by Nikki Logan
‘Wow!’ Carrie unfroze just long enough to snap her gaping mouth closed. She blinked in the direction that Cyclone Dan had just blown through.
The image of that sculpted chest free of its expensive covering burned into Ava’s brain like a cheap plasma television. Last time she’d seen it, it had been slick with sweat and barrelling towards her in the dark of night. She swallowed the thought and turned away from the doorway as the warmth of Dan’s shirt soaked into her. She met Carrie’s eyes for a moment, and they burst out laughing.
‘I’m sorry I was being a princess about the tank top,’ Ava said. Prima donna was no way to start a working relationship.
‘Oh, love—forget it. I wouldn’t have worn it either. I’m just amazed you got away with it. He’s a producer, you know.’ Carrie shook her head and went back to placing out the tiny pots and brushes that were the tools of her trade.
Ava had already discovered that the higher up the food chain you got in television the less popular you became, but she felt obliged to defend Dan. For old times’ sake if nothing else.
‘He’s all right.’
‘Honey, for what he just did the man’s a hero. You know he’s going to take some flak for that. I wouldn’t like to be a fly on the wall when the network sees the dailies from this shoot.’
Ava ran her hand along the smooth collar of the business shirt and turned partly away from Carrie to breathe her fill of Dan’s distinctive cologne. The rich scent mingled with his own personal smell. How many years had she been as sensitive as a tracker dog to that particular scent? Until she’d exorcised it through necessity.
The fabric was warm, fragrant, and hideously expensive—and she was about to start shovelling dirt with it on. The irony made her smile.
Carrie steered her to the well-used chair in front of the trailer’s mirror. ‘Sit yourself down, love. If Dan’s butt is on the line, let’s give it some company.’
Twenty minutes later Ava stared at her reflection. She knew she had a face full of make-up, but Carrie had applied it so subtly it looked as if she was wearing virtually none. Enormous grey eyes stared at her from the mirror, artfully highlighted with kohl, her skin was wrinkle-free—for that alone Carrie deserved a medal—and her honey-blonde hair was restrained in a tight ponytail that managed to accentuate the long curve of her neck while still looking completely effortless. She’d never been one to overplay her strengths. She had a good mind and a good heart and those assets meant the most to her. But for the first time ever Ava looked at her own face and didn’t count her flaws.
Her heart lifted slightly.
Minutes later she stepped out of the trailer, shrouded in Dan’s shirt and wearing the practical cargos. She tossed the shortie-shorts in the trash on the way out and farewelled Carrie.
An ally. Exactly what she needed on a day like today. She could do with a friend on set.
You have one, a tiny voice reminded her. A friend of many years.
But Dan had chosen the other side in this whole mess. Despite the chivalry of this morning, he was still corporate with a capital ‘C’. Still the boss. Inevitably the time would come when he would remind her of that fact, and any shred of friendship they had left would be nothing but history.
It was daunting to be the centre of attention, taking commands from a swag of people with their own jobs to do, trying to follow various instructions while remembering what she was supposed to be there for.
Read this. Say that. Step here and you’ll be off camera. Step there and you’ll be out of the light.
Her patience was just about shot by the time Dan reappeared on set, his suit jacket slung over the blue singlet. He moved so comfortably through the throng it was easy to see why he was successful at what he did. He still oozed confidence. So much so he made pairing a workman’s singlet with suit pants seem almost normal.
Ava glanced away, not wanting to stare.
Slightly behind Dan came a vision she couldn’t help but appreciate. His Hollywood smile lit a path straight towards her and she blinked as he turned its full force onto her.
Brant Maddox. Host and celebrity hottie.
‘Ava. Such a pleasure to meet you.’ Brant’s hand closed around hers. Warm, smooth…but empty. Nothing like the sure grip of the darker man beside him. She frowned at the comparison. Before she could return the greeting, Brant’s hand tugged her in to kiss her cheek. She stumbled and fell into him, still conscious that the tank top magnified her assets.
Brant seemed pleased with the heat flaming in her cheeks and stepped away. An odd expression flitted across his blue eyes. My work here is done, they seemed to say. Had the whole encounter been manufactured for effect? What was his story?
‘Ava Lange—Brant Maddox.’ Dan’s belated introductions were pointless, but Ava appreciated his businesslike tone. It helped her remember why she was there.
‘Ava, can I have a word?’ He held up five fingers to the director, who then called a break to the crew. She followed him off to one side, smiling an unnoticed farewell at Brant, who was now thoroughly engaged in chatting to his next target. Dan steered her with a gentle hand to her back. Heat soaked through his shirt to her skin where he touched her.
Down, girl…
‘You look great,’ he said, examining her dispassionately. ‘Much better.’
Offence nipped in her belly and her eyebrows rose. ‘They don’t call them artists for nothing.’
He looked at her more closely then. ‘I was talking about the clothes. But now you mention it, yes, she’s done a great job with your make-up. Natural.’ He scrutinised the whole picture again, trailing his eyes over her face slowly and thoroughly.
Two blushes in two minutes. Even for her that was something. She glanced at the set, uncomfortable with his intense regard.
He cleared his throat, back to business. ‘Two things. Your latest design is brilliant—possibly your best yet.’
The glow that warmed her body irked her. She shouldn’t need his endorsement to feel proud about this design. She’d channelled all her frustration and anger at being coerced by the network into the most beautiful garden she could create. It had resulted in some of her best work.
‘Thank you. I figured that if it’s my face, now, as well as my name on it, then I’d better make it a knockout.’
His chocolate eyes studied her closely. They did nothing to ease the warmth in her cheeks.
‘You’ve succeeded,’ he said. ‘Although I had to lean on our suppliers for better prices to afford some of the centrepieces.’
She smiled sweetly. A pair of massive ornamental dracaenas would have added a zero to the budget all by their spiky selves. It felt magnificent to finally get one over on Mr Smugness himself.
Almost too good. Addictive. Her body stirred.
‘I’m just looking for an indication as to whether you’re planning on maintaining that level of terrorism by design,’ he said.
Her laugh tinkled even to her own ears. ‘I can give you no guarantees.’
‘Just remember it’s not the network whose day you’re making harder with those little rebellions.’
She smiled and held his gaze. Pure innocence. ‘No?’
He smiled, too. A sexy, knowing kind of smile. ‘No. And not mine either, although I’m sure that was your intent.’ He steered her further away from prying ears. The heat radiating from where his hand closed over her elbow was both comforting and disturbing. ‘Tania from Procurement spent a whole day trying to get you what you wanted within the budget she’d been set. She was embarrassed to have to tell me she couldn’t do it.’
Ava’s smile instantly dropped. ‘Oh. Not my intention.’ Talk about backfire!
‘I know. I just wanted to point it out.’
How could he know her so well even after nine years apart? He had the uncanny knack of reaching right into her mind and plucking her thoughts like daisies.
‘Okay. Lesson learned,’ she said. ‘What was the second thing?’
He assessed her for a
moment before continuing. ‘Brant Maddox.’
Ava’s eyes found Brant in the jumble of crew, casually leaning on an upturned urn, chatting to an assistant—although there was really nothing casual about it. Again, he was posing for anyone paying attention. A picture of casual male beauty.
‘Speaking of expensive ornamentals…’
Dan laughed quietly and looked at her through those killer lashes. ‘Okay, so maybe I don’t need to worry about point number two.’
Realisation struck. ‘Oh, you were not…’ He was going to warn her about Maddox? ‘You, of all people!’
It was Dan’s turn to flush—just slightly, but with no corporate collar to hide it she saw colour steal its way up his tanned throat.
‘I’m thinking about the show, Ava. We can’t afford any interpersonal issues that might screw things. There’s too much riding on this.’
She straightened, armed and dangerous. ‘And of course you automatically assume I would be the screw-up. That I wouldn’t have the same appreciation of the importance of this.’
‘You said it yourself, Ava. You don’t value it.’
‘No, but you do.’ Her raised voice drew a few curious glances from the crew. She dropped it carefully and let her eyes burn into his. ‘I wouldn’t do that to you, Dan.’
Despite everything he’d done—now and nine years ago—that was true. She had no interest in causing him harm. But…it didn’t hurt to remind him that he hadn’t been as considerate of her needs.
‘That’s generous of you, under the circumstances…’
It was the first time she’d seen him look uncomfortable. Just when she’d thought he wasn’t capable of it. ‘I’m a generous woman, Dan.’
Her flippant reply took on a whole new meaning as his eyes flickered to the logo on her shirt. It was such a brief moment she thought she might have imagined it, but her skin tingled all over at the suspicion.
He spoke quietly. ‘Thank you, Ava. That’s more than I deserve.’
Oh. The man certainly knew how to throw her off kilter. All the fight drained out of her. She cleared her throat. ‘Shall we get to work?’
Dan stepped away so Ava could return to the middle of the ugly concrete rooftop where they had three days to transform it into a world-class rooftop garden. She looked completely in her element, and surprisingly at ease with the attention now centred on her. Attention she’d been loath to accept.
The Ava he remembered from childhood had always been gutsy, a rampant tomboy, until one day around her thirteenth birthday a switch had flipped and she’d suddenly discovered she was female. She’d been ragingly shy from then on, the only female left in an all-male family after her mother died when she was eight. The baby by four years, too, which meant she’d been frequently over-protected.
Looking at her now, smiling up at something inane Maddox was saying, professional respect warred deep in Dan’s gut with the blinding desire to protect her. He frowned as the feeling shifted south.
Or was it just plain desire?
She was hardly little Ava now. Grown. Talented. Attractive. Beautiful in this moment, with the television lights shining down on her. But she was still Steve’s little sister. Virtually his, too.
But not quite.
Not that he wouldn’t have killed to be part of their family for real.
Maddox looked at her and spoke, hitting her with one of those perfect smiles that Dan had seen work so often on women in the network. She tipped her head and laughed. The sound danced right over to where he stood watching, and the urge to protect surged in him again.
Steve’s kid sister. He had responsibilities here. Professionally and personally.
He’d have to stay on his toes.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE voices were back. Whispering. Urgent.
Even through the thick veil of sleep Ava knew that couldn’t be good. Not again…
No one ever whispered in the Lange household. They did everything at mega decibels. But what were the chances, on the eve of her sixteenth birthday, that secrecy and whispers could mean anything other than a surprise being hatched? She shook the beach sand from her hair and tiptoed, smiling, to the kitchen, then crouched, frozen, by the doorway.
It was Dan. Three years of undivided attention had a way of branding a voice into your brain. And that must be her brother with him but—really—who cared? Gorgeous, talented, spectacular Dan was conjuring up a birthday surprise.
For her.
Did anyone else matter? Her heart kicked up three notches.
‘Ava’s not twelve any more,’ Steve’s voice whispered, deeper than usual.
Dan sighed before he answered. ‘Believe me, I know.’
Ava frowned. His sad voice didn’t make him sound as if he was plotting anything fun. Her skin prickled.
‘You should say something—’
‘I can’t,’ Dan said. ‘When she turns those beautiful eyes on me…how can I?’
Her heart beat like the wings of a honeyeater. Dan was talking about her! He thought her eyes were beautiful. After so many years of seeing her as a kid, he’d finally noticed she was a woman. Nearly.
Tomorrow.
Ava’s legs thrashed painfully amongst her bedclothes as the dream images morphed into a Flynn’s Beach backyard, minutes away from midnight.
The lights were off in Dan’s converted games room, but that didn’t slow Ava down. She’d chosen her best skirt and blouse—strategically short-buttoned—and practised her speech in the mirror fifty times, so she’d know exactly how to stand when delivering it and exactly how she’d look as she did.
Her empty stomach trembled. Dan wouldn’t be able to help but take her in his arms and kiss her until they were both breathless.
She’d practised that too. Over and over while sequestered away for three years, pining for a young man who was, miraculously and unexpectedly—going to be hers.
God, would she even know what to do with him? An unfamiliar tightness and an unbearable excitement overcame her.
She was practically part of the furniture in Dan’s retreat, so turning the unlocked handle without knocking seemed a perfectly reasonable thing to do…at midnight…in the dark…
The door swung inwards and she whispered his name into the darkness…
Ava forced her eyes open on an outraged shout. Her pulse galloped beneath sweat-dampened skin and she lurched up onto her elbows to force air into desperate, aching lungs.
At least this time she’d woken herself before the worst part.
Before the congealed, nine-year-old montage accented by moonlight: the illicit sheen of Dan’s toned buttocks; the long length of female leg bent skywards; the sweat-slicked contours of a grown man’s chest as he twisted towards where Ava stood, horrified, in the doorway.
Her own agonised sprint down to the beach with Dan’s angry oath echoing in her ears.
Ava’s body shuddered with mini-convulsions. Why? She’d been dream-free for a year. A whole blessed year. She’d thought the nights of thrashing and trembling were finally behind her. It had been bad enough living through it the first time, without reliving it over and again courtesy of her subconscious.
Damn him.
She swung her legs out from under the twisted wreckage of her bedcovers and slowly put her weight on both feet. It wouldn’t be the first time her legs had failed her after the dream, but tonight they held. She pushed upright and picked her way carefully to the guesthouse kitchenette.
Coffee. Now.
Too bad it was only two a.m. There was no chance in Hades that Ava was going to let herself fall back to sleep. Not tonight. Not if it meant going back to the agony of her memories.
She set the kettle to rapid boil.
It didn’t take a psych major to work out why the dream had returned. She hadn’t counted on working this closely with Dan; hadn’t expected him to be so hands-on. It made keeping some distance between them challenging and keeping the memories at bay impossible. They retreated away from shore by day
, but surged back like a moontide at night.
She rubbed her closed eyes.
The first sip of coffee helped to settle her churning stomach. The second slowed her trembles. It was hot and strong and so terribly normal it chased some of the demons away. But not all of them. The little guesthouse suddenly felt claustrophobic.
Tiny and crowded and…Dan’s.
The man sleeping just metres away. The man who had chased after her that night, still buttoning the denim glued to him like a second skin. Still with an acre of bare chest. Still smelling of a strange woman and sex.
Ava surrendered to the urgent desire to be far away. She let herself out through the bedroom doors and tiptoed with her coffee through the garden, beyond the rammed-earth archway to the water’s edge. Harbourview Terrace at two a.m. wasn’t too far removed from Flynn’s Beach at midnight. Quiet, tranquil, private.
She self-medicated again with a gulp of hot caffeine.
Sixteen. Such a blind age. And so horribly, horribly fragile. There’d been a moment back then—hidden away in her favourite grotto on the beach—where she’d thought she might be able to come up with a credible reason for having appeared at his door at midnight. But the complete fatal understanding in his eyes when he’d found her there had robbed her of that hope.
He’d tried to be gentle with her, but she’d shrugged him off violently, tears fuelled by excruciating humiliation racking her body.
Every time she had the dream, every time the carnal montage played back in her unprotected subconscious, she relived the mortification as though it were fresh. Her heart tightened until it hurt. From her spot by the water the lights of Sydney were a blurry, incandescent mush through eyes awash with remembered pain.
Sixteen.
For a girl with not a lot of life experience she’d certainly had a finely honed instinct for what would hurt. Demanding to know—as if she’d had any right at all—who the woman in his room was. Knowing before he’d even answered that she was a surfer. The woman’s blonde hair, tanned, toned muscles and enormous cartoon breasts had been a dead giveaway.