talking and working together they fell in love. Naturally, such a great real-life story got my imagination ticking over. When I closed my eyes, however, I kept picturing an old cinema rather than a playhouse, and thus the Grand Picture Theatre was born.

I have always loved Art Deco architecture. There are some truly amazing old cinemas in my home town of Melbourne, and when I visited Florence, Italy, a few years ago I fell in love with the Odeon Cinehall, a stunning Art Nouveau cinema that just took my breath away. If you are ever in that neck of the woods, I highly recommend a visit—they play lots of English language movies and watching a film there makes you feel like royalty.

I hope you enjoy Quinn and Amy’s story. I love hearing from readers, and you can find my e-mail address at my website, www.sarahmayberry.com.

Until next time,

Sarah Mayberry

About the Author

SARAH MAYBERRY lives in Melbourne, Australia, with her partner, who is also a writer. When she’s not gazing off into space thinking about the characters in her latest story, she loves going to the movies, yoga, meditation and shoe shopping (not neccessarily in that order!). she’s hoping that by the time you read this she will be the proud owner of a new puppy—breed yet to be decided.

HER BEST FRIEND

SARAH MAYBERRY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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This book would not exist if I did not have

Chris by my side.

Having his story smarts and endless patience

on my side makes all the difference. Love you.

I also want to thank Helen for sharing the story

of her real-life romance with me—thanks for

giving me Amy and Quinn!

And last, but never least, thanks to Wanda.

Bless the day I ended up on your desk.

CHAPTER ONE

AMY PARKER SLOWED her steps as she approached the Grand Picture Theatre. The setting sun painted the old cinema’s crumbling white Spanish Mission facade pink and apricot, and for a moment—if she squinted and really used her imagination—she could picture the Grand as it had once been: elegant, beautiful, a testament to a bygone era.

Four more days.

Then the sale contract would be signed off and the Grand would be hers and she could start making the image in her mind a reality.

Amy stepped closer to the double glass doors at the entrance. The front windows had been covered with newspaper for years, but a section on the right door had peeled away. She stood on her toes and shaded her eyes with her hands so she could see through the gap. Inside, the marble parquet tiles were dull with dirt and grime while crumpled newspaper, old boxes and dust balls dotted the floor. The once stunning concession stand was scarred with age, the mirrors behind it tarnished and chipped. It would take weeks to set things right in there. And the foyer was the least of her problems. Way down on her To Do list.

The roof needed fixing, the stucco on the facade had to be renewed. The plumbing was shot and the whole of the interior smelled of damp and mold. She had her work cut out for her, that was for sure.

She smiled. She couldn’t freaking wait.

“Amy. There you are. I tried you at the store but your mother said you’d left already.”

It was Reg Hanover, council chairman. Even though he was wearing yet another of his truly hideous ties, she beamed at him. On Friday, this portly middle-aged man and his fellow council members would be signing over the Grand to her in exchange for her hard-won savings and a sizable bank loan. Right now, she loved him, ugly tie and all.

“Reg. Hey there. I was just drooling,” she said. “Prematurely, I know. But I couldn’t help myself.”

Reg’s face was pink from the walk from her parents’ hardware store.

“Yes. Well. About that.” He cleared his throat and smoothed a hand down his tie. This one was beige, with a picture of a black horse rearing on it. Really bad, even for Reg.

She shifted her attention to his face. There was something about the way he couldn’t quite make himself meet her eyes. And the way he kept swallowing nervously.

“Is there some kind of problem?”

“Amy, there’s no point in beating around the bush. I’m just going to say it—we’ve had another offer. And we’re going to take it.”

Amy blinked a few times, trying to make sense of his words. “I don’t understand.”

“Ulrich Construction has come in with a last-minute offer. The council needs to think of the whole community, and we believe this is the best outcome for everyone.”

He sounded stiff, as though he’d been rehearsing his speech in his mind.

“But we had a deal. A contract.”

“No, Amy, we had a conversation. A conversation is not legally binding.”

She gaped. She couldn’t believe he was being so slippery.

“We negotiated a contract, Reg. I have a copy at home. You were going to sign it at this week’s meeting.”

“I’m sorry, but we had a better deal come in, and we took it. I know you’re disappointed, but that’s the way these things go.”

He checked his watch then glanced up the street, as though he had better things to do than break her heart.

“Have you signed off on the deal yet?” she asked.

“No, but we will on Friday.”

“I want to talk to the other councillors,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest and lifting her chin.

“Fine. They’ll all be at the meeting. Members of the public are welcome.”

Members of the public? Yesterday the council had been ready to sign over ownership of the Grand to her and today she was a member of the public?

She was still trying to find something to say that didn’t contain the words sneaky rat fink when Reg reached out and patted her arm.

“It’s probably for the best. It was unlikely you were ever going to be able to restore this big old place on your own, anyway.”

He walked away. Amy stared at his retreating back. She was at a loss as to how to respond, how to feel, what to think.

For more than ten years she’d lived and breathed the dream of buying the old theatre that her great-grandfather had built. She’d lain awake on more nights than she could count regilding the decorative moldings in her mind, reupholstering the sectional seating, polishing the floors, imagining how glorious it could all be if she could only scrape together the money to purchase the theatre from the local council.

She’d invested the small legacy her grandparents had left her and saved her wages from working in her parents’ hardware store and taken any extra work that had come her way, planning for the day when she’d have enough for a deposit.

And finally she’d made it. At least she’d thought she had.

The shock was beginning to wear off. She didn’t understand how another offer could come out of the blue. The Grand had been an eyesore on the main street of the small Victoria, Australia town of Daylesford for years. It had ceased operating as a cinema in the eighties and had been empty for a long time, ever since the antiques dealer who’d been renting the space had found better premises. No one except Amy had seemed to give a toss about the old place. And yet suddenly the Grand was a hot ticket?

She needed to know more. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed her friend Denise, who worked at the municipal office. If anyone knew the details of this other offer, it would be her.

“‘Nise, it’s me. I need some inside info. But only if it won’t get you in trouble.”

“Fire away. I’m all yours, babe,” Denise said.

“Ulrich Construction has put in a last-minute bid on the Grand. I need to know what their prop says.”

“But the Grand is yours! I typed up your contract myself.”

“It’s not signed yet, ‘Nise.”

“Oh. Crap. The meeting’s this week, isn’t it? Give me five minutes, I’ll call you back.”

Amy paced in front of the Grand while she waited, arms crossed over her chest. It was late April and it was getting darker and colder by the minute, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t leaving this spot until she knew for sure what was going on. That her dream really was over.

Seven minutes later, her phone rang. It was Denise, and when she told Amy what she’d discovered, Amy literally felt dizzy with shock.

Ulrich Construction wanted to buy the Grand and knock down everything but the facade, replacing it with a four-story apartment block. They wanted to destroy the intricate plasterwork on the domed ceiling inside the theatre, smash the marble stairway to the balcony section, scrap the Murano glass wall sconces. They would pay lip service to preserving the Grand while wiping out everything that made the theatre so unique.

“You want me to come pick you up and pour some wine into you?” Denise offered when Amy was silent for too long.

“No. Thanks for this, ‘Nise. I have to go.”

Amy ended the call and pressed her palm against her forehead.

She needed to think. She needed to get past the panic that was making her heart race and her stomach churn.

She needed a lawyer.

Yes. Absolutely. That was definitely the first step. She needed a smart, sharp mouthpiece in a suit. Someone formidable who could arm her with the necessary information.

She started searching her phone contacts for a number she hadn’t dialed in months.

There had been good reasons for that, of course. Sensible, sanity preserving reasons. But this was an emergency. All bets were off. Her old school friend Lisa dealt with property law all the time in Sydney. She’d know how to handle this. She’d tell Amy if there was any way she could stop this disaster from happening.

Amy found the number as an unwelcome thought slunk into her mind: What if Quinn answers instead of Lisa?

Amy froze, staring at the number on the screen.

After all these years, she still couldn’t think of Quinn Whitfield without feeling a skip of excitement, closely followed by a thump of dread.

Dumb. And dangerous. He was married. They were married. Her two best friends.

Which was why she’d been deliberately trying to distance herself recently. Not returning phone calls. Being lazy with e-mails. Freezing them out.

But it wasn’t as though she’d gone to school with a million lawyers. It was either Lisa or a lawyer chosen at random from the phone book—an arrangement that would come complete with a hefty bill her tight restoration budget could not afford.

Hopefully Lisa would pick up and not Quinn. And if it was him … well, Amy would deal with it. She pressed the button and listened as the phone rang.

Come on, Lisa, pick up. Pick up, pick up, pick up.

A click sounded and suddenly Quinn’s voice was in her ear. Her stomach tensed—then she realized it was only a recording.

“Hi, there. You’ve called the Whitfields. We can’t get to the phone right now. Leave a message and your contact details and we’ll do our best to get back to you as soon as we can. Unless you’re selling life insurance, then you know what you can do.”

It had been nearly eighteen months since she’d spoken to Quinn, but he sounded exactly the same. She could even imagine the slight smile he would have been wearing when he recorded the message. Self-aware, wry. Charming as all hell.

The answering machine beeped and she took a quick breath.

“Lisa and, um, Quinn. Long time no speak, huh? Lis, I was actually calling to talk to you. I need some legal advice and it’s kind of urgent—”

“Amy. Hey. How the hell are you?”

Amy’s heart banged against her rib cage as Quinn’s deep voice sounded down the line. Not a recording this time. The real thing.

“Quinn. Hi.”

She closed her eyes. He sounded so good. And so pleased to hear from her.

And why not? She’d been the “best person” at his wedding. They’d grown up next door to each other. He’d taught her how to fish, and she’d taught him the best way to climb the apple tree at the bottom of her parents’ yard. They’d learned to ride their bikes together, and they’d been punished together any number of times for too many pranks to count. Rotten eggs in the air-conditioning vent at school. Releasing Quinn’s pet ferret in class. Filling the neighbor’s exhaust pipe with water from the garden hose.

Their exploits had been legendary. Then Lisa moved to town the year of Amy’s fourteenth birthday, and everything changed.

“I’m good, thanks. How about you?” she said.

“Keeping body and soul together. Man, it’s been a long time since I heard your voice.”

“Yeah.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. Wondered if he guessed she’d been deliberately pushing him away, or if he thought it was just time and distance that had come between them.

“I was thinking about you the other day, actually,” he said.

She’d been about to ask if Lisa was home, but his words caught her by surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah. I was thinking about the wedding. The night before, actually. How you and I went down to the lake and drank all that beer. Remember?”

“I remember.”

How could she forget? She’d matched him beer for beer, desperate to prolong every last second with him before he stopped being her best friend and became one half of Mr. and Mrs. Quinn and Lisa Whitfield.

Would it have been easier if Lisa hadn’t been her close friend, the third musketeer? Would it have hurt as much if Quinn had fallen for a stranger from out of town?

Amy would never know.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. This was why she’d hesitated over calling. So many memories, all washing over her.

Time to get this conversation back on track.

“Listen, I, um, don’t want to keep you too long. Is Lisa around? I need to ask her advice on a legal thing.”

There was a short pause as Quinn registered the abrupt shift in conversation. She’d been too sharp, too quick to cut him off. She held her breath, waiting for him to ask the questions that were bubbling beneath the surface of their conversation.

Why did you stop returning my calls?

Why aren’t we friends anymore?

What did I do wrong?

“Lisa’s not around at the moment. Is it anything I can help with?”

“It’s fine. I’ll wait for her to call me back.”

“What’s the problem, Ames? Lisa might have gotten better marks than me but I made partner before her.” Quinn was joking, but there was an edge to his tone.

Because, of course, Quinn was a lawyer, too. One of the many things he and Lisa had in common. He could just as easily answer her questions, yet Amy had made a point of asking for Lisa, of thinking of Lisa and not him when she’d realized she needed legal advice.

“It’s not that. I didn’t want to bother you,” she said quickly.

“But you’re happy to bother Lisa?”

Because I haven’t been in love with Lisa for more years than I can count. Because talking to her doesn’t make me think about all the hours I’ve spent aching over you, wishing you loved me instead of her. Making myself sick with jealousy and guilt and lust.

“No. It’s just we haven’t spoken for a while, and I don’t want to be one of those fair-weather friends who calls out of the blue and hits you up for a favor because I need some legal advice.”

Quinn made an impatient noise. “For Pete’s sake, Amy. We grew up together. You’re my oldest friend. Tell me the problem.”

She hesitated a moment longer. But he was right. She was being stupid. She’d always been stupid where Quinn was concerned.

“I’ve been negotiating with the council for the past few months to buy the Grand. We have a contract all ready to go—”

“Whoa. Hold on a second. You finally got the money together to buy the Grand?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Ames. That’s fantastic. What an amazing achievement.”

It scared her how much his praise meant to her, how much it made her chest ache.

“Well, I’m not there yet.”

“Right. You’ve got a contract …?” he prompted.

Over the next few minutes she briefed him on the situation. It made her feel sick and angry all over again as she thought about the peremptory way Reg Hanover had delivered the news. As though she was a pesky child to be shooed from the room.

“If the contract wasn’t signed, there’s not much you can do to hold them to the agreement. You know that, right?” Quinn said.

“This isn’t about my contract. I need to know if there’s anything I can do to protect the Grand. It’s on the town’s heritage register. Surely that means Ulrich can’t knock it down?”

Her voice broke on the last few words and she felt immeasurably foolish.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to need some time to do a bit of research, find out more about the local heritage register and council bylaws. In some municipalities, what Ulrich is proposing is acceptable—a compromise between heritage preservation and commerce. Can I get back to you?”

“Of course.”

“Probably won’t be until tomorrow morning, okay?” “Sure.”

“Try not to freak out in the meantime.”

“Too late. And thanks, Quinn.”

She could almost see his shrug, even though he was hundreds of miles away. “No worries, Ames.”

He ended the call. She slid her phone into her pocket and started walking to her car.

She hadn’t spoken to Quinn for months, had dodged his phone calls and avoided responding to his e-mails. And he’d responded to her request for help without hesitation. Without question.

It was one of the things she’d always loved about him the most: his generosity. But then there had always been a lot to love about Quinn Whitfield. His clever mind. His kindness. His sense of humor. Then there was his body—tall and broad and strong….

Stop it. Stop it before you’re right back at the same old place again.

She had bigger fish to fry than lost loves and old regrets. It was far better to channel her energy into a battle she at least had a chance of winning.

Because she’d lost Quinn long ago.

QUINN SAT QUIETLY for a moment after he’d hung up the phone.

For the first few seconds of the call he’d thought Amy was calling because she knew, because his mother had let something slip or Lisa had made contact to tell her the big news.

But Amy hadn’t known. And he hadn’t told her.

“I’m going home now, Mr. Whitfield.”

Quinn glanced up to see Maria hovering in the doorway of his study.

“Okay. Thanks. I’ll see you in a few weeks,” he said.

“You have a good holiday, okay?” she said. “You work too hard. You need to rest.”

“I will. You enjoy your break, too.”

She waved her hand as though he was talking nonsense. He knew she cleaned a number of houses as well as his own. She probably never stopped working.

“And maybe you should try to eat some more while you’re away,” she said.

“I’ll do what I can.”

She gave him a last wave before disappearing and he let the easy smile fade from his lips. She was worried about him, just as they’d been worried about him at the office. Lots of hushed conversations about “poor Quinn” and how he was working too late and how much weight he’d lost. Hence the holiday. Two weeks up north on Hamilton Island, whether he liked it or not.

“Take some time off, Quinn. Look after yourself. No one expects you to be a machine,” his boss had said.

Not an order, but close enough.

Quinn sighed and raked a hand through his hair. At the moment, work was his solace. He had no idea what he’d do without it. Face the wreckage of his marriage, he supposed.

Hard to get too enthusiastic about that.

Even though his leave had officially started this morning, he’d been tidying up loose ends at home, and he saved the last draft of the Monroe contract before sending a quick e-mail to his assistant to let her know it was ready to be released to the client. Then he glanced down at the notes he’d made while talking to Amy.

He still couldn’t believe she was in a position to buy the Grand, after all these years. And that he hadn’t known about it.

She’d been obsessed with the place since they were kids. Used to drag him past it as they walked home from school every day, even though it was out of their way. It had been a clothing clearance store back then, the cinema having gone out of business years before. He used to wait beside the door while she made her way through the racks of seconds and the previous year’s fashions to stand with her head tilted back as she studied the elaborate plaster ceiling high above. He could still remember how she used to wrap her arms around her midsection as she drank it all in, as though she was scared her excitement would get away from her if she didn’t keep a grip on herself.

It felt wrong that she’d reached such a significant milestone in her life and he’d known nothing about it. But then he’d been hanging on to some pretty big news of his own, hadn’t he? He could hardly fault her when he’d just failed to tell her that he was getting a divorce.

He called up an online search engine. Given a choice, he’d rather work than contemplate his navel. Every time.

An hour later he’d accessed the local council Web site and downloaded the relevant bylaws. He’d also tracked down some recent decisions on heritage protections in the Victorian Supreme Court. It was nearly eight and his stomach was hollow with hunger. He walked to the takeout Indian restaurant on the corner and bought a chicken curry he probably wouldn’t finish.

It was cool out and he tugged the collar of his leather jacket higher on his neck as he walked back home. Two-storied Victorian terrace houses marched down either side of the street, their balconies decorated with elaborate wrought iron lacework. He stopped in front of his own terrace house, taking a moment to note the clean white paint and the glossy black trim. Wisteria climbed one of the balcony supports, and the front garden was a masterpiece of precise hedges and rounded topiary.

He’d been so proud of this place when they’d signed the papers two years ago. A little scared, too, of the debt they’d been taking on. But Lisa had sold him on the risk, convinced him that they needed to live in the right suburb, drive the right kind of cars, have the right people over for dinner. She’d always been ambitious. Keen to kick the dust of small-town Australia off her heels. It was one of the things he’d always admired about her.

He hadn’t realized that she’d outgrow him one day, too.

He walked up the path to the front door and slid his key into the lock. He braced himself, then pushed the door open. And there it was—a wash of jasmine and spice. Lisa’s perfume, even though she’d been gone for nearly a year. He caught an echo of it every time he came home. Something he could definitely live without.

He walked to the kitchen, dumping his dinner on the counter before crossing to the rear of the house and flinging the French doors wide open. The house needed airing out, that was the problem.

He upended his curry into a bowl and grabbed a fork from the drawer. Once the divorce was finalized, this place would go on the market and he wouldn’t have to worry about her perfume anymore. Then he could move to an apartment, maybe some place in the city. A bachelor pad, full of high-tech gadgets and the kind of non-fussy furniture he preferred.

Quinn stared down at the messy curry in his bowl. This was not how he’d imagined his life would look at thirty. Not by a long shot.

He took his dinner to the study and immersed himself in the work he was doing for Amy. Another hour of research and digging and he had the information he needed to help her with her cause. He picked up the phone, then put it down again without dialing.

There was something he needed to get straight with himself before he spoke to her again. He’d lied to her earlier when she’d asked if Lisa was there, leading her to believe that Lisa was out for the evening rather than long gone. Which went far beyond simply not telling her the marriage was over.

Why hadn’t he told her, the way he’d told his parents and his colleagues at work and his and Lisa’s mutual friends here in Sydney?

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Leaned back in his chair.

The truth was, he hadn’t wanted his oldest friend to know that his marriage was a failure. Which was a great gauge for where his head was at the moment, wasn’t it?

Maybe he really did need this holiday.

He hadn’t been lying when he told Amy that he’d been thinking about her, though. He’d been thinking about her a lot. About the conversations they used to have lying in the tall grass at the bottom of her parents’ yard. About the way she always used to call him on his bullshit. About the times all three of them, he and Amy and Lisa, had gone swimming in the lake after dark.

All of it a far cry from the polished, finely honed world he occupied now. The corner office. The partnership in the prestigious law firm. The expensive European car. The soon-to-be expensive divorce.

Quinn shook his head. He really needed to get his head out of his own ass. Too much time on his own these days and he started thinking things to death. This was why he worked late. And why he was reluctant to spend two weeks on an island somewhere pretending to read a spy novel.

He palmed the phone and dialed Amy’s cell. She answered after one ring and he knew she’d probably been hovering by the damned thing, hoping he’d call back, even though he’d said it wouldn’t be until morning.

“Quinn,” she said. She sounded breathless. Scared.

“Good news. I’ve done some digging, and the Grand is listed on the town’s heritage register for both its interior and exterior architectural features. Which means that any development has to preserve the interior as well as the facade.”

“Oh my God. Thank you. Oh, Quinn. Thank you.” Her voice was thick with emotion.

“Don’t get too excited yet. Ulrich’s proposal shouldn’t have ever made it past first base. But it did, which means council are prepared to flout their own bylaws if given enough incentive.”

There was a long silence from the other end of the phone.

“But once I point out that they can’t do that, they’ll have to reject the offer, right?” Amy said.

“Not if they think they can get away with it. If the money’s big enough, people will do just about anything, Amy. I’ve been doing some checking, and Ulrich Construction has the contract to build the extension on the school gym, the new wing on the library and the new medical center over near the day spa. I’d say Barry Ulrich and the council are very nicely tucked up in bed with each other, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh.” She sounded nonplussed, and despite the seriousness of the situation, he had to smile. Amy had always been too busy thinking the best of people to see the worst.

“The council was probably hoping that they could slip this under the radar while nobody was looking.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen,” she said. “Not while I’m still living and breathing.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“So, what do I do? Go to the meeting, let them know that I know what they’re up to?” He could hear her taking notes.

“For starters. Take people with you, make sure there are plenty of witnesses to keep the councillors on their toes.”

“Dad can get his cronies from the Chamber of Commerce to come along. They can throw a bit of weight around when they want to. And Denise knows a guy at the local paper.”

“Perfect. I’ll draft up a statement for you to read. Something with enough legalese in it to give them pause.”

“Good. Pause is just what I want to give them. And then some.”

“I’m heading off on holiday tomorrow, but I’ll get the statement to you by morning, okay? And you can reach me on my cell if you need me.”

“Oh. Okay.” There was a short silence. “Where are you guys going?”

Now was the time to correct her, tell her that he was going on holiday alone. That Lisa had left him.

“Hamilton Island. Couple of weeks of sun and surf.”

“Sounds good.”

He drew a meaningless squiggle on the page in front of him. “Yeah.”

She took a deep breath on the other end of the line. “You’ve been great, Quinn. I want you to know I really appreciate your help with this.”

“It’s no big deal, Ames.”

“It is to me. It’s a huge deal.”

“Well.” He made another squiggle, then obliterated it in a flurry of pen strokes. “Don’t be a stranger, okay? Drop me a line now and then. And let me know how things go on Friday, okay?”

“I will.”

Neither of them said anything for a long moment. He could hear her breathing and he could feel the truth pushing its way up his throat.

It’s all screwed, Ames. My marriage, my life. I have no idea what I’m doing anymore.

“Good luck,” he said. Then he put the phone down before the truth could escape.

She didn’t want to hear his sad story. She was fighting for her dream. And they weren’t friends the way they used to be. He’d done something wrong, or something had gone wrong and he’d been too busy with his own crap to notice.

Same difference.

He flicked off the lights and walked through his empty house.

OVER THE NEXT THREE DAYS, Amy cajoled, begged, bribed and harassed her friends and neighbors until they agreed to join her at the council meeting on Friday evening. She phoned the local newspaper no less than seven times chasing Denise’s friend and finally cornered him in the butcher’s at lunchtime on Thursday.

One of the advantages of living in a small community—you could run, but not for long, and you sure as hell couldn’t hide. She promised him a good show and he promised her a reporter. She left in high spirits.

Quinn had been as good as his word and e-mailed her a precisely written statement to read during the meeting. It cited precedents and bylaws and subsections and clauses. She couldn’t follow most of it, but she figured that probably meant that the majority of the councillors wouldn’t be able to, either, which was good. She wanted them to be intimidated. She wanted them to know they were going to have a fight on their hands if they tried to push this thing through.

Her great-grandfather had built the Grand in 1929. He’d commissioned an architect in Sydney and imported marble from Carrara and light fittings from Venice. He’d created a wonderful legacy for the community. No way was Amy going to roll over while some greedy developer turned it to dust and replaced it with a bunch of shoe-box-size apartments.

She dressed carefully for the big meeting. A borrowed suit from Denise, neat and black and businesslike. A pair of new shoes that hurt her toes but gave her an extra four inches in height—very necessary since she was only five feet tall and often mistaken for a kid. She pulled her shoulder-length curly blond hair into a bun and painted her face with more makeup than she usually wore. She didn’t want anyone mistaking her for a kid tonight.

It was only a short drive to the council chambers. Amy’s new shoes pinched her feet as she walked across the gravel parking lot toward the front entrance. By the end of the evening she doubted she’d be able to feel her pinky toes, but if she won the Grand, she figured it would be well worth the sacrifice of two small digits.

She saw her family and friends the moment she walked into the meeting room. The public gallery was full of familiar faces—her parents, the Joneses, Denise,

Maria, Katherine. Cheryl and Eric from work, a few of the customers from her parents’ store.

A better turnout than she’d hoped for. Which was good, right?

She made her way to the front row where tables were provided for members of the public who wanted to make notes or present evidence. She put down her bag and took a deep breath. So far, so good.

Then she looked up and saw Barry Ulrich standing with his lawyer, a young guy in a slick suit. They were talking to Reg Hanover and a couple of the other councillors, and everyone was smiling and nodding as though they were in complete and utter agreement with each other.

Amy could feel the blood drain out of her face.

Barry had brought his lawyer. And all she had was a statement from Quinn and her own very inexpert understanding of the council bylaws. She pressed a hand to her stomach. If she messed this up, it was over. The Grand would be smashed to pieces. There was no coming back from that.

Barry glanced over and caught her eye. His smile broadened and he gave her a friendly little wave. As though this was a cocktail party, and he the host.

Goddamn.

She should have hired a lawyer. She’d resisted because of the expense, but it was stupid to economize when failing at this hurdle meant the end of the game. What had she been thinking with her puny little statement and her cheering squad?

“Sorry I’m late,” a deep, familiar voice said from behind her. “My flight was delayed, and there was construction on the freeway.”

A shiny black leather briefcase landed on the table.

Amy turned and blinked at the tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed man standing beside her. “Quinn,” she said. “You came.”

CHAPTER TWO

“LIKE I SAID, I would have been here sooner but shit happened.”

It had been a close-run thing, but he’d made it. And in the nick of time.

Quinn pulled a file and a legal pad from his briefcase then clicked it shut again. Only when he was satisfied that he was ready to roll did he look Amy fully in the face.

Her blond curls had been tamed into a conservative bun, and her face was less full and her cheekbones more prominent than when he’d last seen her. His gaze got caught for a moment on her lower lip, full and shiny with gloss, then slid lower to take in her neat little suit and towering high heels.

He frowned.

“You look different.” He wasn’t sure if he liked it. Whenever he pictured Amy in his mind’s eye, her hair was always wild and her clothes mismatched. Most importantly, she was always laughing. The woman standing in front of him looked as though she’d had all the laughter drained out of her.

“Do I?”

“Yeah. Since when did you start wearing suits?”

“Since I borrowed this from Denise.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

“I did a bit of checking into Ulrich,” he said. “Guy’s got some serious connections around town. Figured you might need someone to ride shotgun.”

Her gaze searched his face just as his had searched hers. He wondered if he looked as tired as he felt, if she could see past the mask he’d worn for months now.

Before either of them could say any more, a middle-aged man wearing the ugliest tie he’d ever seen banged a wooden gavel on the long table placed before the council members.

“This council meeting is now in session. I call upon the secretary, Councillor McMahon, to read over the minutes from the previous meeting.”

A gray-haired woman with a severely short haircut began to drone her way through the minutes. Quinn turned to Amy but she spoke before he could get the question out of his mouth.

“Reg Hanover,” she said. “He’s the chairman, and Dulcie McMahon is the one speaking.”

Quinn drew a quick representation of the council table on his notepad and labeled the central position and the secretary. Amy reached across and slid his pen from his hand, an old trick of hers from high school. She angled his notepad toward herself and started jotting names in the other six seats along the table, indicating official roles where applicable. He glanced at her profile as she wrote. She might have swapped her usual bright, haphazard fashion for a suit and high heels, but she still poked the tip of her tongue between her lips when she was concentrating.

He suppressed a smile.

She glanced up at him and quirked an eyebrow. What?

He shrugged. Nothing.

She pushed his notepad toward him.

“What happened to Hamilton Island?” she asked quietly, one eye on the councillors.

“It’ll keep. I wanted to make sure you were over the line first.”

A flurry of yays drew his attention to the front of the room as the councillors voted to accept the minutes as a true record of the last meeting.

Quinn could feel someone watching him and he glanced to his left to find a man in his midfifties scowling at him. Ulrich, if Quinn didn’t miss his guess. The older man had the flushed complexion of a heavy drinker and his pale blond hair was brushed carefully to try to disguise the fact that it was thinning.

Quinn held the man’s gaze for a few long seconds. Ulrich’s scowl deepened, then he looked away.

It was enough to tell Quinn that the guy was a hothead. Which meant this meeting had the potential to get interesting. Quinn smiled slightly as he returned his attention to the front of the room. He’d never been afraid of a fight.

Amy sat straighter as the chairman cleared his throat.

“First up on the agenda is the sale of the Grand Picture Theatre to Ulrich Construction. All councillors have received copies of a proposal from Ulrich Construction to redevelop the property into an apartment building offering luxury accommodation for tourists visiting the area,” the chairman said.

He shuffled the papers in front of him then glanced quickly around the room—avoiding looking directly at Amy, Quinn noted. Guilty little rat.

Reg went on to read from the most flowery sections of Ulrich’s proposal, effectively selling the project on the other man’s behalf. Not hard to work out which side Hanover thought his bread was buttered on.

Amy’s hands tightened on her pen until her knuckles were white. He leaned closer to her ear. “We’re not leaving until the Grand is safe. I promise.”

He could smell her perfume, something sweet and light. One of her curls had escaped her bun to brush her cheek. She nodded her understanding but retained her death grip on the pen. He understood her fear. He doubted she’d be able to relax until after this meeting was over.

“Council has reviewed the proposal and considers it to be of benefit to the greater community of Daylesford,” the chairman said. “However, in accordance with policy, we now invite any members of the public who may wish to comment to take the floor.”

His words were still echoing around the chamber as Amy stood, her chair scraping across the floor.

“I have a few questions for council,” she said. There was a nervous quaver in her voice, but her chin was high and her shoulders square. “I’d like to know what measures the council has in place to ensure that Ulrich Construction’s development will preserve the unique architectural features of the Grand Picture Theatre. Features which are detailed in the town’s own historical register.”

“I’m not conversant with the exact wording of the register, Amy, but what you must understand is—”

“I have copies,” Amy said, holding up a handful of photocopies.

A woman with garnet-red hair popped up from her seat in the front of the public gallery. She winked at Quinn as she crossed the room and took the copies from Amy. It took him a moment to realize it was Denise Jenkins. She’d had mousy brown hair when he’d last seen her.

“Thanks, ‘Nise,” Amy whispered.

“Kick ass, sweetie,” Denise whispered back. Then she turned to distribute the copies to the council members.

“I have a copy for you, too, Mr. Ulrich, in case you aren’t aware that both the interior and exterior of the theatre are listed for protection,” Amy said.

She held a sheet out, but both Ulrich and his lawyer ignored her. Surprise, surprise. The last thing they wanted was to hear about the architectural features they planned to turn to rubble at the earliest opportunity.

Amy shrugged, then launched into her argument. She was passionate and articulate, her small body vibrating with determination. Quinn alternated between making notes and watching her face. Despite the circumstances, despite the distance that had grown between them, it was good to see her. To look into her familiar brown eyes and hear her voice.

Opening salvo fired, Amy sat. She glanced at him and he smiled. She offered him a nervous grimace in return.

Ulrich’s lawyer stood next, launching into a soliloquy on the “extraordinary and prohibitively expensive” accommodations Ulrich had built into his plans to preserve the theatre’s historic facade, painting the other man as a community benefactor sacrificing personal wealth for the good of all.

“What a load of bullshit,” Amy muttered under her breath.

“Come on, the guy’s clearly a saint,” Quinn murmured. “One step away from being recognized by the Pope.”

“Thank you, Mr. Collins,” Reg said when the lawyer was done. “I think we’ve all heard enough to make an informed decision. Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we’re ready to vote.”

Quinn almost laughed at the clumsiness of the other man’s tactics. They’d barely opened discussion, yet the chairman was trying to ram the vote through. Quinn was suddenly very, very glad that he’d decided to ditch his vacation.

An angry murmur went up from the gallery. Amy started to stand again, but he caught her arm.

“My turn, I think,” he said quietly.

He rose. “Before you start tallying votes, Chairman Hanover, I’d like to draw the council’s attention to a number of recent findings in the Victorian Supreme Court. It might be helpful for council to understand what penalties have been applied to cases where historically listed sites have been exploited by unscrupulous developers.”

That brought Ulrich’s lawyer to his feet.

“I object to the inference that my client is unscrupulous,” the younger man said.

“Go right ahead. But you might want to remember that we’re not in a court of law so there’s no one to actually uphold your objection,” Quinn said. “But please, feel free if it increases your billable hours.”

Ulrich’s lawyer turned a dull brick-red. Quinn refocused on the council members. Eight men and women, all of them looking decidedly uncomfortable. They were about to get more so.

“I’d also like to remind councillors that when they were elected to office they took an oath which binds them to a code of conduct which requires them to uphold all the bylaws of the county, not simply those which are deemed convenient at the time.”

Several of the councillors shifted in their seats. Quinn undid the button on his jacket and slid his hands into his trouser pockets. He had the floor, and he wasn’t giving it up until he had these bastards on the run.

“Where was I? Right, the State of Victoria versus Simpkin-Gist Construction …”

TWO HOURS LATER, Amy exited the council building and stopped on the front steps to suck in big lungfuls of cool night air. She was a little light-headed after the tension of the past few hours. Her armpits were damp with sweat, she’d chewed her thumbnail down to the quick, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or jump with joy.

She owned the Grand. As of fifteen minutes ago, Quinn had talked the council into signing the sale contract. She’d had to pay more than she’d anticipated, thanks to Ulrich upping the ante, but it was hers. At last. After ten years and a last-minute rush to the finish line.

It didn’t feel quite real.

“Here you are! One minute you were standing there, surrounded by everyone, the next you were gone,” her mother said from behind her.

Amy turned to face her. “I needed some fresh air. It all got a bit crazy in there once the contract was finalized.”

The doors opened behind them and her father and Quinn joined them, both smiling broadly.

“I was just telling Quinn that I haven’t enjoyed anything so much since Mohammed Ali took on George Foreman in the Rumble in the Jungle. The way he took those councillors apart …” Her father clapped a hand onto Quinn’s shoulder and gave him an approving shake.

“It was a pleasure, believe me,” Quinn said.

Amy looked at him, standing there with his dark hair gleaming in the light from the street lamp. He’d been her knight in shining armor tonight, riding up out of nowhere and vanquishing her enemies. Her heart swelled with old, foolish emotions.

“Quinn, I don’t know what to say. You gave up your holiday—Lisa is probably cursing my name—and you won me the Grand.”

Even though she knew it probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do given her unrequited crush, Amy stepped forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you! From the bottom of my heart.”

She started to pull away but Quinn’s arms came around her and the next thing she knew she was clamped against his chest and he was spinning her around.

“You made it, Ames,” he said. “Woohoo!”

His wool coat was as soft as silk beneath her hands, his body beneath it big and strong. She closed her eyes and inhaled the smell of expensive fabric and subtle, woody aftershave.

“And it only took ten years and every cent she’s ever earned,” her father said drily.

Quinn set her on her feet and she tried to look as though her heart wasn’t pounding out of control because he’d held her in his arms for a few short seconds.

“We need to celebrate,” she said. “We need to drink champagne and thank the gods that Quinn decided to become a lawyer instead of a doctor when he applied to university all those years ago.”

Her father looked rueful. “I’d love to, sweetheart, but we’ve got that lumber shipment coming in first thing. If I have a glass of wine now I’ll be useless tomorrow.”

This was true, Amy knew. For a big, shambling bear of a man, her father was a very cheap drunk.

“Maybe we can do something tomorrow night, then.” She glanced at Quinn. “How long are you in town?”

“The weekend. But you can’t go home and put on your jim-jams after a win like this. If your folks are going to wimp out, I’ll take you out.”

Her mother pretended to be offended as she gave Quinn a push on the arm.

“You watch yourself, Quinn Whitfield. Your mother and I still e-mail regularly. I can get you into big trouble if I want to.”

“My humble apologies, Mrs. P. I stand corrected.”

Amy fumbled in her bag for her notepad.

“That reminds me. I promised Louise I’d let her know what happened tonight,” Amy said. She added a note to e-mail Quinn’s mom with her news to her To Do list. Quinn’s parents had been on the road in their RV since his father retired last year, their house empty and silent next door, but like her mother, Amy kept up contact via e-mail.

When she glanced up from writing her note, Quinn was watching her with amused eyes.

“What’s with the notepad?” he asked.

“It helps me stay organized.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“It does!” she insisted.

“It’s true, Quinn. Amy is the best paint department manager we’ve ever had at the store, thanks to that little pad,” her mother said.

“Guess we’re going to lose her now, though, huh?” her father said.

Amy smiled fondly at her parents. They had never ceased to support her, even though she knew there were probably times when they’d been convinced she’d never achieve her dream. She put her arm around her father’s waist and gave him a little squeeze. He dropped a kiss onto the top of her head, his eyes suspiciously shiny. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat.

“Well, I guess we’ll leave you kids to it.”

Her parents headed home and Quinn took her elbow and started steering her toward a nondescript sedan parked at the far corner of the parking lot.

“Hey. I need my car,” she said.

“Not tonight. Tonight you’re going to drink champagne and kick up your heels and get messy drunk,” Quinn said.

She glanced at his profile as they walked, his features barely visible in the dark. Despite all the reasons why it should be wrong, it felt right that Quinn was here to celebrate with her.

She smirked as Quinn cut in front of her to open her car door for her.

“So courtly, Mr. Whitfield,” she said. “So sophisticated.”

He gave her a dry look. “I know you’re probably used to being thrown into the back of a truck or over a shoulder, but up in the big smoke we’re a little smoother.”

“Do tell,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes at him as she slid into the car.

He pushed the door closed and circled to the driver’s side.

“You know what we should do? Bribe Phil into selling us a bottle of champagne and take it to the Grand,” Amy said as Quinn got behind the wheel.

Phil ran the local pub and could generally be relied upon to supply a bottle of wine to desperate locals when the liquor shop was closed for the night.

Quinn pulled onto the road.

“As a member of the New South Wales Bar Association, it behooves me to inform you that purchasing alcohol from a licensed facility for consumption off premises is a crime,” Quinn said in the same tone he’d used to destroy Reg Hanover and Barry Ulrich earlier in the evening.

“So you want me to run in and get it, then?”

“Nah. It’ll be good to catch up with Phil,” Quinn said with a quick grin.

A rush of warm emotion washed over her. It was only now that Quinn was sitting beside her, so familiar and dear, that she was able to acknowledge how much she’d missed him. How painful her self-imposed isolation had been. His laugh, his dry sense of humor, his honesty, his patience and kindness—she’d missed him like crazy for every second of the eighteen months she’d tried to cut him out of her life.

Which went to show how effective her cold-turkey regime had been.

“Lisa must have been pretty pissed with you for canceling Hamilton Island,” she said.

Good to remind herself of Lisa. Quinn’s wife. Her friend. Good to always keep those two very important facts top of mind, before she got too caught up in the feelings swamping her.

There was a short silence as Quinn pulled into a parking spot outside the pub.

“The old oak’s gone,” he said.

She glanced at him, aware that he hadn’t responded to her comment. Did that mean he was in the dog house over helping her out? She hoped not.

“It fell over in a storm last year.”

“Must have been some storm.”

They got out of the car and Quinn took a moment to scan the town’s main thoroughfare.

She looked, too, and wondered what he saw. The heritage shopfronts, or the fact that there was only one butcher? The well-tended flower beds and handmade park benches, or the fact that the post office doubled as a news agency as well as a lottery outlet?

“I suppose it must all seem pretty tin-pot compared to the bright lights of Sydney,” she said.

He met her eyes across the car.

“It’s home, Ames. That’s what it seems like.”

His mouth tilted upward at the corner, but he looked sad. Or maybe lost. Amy frowned, suddenly remembering the long silences during their recent phone conversation.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if anything was wrong but Quinn turned away and started walking toward the pub.

“Phil still trying to give up smoking?” he asked.

“Every year. Last time he held out a whole month.”

“Wow. That’s got to be a new record, right?”

“No way. I think you’re forgetting the great abstinence of ‘95 when he went a full three months without touching the demon nicotine.”

“Right. My mistake.”

Quinn was smiling again as they pushed through the double doors into the bar. She told herself she’d imagined the small moment by the car, that it had simply been a trick of the light.

And even if she hadn’t imagined it, she had no right to pry into Quinn’s private thoughts and feelings. Not when she’d been trying to cut him out of her life for the past year and a half.

The news of her successful purchase of the Grand had spread through town and it was twenty minutes before she’d finished accepting congratulations from her friends and acquaintances. Phil handed over a bottle of his best

French champagne but refused to accept any money for it.

“Against the liquor laws, Amy,” he said with a wink at Quinn. “Plus I figure I’ll hit you up for some free movie tickets when you’ve got the old girl up and running again.”

“You’re on,” Amy said.

He loaned them a couple of champagne flutes and she and Quinn left the pub and began walking up Vincent Street to where the roofline of the Grand soared over its neighbors.

By mutual unspoken consent, their steps slowed as they approached and they craned their necks to take in the faded grandeur of the facade.

“I’d forgotten how imposing it is. It really is grand, isn’t it?” Quinn said.

“Yep,” she said around the lump in her throat.

She sniffed as quietly as she could and blinked rapidly.

She could feel Quinn looking at her and she turned her head away slightly, trying to mask her tears.

“You crying, Ames?”

“Yep.”

Quinn’s laughter sounded low and deep. “I think we need to get some champagne into you.”

“Let’s go inside first.”

“You’ve got a key already?” He sounded surprised.

“Don’t need one. The back door hasn’t shut properly since the last tenant moved out.”

“Our second crime for the evening—breaking and entering. I’m starting to feel like Bonnie and Clyde. We’re on a rampage.”

She started up the alley that led to the parking lot at the rear of the cinema.

“Technically, it’s only entering, since the door is already screwed,” she said.

“Those are the little details that make all the difference in court.”

“If you’re afraid, Whitfield, you can wait outside.”

“Nice try, Parker, but I’m not letting you swill all the champagne on your own. I’ve developed a taste for the finer things in life over the past few years, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“City slicker.”

“Yokel.”

They’d reached the back of the theatre and she dropped her shoulder against the decrepit door, trying to shove it open.

“For Pete’s sake. You weight less than a gnat. Let me do it,” Quinn said. He stepped forward.

“I’ve got it,” she said.

“Amy …”

She took a step back and threw her entire body weight at the door. It gave instantly and she stumbled over the threshold.

“Break anything?” he asked as she rubbed her shoulder with her free hand.

“No. You? Your precious male ego permanently dented because you didn’t get a chance to show off how much stronger you are than me?”

It was very dark in the corridor. Quinn’s laugh sounded loud in the small space.

“Small of stature, big of attitude. Same old, same old.”

She jumped when his hand landed on her shoulder.

“Lead the way, bossy pants,” he said. “I’m at your mercy.”

“I’ve got a flashlight in my bag …” she said, very aware of the weight and warmth of his hand on her shoulder.

She inhaled his aftershave again as she fumbled in her handbag. He’d felt so big and solid when he’d lifted her earlier. Bigger than she remembered.

Her fumbling hand closed around the flashlight and she pulled it from her handbag and flicked it on.

“See? All good.”

She felt shaky inside, as though all her internal organs were trembling. This was why she’d tried to cut him out of her life. One look, one touch and she was thinking about all the things that she’d never have. It was too hard. Too cruel. Too crazy-making.

And way, way too frustrating.

As she’d hoped, Quinn’s hand fell to his side. She turned and started picking her way up the corridor. The flashlight beam bounced along the floor in front of her. A door loomed ahead and she twisted the handle and pushed it open. They emerged into a large, open space. In the old days, the screen would have filled the wall to the right of the door and the main seating would be in front of them. Now there was just a blank wall and lots of space where the seats used to be. She swung the flashlight in a wide arc, the beam glancing off scarred floors, scratched wood paneling, crumbling plaster walls.

“Whoa. It smells in here,” Quinn said.

“The roof leaked a while back. It took council a while to approve the expenditure to get it fixed and the carpet in the balcony section rotted.”

Quinn gestured for her to hand over the champagne bottle and she held the beam steady while he removed the cage and popped the cork. He drew a champagne flute from his coat pocket and poured a glass, handing it over to her before repeating the process for himself.

“To the Grand,” Quinn said.

She lifted her glass to his. The small clink of glass on glass was swallowed by the vastness of the space.

“Thank you for being here when I needed you,” she said. “You’re a good friend, Quinn.”

Suddenly they were both very serious. They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment. She knew what he was thinking about—those eighteen months of unreturned phone calls and e-mails. Guilt and longing twisted inside her. She turned away and took a big gulp of champagne. Bubbles tickled the back of her throat and she coughed.

“Careful there, tiger,” he said.

She walked away from him, playing the flashlight over the nearest wall.

“Do you know they imported all the cherrywood for this paneling from Northern California, even though they could have used local lacewood or blackwood? My great-grandfather was so obsessed with creating a masterpiece he wanted everything in this place to be exotic and expensive,” she said.

Quinn joined her, reaching out to run a hand along one of the panels.

“It’s pretty scratched up.”

“Years of neglect and indifference will do that.”

“Can I?” he asked, indicating the flashlight.

“Sure.” She handed it over and leaned against the wall as he took a tour of the theatre. She watched him pass the light over the piles of debris covering the floor, the remnants of past tenants, then pause to inspect the dark holes in the floors where bolts once fixed the sectional seating in place.

“Most of the seats are stored in the basement, but some of them were sold off,” she said. “I’ve been collect ing them from yard sales for the past few years, storing them at my place and in the garage at Mom and Dad’s.”

“Bet your dad loves that.”

“He doesn’t mind.”

He studied the far wall before aiming the beam at the once-spectacular figured plaster ceiling. In its heyday, it had been a stylized depiction of the universe, complete with sun and moon, planets and stars. She didn’t need to look up to know what he was seeing now. Mold. Crumbling plaster. Water damage.

She had a lot of hard work ahead of her, but she’d never been afraid of hard work. In fact, she welcomed it.

She sipped her champagne as Quinn circled his way back to her.

“Lot to do here, Ames.”

“I know.”

“Going to cost a bomb.”

She shrugged. “That’s what loans are for, right?” She had a detailed business plan. She’d done her homework. Once she was up and running, she was confident she’d attract enough tourist dollars to more than pay back her debts.

He drank some champagne. “So, who comes in first? Painters? Carpenters? Have you had the place surveyed?”

“It’s structurally sound. The roof needs some work. New guttering, that kind of thing. I’ve spoken to Neville Wallace about that. He’s going to fix the plumbing, too. But I’ll have to retile the bathrooms myself. And paint in here, too, I guess.”

She arched her neck and considered the thirty-foot-high walls. She needed to make a note to call the scaffolding company.

“You’re kidding. Right?”

She looked at Quinn. He was frowning.

“I wish I was, but I just spent my painting budget. Where do you think that extra twenty thousand came from at the last minute?” She’d only hesitated for a second when Reg had upped the price by twenty thousand, hoping to scare her off and buy his buddy Ulrich more time. She’d known she’d never get another chance at the Grand if she allowed Ulrich the time to regroup and find some sneaky way around the legal arguments Quinn had put forward.

“But Amy …” Quinn shook his head, lost for speech. “This place is huge.”

“So it’s going to take a little more time than I originally planned. I can live with that.”

“Do you have any idea what you’re taking on?”

“Of course I do.”

“How are you going to tackle the ceiling? That plaster work is part of the heritage listing.”

“Thank you, Quinn. I’m aware of that, as a matter of fact. I’m aware of every inch of this place, having spent the past ten years working toward this moment. Which is why I traveled into Melbourne two nights a week to attend a course on restoring vintage decorative plasterwork last year. And why I did an upholstery course the year before that, and why I have a file a foot thick with information on suppliers who can help me refit this place.”

The frown didn’t leave his face. He slid his glass onto the wide lip at the top of the timber paneling.

“Amy, it’s one thing to be passionate, but this place needs more than passion.”

“I can handle it,” she said through gritted teeth. She put down her own glass. Since when had Quinn been such a killjoy? She couldn’t believe he was attacking her dream like this, trying to pull it apart before she’d even gotten used to the idea that the Grand was hers.

“I think you should get an expert restorer to take a look at—”

“Quinn, shut up.”

“Amy—”

“I mean it. Don’t say another word, okay, or I’m going to get really angry,” she said. “I appreciate your help tonight, but I don’t appreciate being patronized by someone who has no idea what they’re talking about.”

“I’m simply pointing out that sometimes having a dream isn’t enough. Just because you want something badly doesn’t mean you’re going to get it. Believe me, life doesn’t work like that.”

There was a hard, cold edge to his voice. Once, a long time ago, he’d lain in the tall grass at the end of her parents’ yard and dreamed with her. Obviously, those days were gone.

“This is the best night of my life,” she said, her voice low and controlled. “I’ve wanted to buy this place ever since my grandfather brought me here when I was four years old and we sat up there in the balcony and he told me how his father built this place and how sad he’d been when he was forced to sell it. I am not going to stand here and listen to you tell me what I can’t do and what I don’t know.”

She bent and grabbed the champagne bottle from the floor.

“I’ll be at the pub if you want to celebrate.”

“Amy.”

She ignored him and strode toward the rear exit. He had the flashlight, he’d be able to find his own way out.

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