by Nicola Marsh
It had been the longest drive of her life.
‘Do you make a wicked espresso?’
His adorable smile made her heart leap—she couldn’t do this, couldn’t risk blurring the lines further.
She’d already revealed too much, had allowed him to get closer than any guy ever had. The faster she slammed her defences back in place, the happier she’d be.
‘Sorry, instant’s all I’ve got on offer.’
His smile faded at her abruptness. ‘Thanks. Maybe another time?’
‘Sure.’
She heard the disappointment in his glib reply. She’d bet it wasn’t a patch on hers. ‘I e-mailed the project manager from the car. We’re meeting on-site tomorrow. Will you be there?’
‘Not sure. Back-to-back meetings all day.’
‘See you next week, then.’
He frowned, staring at her, trying to convey some silent message she had no hope of interpreting.
‘Come down with me Saturday,’ he blurted, folding and unfolding his shirt cuff. ‘I’d planned on heading down for the day, and we can get a lot of work done without tradesmen buzzing around.’
Her heart leapt at his initial invitation before reality slapped it down. Of course he’d join her on the Peninsula for work. What did she expect? After one picnic he’d be romancing her?
While he’d been attentive and chivalrous, he couldn’t have stated his intentions any plainer: he didn’t do involvement. What had he said? Something about no dramas and complications?
Normally she would have agreed with him, but then he’d kissed her … and what a kiss. A kiss to remember, a kiss to resurrect on lonely evenings, a kiss to build foolish dreams on if she was that way inclined. She wasn’t. Thank goodness.
‘Getting a jump start on work sounds good.’
His brisk nod was a world away from the passionate way he’d kissed her next to the river, and her resident imp couldn’t resist pinching his propriety.
‘It’ll be fun.’
‘Fun?’ he parroted, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend the meaning of the word.
She laughed. ‘Yeah, fun. I love Portsea Beach, so working on my passion—it’ll be great.’
She accentuated passion, drew the word out, vindicated when his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.
‘Yeah, great.’
He flung open the door so fast he almost tumbled out. She opened hers.
‘Rory?’
‘Yeah?’
He ducked his head, but not far enough, and it clunked against the doorframe. She winced but he didn’t react, his gaze fixed on her.
‘Thanks.’
For giving her this work opportunity, for being so understanding, for telling her he ‘d see her on Saturday albeit for work.
‘No worries.’
He straightened and she stepped out, snagging her backpack from the foot well.
‘Now, go—before—’
‘Before what?’
Before I blurt any more deep, dark secrets.
Before I re-evaluate my stance to reassemble my tattered emotional defences against you.
Before I forget every logical reason why I
shouldn’t like you and fall for you regardless.
A myriad of emotions flitted across his face and she focussed on the desire darkening his eyes to indigo.
‘Before I turn into a pumpkin.’
Lame by any standards. His slight grimace made her laugh.
‘See you Saturday.’
He headed towards the driver’s door, not breaking eye contact until he’d slid into the car.
When he gunned away, and her heart roared in response, she deliberately walked towards the house without a backward glance.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT HAD BEEN a while since Gemma had pulled an all-nighter, and as she rolled out of bed she blinked at the alarm clock. Her gritty eyes and stuffy head were testament to three hours’ broken sleep, and she yawned, did a few yoga poses, and tried to figure out if she’d dreamt yesterday.
Rory’s candid admission that she intrigued him, the impromptu picnic, the shared confidences, the kiss.
In the grand scheme of things it meant little, and she wanted it that way, but during those sleepless hours she’d imagined what it would be like to be involved with a guy like him.
Not the usual dating merry-go-round she rode, content not to have demands placed on her, but really involved: mentally, physically, emotionally. Equals in every way it counted.
Stupid, because they were poles apart, but a girl could dream, right? That kiss had been the catalyst for her fruitless fantasies.
He should never have done it.
She should never have let him.
It had blurred the edges of their relationship, taking it beyond business, tempting her to be take a risk and show him exactly how intriguing she could be.
His supreme confidence brought out the worst in her, prompting her to tease a reaction out of him. Maybe she’d invited the kiss? In which case, note to self: stop taunting him, unless you want more.
She’d analysed it at great length last night when she couldn’t sleep. Her practical side said she must be different from every woman he’d ever dated so he’d been tempted to explore why. Her wistful side, the side she hadn’t known existed until the kiss, basked in the unexpected power she could exert over a commanding guy like him.
Thankfully, practicality won out. He’d gotten too close yesterday, creeping under the barriers she’d erected many years ago out of necessity, tempting her to trust.
She’d never spoken of her mother to anyone, had never articulated her fears of rejection and not being good enough. Deep, personal fears she barely acknowledged let alone divulged to a virtual stranger.
Rory had a way about him, a way of crawling under her guard and getting her to believe in him, and it terrified her.
No doubt about it: she had to forget that kiss, forget her momentary lapse yesterday, forget his empathy, and focus.
Satisfied she’d clarified the situation in her own mind, she pulled on work jeans and a khaki drill shirt, slipped her feet into steel-capped boots and tied her hair into a ponytail. No fuss, no frills—exactly how she liked it.
Flipping open a small wooden box with a dolphin carved on the lid, she chose a pair of earrings—clownfish today—and threaded them through the holes in her ears. They were her one concession to frippery, and she liked having her marine friends dangling from her ears and brushing against her neck.
She’d collected the earrings all around the world, hoarding them in the special box hand-carved by her dad.
Her fingertip traced the outline of the dolphin and she smiled, remembering her adamant demands that he carve a dolphin and his indulgent smile as he’d quietly done just that.
This box had travelled with her from Jamaica to Jaipur, Mexico to Marbella, and everywhere in between. It gave her comfort, a solid link to her dad, one of many memories to treasure. Even more important now his land had been sold.
Pulling a face at the mirror, she adjusted the elastic on her ponytail. While she could do without make-up, she liked the sleek hair. Not that she’d succumb to the ritual of virtually ironing her hair every time she washed it, but having it hang past her shoulders in a shiny tail was kind of nice.
She had ten minutes to grab a piece of toast and hit the road before she ran into peak hour traffic. The project managers were meeting on-site at seven-thirty. She planned on being there first.
The light under the kitchen door surprised her, and she edged it open, stunned to see her mum cradling a steaming mug of coffee and poring over the early-edition morning papers.
‘I have a reason to be up at this ungodly hour—what’s yours?’
Coral glanced up from the papers, her shy smile as confusing as seeing her in a dressing gown and without make-up.
‘I’m up at five every morning these days.’
‘Really?’
‘Becomes a habit after a while.’
When Coral didn’t divulge why, Gemma popped two slices of bread into the toaster. She didn’t have time to delve into the reasons behind her mum’s insomnia, and even if she did she wouldn’t want to. Yesterday had been nice, a tentative start to bridging the gap between them, but she wasn’t in the mood to get all deep and meaningful on a few hours’ sleep. ‘Have a nice time away?’ ‘It was business.’
And that was all she’d say on the matter. Until her mum smirked and pushed the newspaper across the table.
‘Looks like Rory Devlin was impressed by your business.’
Confused, she glanced at the paper upside down. It was some features snippet between the gossip column and the horoscopes she’d never read in a million years.
Except today. Considering she was front and centre.
Coral chuckled as she snatched the paper and flipped it to read the accompanying article.
Millionaire CEO Rory Devlin is pleased to announce the addition of environmental scientist and marine specialist Gemma Shultz to the project team at Portsea Point, the latest of Devlin Corp’s high-end developments.
Since taking over the reins of Devlin Corp six months ago the CEO has been busy boosting profit margins and reestablishing the business as Australia’s premier luxury property developer.
Devlin Corp’s exclusive enclaves have flourished along the east coast of Australia, with their signature opulent mansions built in Port Douglas, Surfers Paradise, Byron Bay, Coffs Harbour and Manly.
With Devlin Corp commencing work on a new lavish development in Portsea shortly, Ms Shultz’s expertise will be welcomed to maintain the ecology along the coastline.
Rory Devlin couldn’t speak highly enough of his new consultant.
‘I bet,’ she muttered, shoving the paper away with one finger.
‘He must be impressed with you to give a glowing recommendation already—’
‘News must be on a go-slow if that’s the kind of boring stuff they’re printing.’
Coral’s grin widened. ‘Perhaps you’re irked they used an old CV photo and not one of you with lovely sleek hair?’
Gemma shot her a death glare. ‘I’m a professional, Mum, who spends her days on a beach. Wind. Salty air. Think my hair’s important?’
Coral filled a mug with coffee and placed it in front of her, tweaking her ponytail. The simple action was so reminiscent of her childhood that a lump lodged in Gemma’s throat.
‘It pays to always look your best.’
‘No one cares how I look when I’m testing E. coli levels.’
Except you. But she wisely kept that to herself. They were getting along. No use aggravating the situation.
Coral wrinkled her nose at the mention of E. coli, and Gemma took the opportunity to slather butter on her toast while casting surreptitious glances at the article.
Mr Conservative couldn’t speak highly enough of her, huh? She’d never let him live this down.
When she looked up, her mum was studying her as if she were a micro-organism under a microscope.
‘You like him, don’t you?’
‘Mum, I’m not in high school,’ she mumbled, taking a huge bite out of her toast to stop herself blurting exactly how much.
Coral tapped the article. ‘You could do worse than marrying into that family.’
Gemma choked. ‘Gotta go,’ she mumbled, snatching up the keys in one hand, juggling her bag and toast in the other.
Thankfully, her mum merely waved as she backed out of the door.
She wasn’t the marrying kind. She’d have to let a guy get close enough for a relationship first, and that was as likely as her taking up spear-fishing.
Even if she took the risk, getting hitched to a millionaire bachelor who didn’t do romantic entanglements would be the last thing she’d do. High-maintenance, rich designer guys weren’t her type.
If she kept telling herself long enough, she might start to believe it.
Rory sat through three early-morning meetings, drank four cups of espresso and ate half a bagel, clock-watching the entire time.
Not that heading to the Portsea site for an impromptu visit would lessen his uneasiness.
If anything, seeing Gemma would exacerbate it.
He’d been horrified when he’d blurted the invitation to work all day Saturday, second-guessing himself in a way he never did in the business arena.
He shouldn’t have kissed her.
Since when did he give in to impulse? Never.
He’d succumbed twice now: first when picking her up, then on that picnic.
Another huge faux pas, organising the picnic. He’d seen her nerves the night before, when she’d bolted after her presentation, and thought it might put her at ease to be out in the open rather than pacing her room waiting for the investors’ decision. With the added bonus of confronting his baffling attraction for her and getting it out of his system.
His motives had been pure. His execution? Lousy.
He should have known a picnic would throw them together in an intimacy that made him squirm. She’d asked him why he’d kissed her when he’d picked her up. He’d responded by kissing her again, properly this time. Schmuck.
Throw in that awkward, revealing little chat about their parents and he mentally kicked himself—hard.
He could blame his lunacy on any number of factors: his admiration for her work ethic and chutzpah, his attraction to her intelligence and understated beauty, his genuine excitement following her presentation about what she could bring to his project.
In reality, he’d blurted the truth when she’d asked: she intrigued him, like no woman had before.
That was what had prompted his invitation for them to spend Saturday together, work or otherwise. He’d done it out of desperation, cloaked in business terms, because he feared he didn’t want to go a whole three days without seeing her.
Not good.
Then he’d spied the newspaper in his periodicals pile and guilt had ripped through him when he’d seen evidence of his plan coming to fruition.
His father and the associated negative press for Devlin Corp had been wiped from the gossip columns, replaced by news of his appointing Gemma, as he’d intended, with the added bonus of their other luxury developments mentioned. The kind of positive publicity money couldn’t buy.
Seeing the half-page picture of her taken from her CV, reading the accompanying article, he should have been stoked.
He’d achieved what he’d wanted: establishing her as the face of his new development, showing the country Devlin Corp cared about the environment, and hopefully guaranteeing he wouldn’t run into the same problems his dad had up at Port Douglas.
Instead, all he could do was stare at that picture and the way Gemma glowed. Even in a grainy professional shot, eyes wide and bordering on startled, her hair loose and mussed, she captivated him.
Which meant he’d have to do his damnedest to keep things strictly business. Getting involved with Gemma would be messy, and he didn’t have time in his life for mess—not when Devlin Corp was finally starting to kick corporate ass.
He’d never mixed business with pleasure, had deliberately avoided dating anyone in his work sphere because of the possible complications and fallout. And there would be fallout. That was a given.
The women he dated always said they weren’t interested in anything heavy at the start, but once they’d progressed past the first few dates the claws were unsheathed, ready to hook into him and not let go.
While Gemma didn’t seem the type, with her transient job and London base, he didn’t want to botch this opportunity. He had a top-notch marine expert willing to ensure his Portsea project dotted all the i’s and crossed all the t’s. The mansions would be environmentally certified as well as lavish, guaranteeing top dollar for those wealthy few lucky enough to afford them.
He’d be a fool to jeopardise all that for the sake of a self-indulgent fling.
As his marketing manager droned on about a new campaign he studied
the newspaper article again, via the search engine on his smartphone.
He didn’t want to use Gemma, but the phone had rung off the hook this morning—land-owners from Cairns to Launceston, enquiring about Devlin Corp’s luxury development packages, asking for quotes. It was the first time in six months they’d had this kind of buzz, thanks to Devlin Corp showing its eco-friendly side.
People were environmentally conscious these days: forgoing plastic shopping bags, composting, recycling, using water tanks, harnessing solar energy. They didn’t take kindly to large corporations felling trees and churning land, as his dad had found out on the rainforest fringe in Port Douglas.
Seeing a marine environmental scientist associated with his beachside project would bring kudos to his company and boost profit margins, without drawing unwanted attention from protestors.
Win-win.
Then why the nagging guilt that he’d unwittingly drawn her into this and she’d be furious if she knew?
He shut down the article and hesitated, his thumb poised over the keypad. He needed to keep Devlin Corp front and centre with positive publicity, needed to ensure the public saw Gemma doing what he’d hired her for.
Blowing out a long breath, he brought up his in-box, firing off an e-mail to his PA. Denise knew the drill. She’d leaked his whereabouts to the press at opportune moments over the last six months, claiming to be ‘an unnamed source’ when the company needed a boost or was desperate to counteract Bert’s bad publicity.
Time for his ‘source’ to let the press know where Gemma would be on Saturday.
Gemma’s morning had been manic: inspecting the beach, revising plans, going over new energy sources, scoping out the beach surrounds to ensure the managers knew where the amendments were to take place.
The guys had been nothing but professional, and she’d been buoyed by their acceptance of her. Until the boss man roared up in his Merc mid-afternoon and they scattered, leaving her to face him alone.
Her throat constricted as he stepped from the car in a grey suit offset by a pale blue shirt and navy striped tie, his long strides closing the distance between them at a rapid pace.