The edge to his voice made her stiffen in his arms. Did he think this was some kind of attention-seeking ruse? That she would let Alan catch her and lead her triumphantly back to the wedding? She went to retort but realised he didn’t know her any better than she knew him. She would never behave like that. But he wasn’t to know.
It seemed like only seconds before he stopped by a modest sedan parked by the kerb. Wouldn’t a sports celebrity like Max Conway drive something flashier? Unless he wanted to stay under the radar for some reason. In this case, it would serve her well if Alan tried to follow her. Once in the traffic, this car would be anonymous.
Max put her down by the passenger door. The pavement was warm to her stockinged feet. She was in a wedding dress and no shoes. It made her feel vulnerable and aware of her predicament. For the first time she questioned the wisdom of begging a stranger to take her away. But there was something about Max’s assured, take-charge attitude that made her feel she could trust him.
He unlocked the car with a fob on his key ring and held open her door. ‘Jump in,’ he said. ‘And be quick.’
That was easier said than done with a voluminous full skirt to tuck in around her. With fumbling fingers, she’d just managed to fasten her seat belt when the car took off with a jolt and a screech of tyres. ‘We’ve got company,’ Max said by way of explanation.
Nikki glanced behind her to see what he meant. Heading towards the car was a red-faced Alan, followed closely by her sister, resplendent in her bridesmaid’s dress, her sweet face screwed up in anguish. The wedding photographer followed—snapping gleefully away at the runaway bride. Nikki’s heart started to race and she choked on her breath. For the first time, she realised the enormity of what she had done. How it would affect so many people other than herself. She hadn’t even told her beloved sister.
But she’d make it up to them later. Far better to offend a few people than to chain herself in marriage to the wrong man. ‘Step on it,’ she urged Max.
It wasn’t long before they’d reached her older style waterfront apartment in Double Bay. She’d bought it with her first big profits from her business.
Max pulled into the driveway. ‘Have you got keys?’
‘No need. The entry is security coded.’
She expected him to bundle her out into the courtyard and speed off. Instead, he got out of the car to come around and open the passenger door for her. She realised Alan had never done that. Not once. Why had she let herself be so swept off her feet by him?
‘Ouch!’ The gravelled courtyard was not kind to stockinged feet. She started to pick her way across it, wincing as she went.
‘Allow me,’ Max said. Before she could protest she was swept up into his arms again as he carried her across the courtyard to the front door.
‘This is very chivalrous of you,’ she said, flushing.
‘Nothing is chivalrous about the best man running off with the bride,’ he said with a wry twist to his mouth that didn’t quite pass as a smile.
‘But the bride is very grateful,’ she said. ‘More grateful than she can say.’
He continued to hold her as she coded in her password. Then kicked the door open and carried her inside. It was as if he were carrying her over the threshold like a real bride on her wedding night. The thought was way too disconcerting. She struggled to be put down. He immediately set her back on her feet. She fussed with her dress to cover her confusion.
‘What now for you?’ he asked.
‘I intend to barricade myself in my apartment.’
‘And then?’
‘I have a plan.’ She didn’t really. The plan had been to spend the night with her new husband—she shuddered at even the thought of it—in a luxury city hotel then next day set off to a honeymoon in an even more expensive hotel in Dubai. Alan’s choice. ‘But I’m not going to tell you about it. Then you can truthfully tell people you don’t know where I am.’
‘You mean Alan?’
She nodded. ‘I really and truly don’t want him to find me. And I don’t want to make things more awkward for you than I already have.’
‘I get that,’ he said.
‘Just one more thing.’ She tugged the diamond engagement ring—that she had worn with such optimism for the future—off her finger. ‘Can you give this to him, please? I have no further use for it.’
‘Like a best man’s duty in reverse.’
He took the ring from her, his warm fingers brushing against hers as he did so. She snatched her hand back, not welcoming the tingle of awareness that shot through her. She’d been about to wed another man, for heaven’s sake. How could she feel such a flutter of attraction to his best man? Especially a guy who had cheated on his tennis-player girlfriend—a woman as famous as he was—and been involved in a highly publicised paternity dispute.
An awkward silence fell between them. She shifted from one stockinged foot to another, not wanting to meet his gaze. ‘Thank you for helping me,’ she said finally. ‘It was very good of you.’
‘Good doesn’t come into it. I’m not proud of myself for helping you run away. I went against my principles. I’m not convinced it was the right thing for you to do either. I seriously hope you don’t regret it.’
The full impact of what she’d done might not hit her until Max left her alone in her apartment, surrounded by the disarray of her wedding preparations and honeymoon packing. But he didn’t need to sound self-righteous about it. It wasn’t for Max Conway to sit in judgement against her. Grateful though she was for his help.
Anger flooded through her. ‘There’s one more thing you don’t know about your friend Alan. After his twins, he had a vasectomy so he couldn’t have more children. The man who used to toss names for our future kids around with me. Spent hours discussing what colour eyes they might have. Was he ever going to tell me he was shooting blanks? Or let me go through fertility treatment when I didn’t fall pregnant?’
‘I have no words,’ Max said, tight-lipped. No criticism of his friend, of course. Not when the famous tennis player himself had cheated and lied.
‘I’ll never regret walking out on that despicable excuse for a man. But letting my family and friends down? Not doing due diligence on the man before I agreed to marry him? I suspect I’ll always regret my lapse in judgement. I wouldn’t have done a minor business deal without all the facts, yet I was prepared to commit my life to a person I didn’t really know. I wanted that life so much...the husband and kids.’
‘I can only wish you good luck in whatever you end up doing,’ he said. Looking serious suited him and it struck her again how good-looking he was. No wonder the public was so fascinated by him.
‘What I don’t regret is putting my trust in you to help me,’ she said. Max might be pond scum in his personal life and be friend to a cheating, lying fraud. But he had come through for her. That was all that counted.
On impulse she leaned up and kissed him on his smooth, tanned cheek. She was stunned by the sensation that shot through her at the contact, brief as it was. He didn’t kiss her back. Why would he? She’d just run out on his friend. ‘I won’t say I’ll return the favour for you some day because it’s not the kind of favour you want to call on, is it?’
He half smiled at that and turned to leave. She watched him as he strode back to his car, broad-shouldered and athletic. Unless she glimpsed him on television, slamming a tennis ball at his opponent in some top-level tournament, she would never see Max Conway again.
CHAPTER TWO
Six months later
MAX HADN’T COME to the small Indonesian island of Nusa Lembongan for fun. On previous visits to nearby Bali he had stayed with friends in luxurious private villas the size of mansions, with all their needs and whims catered to by a team of attendants devoted purely to their comfort. Near the beach in fashionable Seminyak. Overlooking the sea on a cliff top in exclusive Uluwatu.
High in the treetops of Ubud.
Not this time.
The last six months had been hell. Everything that could have gone wrong had gone wrong in both his professional and personal life. He had come to this small island, off the east coast of the main island of Bali, on his own. Not to party. But to make plans to reinvent himself.
Yesterday he had checked in to the Big Blue Bungalows, a small family-run hotel on the beach at Frangipani Bay on the south-west end of the island. He’d come with just a backpack and his laptop. The accommodation wasn’t backpacker basic, nor was it the five-star luxury he was accustomed to. Built as a collection of traditional-style bungalows and small villas with thatched roofs, the hotel was comfortable without being overly luxurious—and not without its own rustic charm.
Lembongan was much quieter and less touristy than Bali, with more scooters and bicycles and few cars on the narrow streets. He hadn’t been there twenty-four hours and he’d already cycled halfway around the island on a pushbike he’d borrowed from the hotel. The friend who’d recommended the island had warned Max he might get bored after a few days. Max doubted that. He just wanted to chill, far away from anyone who had expectations of him. He particularly wanted to escape media attention.
The thing he hated most about his life as a celebrity sportsman—he loathed that label—was media intrusion into his private life. Ever since he’d been thrust into the public eye the media had published exaggerated and erroneous versions of events in his private life. A lunch date with a colleague blown up into infidelity. Such fake news had led to a rift with his former girlfriend and, even worse, the inciting incident that had led to his disastrous accident.
His return to Sydney had been purposely under the radar. He’d agreed to be best man to Alan in a low-key, private wedding. Now it seemed Alan had wanted his wedding out of the public eye for his own underhand reasons. Surprisingly to Max, the groom had not traded on the best man’s celebrity. It wasn’t paparazzi that had taken all those photos. It was the wedding photographer who had fully capitalised on his luck in being in the right place at a scandalous time and sold the pictures everywhere.
As a result, Max’s role in the ‘runaway bride’ story that had so captivated Sydney had catapulted him headfirst into a rabid feeding frenzy of press speculation. Right when he’d most needed his privacy. He shuddered at the memory of it. Especially the photos of him carrying another man’s bride in his arms—accompanied by salacious headlines—that had featured on magazine covers all around the world.
Boring would do him just fine. Today, he anticipated the joys of anonymity.
He’d cycled from Frangipani Bay to the village of Jungut Batu, where the fast boat service brought people from Sanur on the mainland across the Badung Strait to Nusa Lembongan.
Max had taken the fast boat ride himself the day before. On arrival, he’d enjoyed a particularly tasty nasi goreng from one of the local warungs, small family run cafés, on the road that ran parallel to the beach. He fancied trying some other speciality from the menu for lunch, washed down with an Indonesian beer. This was the first time he’d travelled so simply, blending in with the backpackers, without agenda. Already he was enjoying the slower pace.
His talent for tennis had shown up when he was barely tall enough to handle a racket. For many years afterwards, school vacations had been devoted to training. There’d been no gap years or budget bus tours around Europe with friends his own age. Later, vacations had often been linked to promoting events managed by his corporate sponsors. And always there had been tennis. Even on a luxury vacation, he’d trained every day of the year. Training on Sundays and even Christmas Day, when his rivals didn’t, had helped give him the edge.
As far as he knew, there was no tennis court on Nusa Lembongan.
Already he was starting to wind down. Felt the warmth of the sun, the sparkling of the endless aquamarine sea, even the spicy scents so different from his everyday life loosening the stranglehold concern for his after-sport career had on his thoughts. The people of this part of the world were known for their warmth and friendliness—their genuine smiles were also contributing to the gradual rebirth of his well-being.
Cycling in the tropical humidity of the day had made him hot; prickles of perspiration stung his forehead, made his T-shirt cling to his back. He decided to walk down one of the narrow alleys that led from the street to the beach to cool off, maybe even plunge into the water. His clothes would dry soon enough.
A nearby boat was offloading passengers, including backpackers and tourists from all over the world. Max paused to watch them. There was no dock. Boats were tethered to shore by mooring lines that ran up the beach. Passengers were helped off the back of the boat and had to wade through the shallow waters to dry land. As people disembarked, he heard excited exclamations in German, Dutch, French, Chinese as well as English spoken in a variety of accents. Fascinated, he gazed at the local women who got off the boat then walked away with heavy boxes of supplies balanced on the tops of their heads.
A young woman with a large backpack turned to thank the boat crew with a wide, sunny smile. Idly, he wondered where she was from, where she was going. She looked like a typical backpacker in loose, brightly patterned hippy pants pulled up to her knees in preparation for her paddle through the water, a gauzy white top and a woven straw hat jammed over wind-tangled blonde hair. As she waded through the aqua-coloured water to the sand, she turned to a fellow backpacker and laughed at something he said. Max froze. That laugh, her profile, seemed familiar.
For a moment he thought... But it couldn’t be. Then she turned to face the beach and he caught sight of her face full on. No. Not her. Not here. The last woman he ever wanted to see again. He blamed her in large part for the hell his life in Sydney had become.
* * *
‘Terima kasih.’
Nikki thanked the crew as she left the boat to wade the few metres onto the beach shore, cool waters lapping around her calves. She’d been to Sanur to pick up supplies from the pharmacy for her friend Maya. Mission accomplished and back on Lembongan, she turned her thoughts to work and the snorkelling trip she was guiding that afternoon, currents permitting. July with its excellent weather was one of the busiest months for tourism here, coinciding with school vacations in both northern and southern hemispheres.
The island didn’t get as overrun as some of the more popular areas of the main island of Bali. But in this peak season there were both day trippers and new guests arriving all the time. Tourists from all around the world seeking a more off-the-beaten-track Bali experience came to Lembongan.
As she neared the shore, she became aware of a man’s intense gaze on her. The guy standing on the beach was hot. Tall, broad-shouldered, hair bleached from the sun, a sexy scruff of beard growth. Blue shorts and a white T-shirt showcased an athletic, muscular body. But she wasn’t looking for masculine company. Not now. Maybe not ever. The experience with Alan had left her too shattered to imagine ever trusting another man again. She ignored the stranger.
But his gaze didn’t drop. In fact it turned into a distinct glare. Was he some discontented dive-boat customer? Some of the tourists were determined to swim with the manta rays or mola mola fish, no matter the time of year or conditions on the day they took a tour. They didn’t understand how unpredictable the sea currents could be here and would go away to vent their anger on Internet review sites. She’d prefer them to express their disappointment to her. How would she have forgotten a man as attractive as this?
But as she got closer she realised exactly who the man was. Max Conway.
Anger and frustration rose in her so bitter she could taste it. After six months surely Alan had given up trying to find her? Now it seemed he’d sicced his watchdog best man onto her.
She marched across the sand to confront him. There was no call for niceties. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she demanded.
His blue eyes wer
e intense with dislike. ‘I could ask the same of you.’
She didn’t owe him any explanations. ‘Did Alan send you to drag me back to Sydney? If so I—’
‘No. Why would he? And why would you think I’d jump to his command if he did?’
‘He hasn’t stopped hunting for me.’
Max shrugged. ‘That’s nothing to do with me. I haven’t seen the guy since your wedding day.’ His tone was so decisive, his gaze so direct, she believed him.
His hand went to his nose in a reflex action he didn’t seem to know he was doing. She noticed it was slightly crooked. The slight flaw only made him look more handsome. So it was true.
‘I believe Alan didn’t take it kindly when you returned my engagement ring to him.’ She felt bad about what had happened. All her fault for dragging the unwilling best man into her drama. Not that she regretted it for a moment. She still shuddered at the thought of how lucky she’d been to escape marriage to Alan.
‘You heard right,’ said Max. ‘His response was to try to knock me out.’
She cringed. The photos of the best man and the groom brawling had been all over the press. The erroneous implication being they were fighting over her. The photographer she had hired for her wedding had cashed in big time. ‘Did he break your nose when he punched you?’ She found herself mirroring Max’s action by touching her own perfectly intact nose.
‘I’ve had worse injuries.’ He smiled a not very pleasant smile. ‘Trust me, he was hurting more than I was when I punched him back.’
Secretly, she was glad Alan had been hurt. After all he’d done to her, his ex-wives, and others she’d since found out had been damaged by his underhand behaviour, her former fiancé deserved more than a whack on the nose.
‘But you were friends,’ she said.
‘I wouldn’t go so far as to call it friendship,’ he said. ‘I met him at tennis camp when we were teenagers and we became mates of a kind. He wasn’t good enough to make the grade competitively. When he stopped playing tennis we pretty much lost touch. Until recently. I was back in Australia after years of living abroad. He’d returned to Sydney after living in Melbourne for a long time. I was surprised when he asked me to be his best man, but he said his friends were in Melbourne.’
Best Man and the Runaway Bride Page 2