by Nicola Marsh
Best of all, the easy-going, laid-back, fun-filled relationship they’d shared.
Until she’d started clinging, demanding, and he’d bolted.
With good reason. His tennis rankings had been shooting for the stars at the time, he’d had no choice but to repay the people who’d invested their time in him. He’d never wanted to be a user, someone who took their birthright for granted; like his parents.
Ironic, that what had started out as a babysitting exercise, a place the snooty Malones could offload their only child for a few hours a day, had turned into a lucrative career filled with fame, fortune and more women than any guy knew what to do with.
Strangely, only one woman had ever got close enough to see the real him, the guy behind the laid-back smile.
And he was looking straight at her.
While his career hadn’t been the only reason he’d left, seeing her here, now, just as vibrant, just as beautiful, reinforced exactly how much he’d given up by walking away from her.
His lips wanted to linger, but she didn’t give him time, stepping away with a haughty tilt of her head that might’ve worked if he hadn’t seen the softening around her mouth, the flash of recognition in her eyes.
‘Well? Did you know about this?’
Placing a hand in the small of her back to guide her to a chair, unsurprised when she stiffened, he shook his head.
‘I just learned my partner in crime’s identity in this fiasco a second before you walked through the door.’
‘Fiasco is right.’
He smiled at her vehement agreement as Elliott held out his hand.
‘Pleased to meet you. Elliott J. Barnaby, the producer of Stranded. Glad to have you on board.’
‘That’s what we need to discuss.’
Gesturing to a waiter, she placed an order for sparkling mineral water with lime, before squaring her shoulders, a fighting stance as familiar as the tilt of her head.
‘Before we begin this discussion, let me make a few things clear. One, I’m here under sufferance. Two, I’m doing this for the money.’
She held up a finger, jabbed it in his direction. ‘Three, this island better be big enough for the both of us because I’d rather swim back to the mainland than be cooped up with you for a week.’
Elliott’s head swivelled between them, curiosity making his eyes gleam.
‘You two know each other?’
She jerked her head in his direction. ‘Didn’t his lordship tell you?’
Elliott grinned. ‘Tell me what?’
‘We know each other,’ Jared interjected calmly, well aware Elliott would want to know exactly how well they knew each other later. ‘Old friends.’
Kristi muffled a snort as he shot her a wink. ‘Getting reacquainted is going to be loads of fun.’
‘Yeah, like getting a root canal,’ she muttered, her glare mutinous.
After another dreary rehab session with Madame Lash, the physio from hell, Jared had trudged in here, ready to talk business with Elliott, not particularly caring who he’d be stuck with for a week.
Now, the thought of battling wits with a sassy, smart-mouthed Kristi for seven days brightened his morning considerably.
Struggling to keep a grin off his face, he folded his arms, faced Elliott.
‘Us knowing each other shouldn’t be a problem?’
Elliott shook his head. ‘On the contrary, should make for some interesting interaction. The documentary is about exposing the reality behind reality TV. How you talk, react, bounce off each other, when confined for a week without other social interactions should make for good viewing.’
Elliott paused, frowned. ‘Old friends? That didn’t mean you lived together for any time?’
‘Hell, no!’
The flicker of hurt in Kristi’s memorable blue eyes had him cursing his outburst, but in the next instant she’d tilted her chin, stared him down, making him doubt he’d glimpsed it at all.
‘Cohabiting with a child isn’t my idea of fun,’ she said, her hauteur tempered with the challenging dare in her narrowed eyes.
She wanted him to respond, to fight back, to fire a few taunts. Well, let her wait. They had plenty of time for that. An entire seven days. Alone. With no entertainment other than each other. Interesting.
Oblivious to the tension simmering between them, Elliott rubbed his hands together.
‘Good. Because that would’ve changed the status quo. This way, your reactions will be more genuine.’
He plucked a folder filled with documents from his pile and slid it across the table towards Kristi.
‘I’m aware your boss put your name forward for this, so you need to look over all the legalities, sign the forms where asterisked, we’ll go from there.’
She nodded, flipped open the folder, took the pen Elliott offered and started reading, the pen idly tapping her bottom lip. A bottom lip Jared remembered well; for its fullness, its softness, its melting heat as it moulded to his…
Having her read gave him time to study her, really study her. She’d been a cute, perky twenty-one-year-old when they’d dated, her blonde hair wild and untamed, her figure fuller, her clothes eclectic. She’d always been inherently beautiful and while her nose might be slightly larger than average, it added character to a face graced by beauty.
Now, with her perfect make-up, perfectly straight blow-dried hair, perfect streamlined body and perfect pink designer suit, she intrigued him more than ever.
He liked her tousled and ruffled and feisty, and, while her new image might be all corporate and controlled, he’d hazard a guess the old Kristi wouldn’t be lurking far beneath the surface.
‘All looks okay.’
She signed several documents and, with a heavy sigh, handed them to Elliott. ‘Everything I need to know in here?’
Elliott nodded. ‘Do you know anything about Stranded?’
She shook her head. ‘My pushy boss didn’t go into specifics.’
Jared leaned across, held his hand up to his mouth, his loud conspiratorial whisper exaggerated. ‘Now you’re in for it. He’ll give you the hour-long spiel he gave me.’
Her mouth twitched before she returned her attention to Elliott, who was more than comfortable to elaborate on his favourite topic.
‘While it’s basically a competition for the prize money, which will go to the participant who nails the challenges and gains the most hits on their Internet networking sites, I want this documentary to make a social statement on our TV viewing and the way we network today.’
While her heart sank at the conditions imposed on winning the prize—she’d always been lousy at sports and no way could she beat Jared in the popularity stakes on the Net—Elliot continued.
‘There’s a glut of reality TV at the moment. Cooking, dating, singing, dancing, housemates, you name it, there’s a reality show filming it. I want Stranded to be more than that. I want it to show two people interacting, without social distractions, without direct interference, without the fanfare, without judges, and see how they get along. I want honest feedback.’
She nodded, gestured to her folder. ‘That’s where the daily blog and Twitter updates come in?’
‘Uh-huh. It’ll give the public instant access to your immediate feelings, build anticipation for when I screen the documentary a week after you return. Building hype and viewer expectation makes for more interesting viewing.’
‘So we’re filmed all the time?’
She screwed up her nose, as enthralled with the idea as he was.
Elliott steepled his fingers like a puppet master looking forward to yanking their strings.
‘No, the cameras are motion-activated, and only situated on certain parts of the island. If you want privacy or time out, there are designated areas.’
Her relief was palpable, as Jared wondered what would make her desperate enough to do this. Sure, she’d said the money, but she’d never been money-driven so there had to be more to it. Then again, it had been eight years. How wel
l did he really know her?
It was different for him. His life had been laid out for public consumption the last seven years, what he ate, where he went, what car he drove, all open to interpretation.
He’d learned to shut off, to ignore the intrusion, was now using it to his advantage for the rec centre.
But what did she get out of this apart from a chance to win the money?
‘Good to know.’ Jared tapped the side of his nose, leaned towards her. ‘Just in case you feel the urge to take advantage of me, you can do it off camera.’
‘In your dreams, Malone.’
‘There’ve been plenty of those, Wilde.’
To his delight, she blushed, dropped her gaze to focus on her fiddling fingers before she removed them from the table, hid them in her lap. He gave her five seconds to compose herself and, on cue, her gaze snapped to his, confident, challenging.
‘You really want to do this here?’ he murmured, grateful when Elliott jerked his head towards the restrooms and made a hasty exit.
‘Do what?’
She was good, all faux wide-eyed innocence and smug mouth. Well, she might be good but he was better. He’d always lobbed back every verbal volley levelled his way, had enjoyed their wordplay as much as their foreplay.
She stimulated him like no other woman he’d ever met and the thought of spending a week getting reacquainted had him as jittery as pre-Grand Slam.
‘You know what.’
He leaned into her personal space, not surprised when she didn’t flinch, didn’t give an inch.
‘You and me. Like this.’ He pointed at her, him. ‘The way we were.’
‘Careful, you’ll break into song any minute now.’
‘Feeling sentimental?’
‘Hardly. I’d have to care to want to take a stroll down memory lane.’
‘And your point is?’
She shrugged, studied her manicured nails at arm’s length.
‘I don’t.’
He laughed, sat back, laid an arm along the back of his chair, his fingers in tantalisingly close proximity to her shoulder.
‘You always were a lousy liar.’
‘I’m not—’
‘There’s a little twitch you get right here.’ He touched a fingertip just shy of a freckle near her top lip. ‘It’s a dead giveaway.’
She stilled, the rebellious gleam in her eyes replaced by a flicker of fear before she blinked, erasing any hint of vulnerability with a bat of her long eyelashes. ‘Still delusional, I see. Must be all the whacks on the head with tennis balls.’
‘I don’t miss-hit.’
‘Not what I’ve seen.’
‘Ah, nice to know you’ve been keeping an eye on my career.’
‘Hard to miss when your publicity-hungry mug is plastered everywhere I look.’
She paused, her defiance edged with curiosity. ‘Is that why you’re doing this? Publicity for your comeback?’
‘I’m not making a comeback.’
The familiar twist low in his gut made a mockery of his adamant stance that it didn’t matter.
He’d fielded countless questions from the media over the last year, had made his decision, had scheduled a press conference. And while he’d reconciled with his decision months ago the thought of leaving his career behind, turning his back on the talent that had saved him, niggled.
Tennis had been his escape, his goal, his saviour, all rolled into one. While he’d originally resented being dumped at the local tennis club by his narcissistic parents, he’d soon found a solitude there he rarely found elsewhere.
He’d been good, damn good, and soon the attention of the coaches, the talent scouts, had made him want to work harder, longer, honing his skill with relentless drive.
He’d had a goal in mind. Get out of Melbourne, away from his parents and their bickering, drinking and unhealthy self-absorption.
It had worked. Tennis had saved him.
And, while resigned to leaving it behind, a small part of him was scared, petrified in fact, of letting go of the only thing that had brought normality to his life.
‘You’re retiring?’
‘That’s the plan.’
He glanced at his watch, wishing Elliott would reappear. Trading banter with Kristi was one thing, fielding her curiosity about his retirement another.
‘Why?’
Her gaze, pinpoint sharp, bored into him the same way it always did when she knew he was being evasive.
He shrugged, leaned back, shoved his hands in his pockets to stop them from rearranging cutlery and giving away his forced casual posture.
‘My knee’s blown.’
Her eyes narrowed; she wasn’t buying his excuse. ‘Reconstructed, I heard. Happens to athletes all the time. So what’s the real reason?’
He needed to give her something or she’d never let up. He’d seen her like this before: harassing him to reveal a surprise present, pestering him to divulge the whereabouts of their surprise weekend away. She was relentless when piqued and there was no way he’d sit here and discuss his real reasons with her.
‘The hunger’s gone. I’m too old to match it with the up-and-coming youngsters.’
‘What are you, all of thirty?’
‘Thirty-one.’
‘But surely some tennis champions played ’til they were—?’
‘Leave it!’
He regretted his outburst the instant the words left his mouth, her curiosity now rampant rather than appeased.
Rubbing his chin, he said, ‘I’m going to miss it but I’ve got other things I want to do with my life so don’t go feeling sorry for me.’
‘Who said anything about feeling sorry for you?’
The relaxing of her thinned lips belied her response. ‘You’d be the last guy to pity, what with your jet-set lifestyle, your homes in Florida, Monte Carlo and Sydney. Your luxury car collection. Your—’
‘You read too many tabloids,’ he muttered, recognising the irony with him ready to capitalise on the paparazzi’s annoying scrutiny of his life to boost the rec centre’s profile into the stratosphere.
‘Part of my job.’
He laughed. ‘Bull. You used to love poring over those gossip rags for the hell of it.’
‘Research, I tell you.’
She managed a tight smile and it struck him how good this felt: the shared memories, the familiarity. He knew her faults, she knew his and where that closeness had once sent him bolting, he now found it strangely intriguing.
‘We need to get together before we leave for Lorikeet Island.’
Her smile faded, replaced by wariness. ‘Why?’
‘For old times’ sake.’
He leaned closer, crooked his finger at her. ‘Surely you don’t want to rehash our history in front of the cameras?’
With a toss of her hair, she sipped at her mineral water, glancing at him over the rim.
‘The only thing happening in front of the cameras is me pretending to like you.’
Laying a hand on her forearm, pleased when she stiffened in awareness, he murmured, ‘Sure you need to pretend? Because I remember a time when—’
‘Okay, okay, I liked you.’
She snatched her arm away, but not before he’d seen the responsive glimmer darkening her eyes to sapphire. ‘It was a phase in my early twenties that passed along with my passion for leg warmers and spiral perms.’
Not backing off an inch, he shifted his chair closer to hers.
‘Didn’t you hear? Leg warmers are making a comeback.’
‘You aren’t.’
Her stricken expression showed him exactly how much she still cared despite protestations to the contrary. ‘With me, I meant. Not your career. Sorry. Damn…’
‘It’s okay.’
Her discomfort, while rare, was refreshing. ‘So, about our pre-island catch up?’
She sighed. ‘I guess it makes sense.’
‘Eight, tonight?’
‘Fine. Where?’
Not r
eady to divulge all his secrets just yet, he said, ‘You’ll find out.’
CHAPTER THREE
Stranded Survival Tip #3
Pack all your troubles in your old kit bag; but don’t forget protection…just in case.
‘YOU owe me an ice cream for making me wait in the car.’
Kristi grabbed Meg’s arm and dragged her away from the all-seeing front window of Icebergs. ‘You weren’t in the car, you were strolling on the beach.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I saw you craning your neck to get a squiz at Jared and me through the window.’
‘I wasn’t craning. I was trying to stand on tiptoe.’ Meg shook her head, disgusted. ‘Still couldn’t see a darn thing.’
Perking up as they neared the ice-cream stand, Meg grinned. ‘So, is he still as gorgeous in real life as all those dishy pictures in the papers?’
‘Better,’ Kristi admitted reluctantly, her head still reeling with the impact of twenty minutes in Jared’s intoxicating company, her body buzzing with recognition.
She hadn’t expected such an instantaneous, in-your-face, overwhelming awareness of what they’d once shared, the memories bombarding her as fast as his quips.
Every time he looked at her, she remembered staring into each other’s eyes over fish and chips on Manly beach.
Every time he laughed, she remembered their constant teasing and the resultant chuckles.
Every time he’d touched her, she remembered, in slow, exquisite detail, how he’d played her body with skill and expertise, heat flowing strong and swiftly to every inch of her.
‘I could strangle Ros for putting me in this position.’
‘And which position would that be? Stranded on an island with Jared? Or maybe back in his arms or—’
Kristi gave her sister a narrowed look.
‘If Ros hadn’t dangled the promotion, I never would’ve gone through with this.’
‘Even for a chance to win a hundred grand?’
‘Even for that.’
A lie, but she didn’t want to tip Meg off to her plans for the prize money. Her little sister hated pity, hated charity worse.
When her no-good son-of-a-gun fiancé fled upon hearing news of her pregnancy, it wasn’t enough he took her self-respect, her trust, her hopes and dreams of an amazing marriage like their parents had shared.