The guest list included the Who’s Who of the yachting world from all over the globe, along with their glammed-up wives, lovers and/or mistresses. Seemed anyone with money to throw at Australia’s prestigious Sydney to Hobart, one of the world’s top and most difficult off-shore yacht races, was partaking of the evening’s merrymaking.
A force-field of inquisitive eyes found him as he took a beer from a circulating waiter’s tray. Eyes dead ahead, he cut straight to an antique spiral staircase he’d spotted in the corner. He hoped its steep and winding steps would discourage stiletto-heeled females from venturing up. He wasn’t looking for an available woman. He was looking for his sister. Or had been until she’d texted him ten minutes ago to say she’d been caught up. Car problems, she’d told him—she’d let him know when she was on her way.
The stairs opened up onto a small viewing platform above the main outdoor entertainment area. Deserted—the way he liked it. Leaning on the rail, he watched the ferries track across the twinkling harbour.
Car problems. Breanna. He didn’t know her well but he knew her well enough—there was no car and a man was definitely involved. He chugged back on his beer. Perhaps they had more in common than he’d thought.
The band below fired off a set of rocking Christmas tunes and his head throbbed. He didn’t do the festive season—all that Kris Kringle nonsense, mistletoe madness and nostalgia.
So why had he agreed with Breanna’s suggestion to meet her here instead of the hotel bar? Or them as it happened, because Breanna was sharing the suite with a girlfriend. Which had him wondering about the wearer of the strawberry lace panties and matching D-cups hanging over the shower rosette in the second bathroom...
Don’t even think about it. He shook trouble away, checked the time. Ten more minutes, Breanna, and I’m gone.
* * *
Guests were starting to leave when Olivia finally found a moment alone and a semi-secluded spot to sit. She sucked on the straw of her Christmas Jones cocktail—her first alcoholic beverage for the evening—and leaned towards the balcony watching the incandescent candles amongst the garden shrubbery.
Hurry up, Brie.
She’d networked all evening to promote Snowflake and was delighted with the responses and promises for donations. But she and her crew had just come off five days’ intensive training on the harbour, her feet were killing her and she was ready for some shut-eye.
Except Brie wasn’t answering her phone—but she’d texted a winky face.
Did that mean she’d forgotten their arrangement to be there for each other at the end of the evening or what? Pushing up from her plastic party chair, she considered texting a response to say she was leaving but they’d made a promise to watch out for each other years ago and that had never changed.
Then, as if fate stepped in, her eyes snagged on the lower half of a man descending a pretty spiral staircase that she’d not noticed earlier. Even if men weren’t a priority for Olivia, a little blip of pleasure registered on her radar. Black trousers covered legs that went all the way up—and up—the fabric lovingly clasped around muscled thighs, a firm, rounded, superhero-in-tights butt. Nice. A girl deserved a little lust blip every now and then and this blip was brightening by the second.
He reached the bottom step and the full-frontal, full impact hit with a wow. It was as if a flashbulb went off and Olivia blinked. There he was. A fully formed, three-dimensional, reach-out-with-both-hands-and-touch example of prime masculinity.
The stranger she’d not promised Brie she’d stay away from.
A mouth-watering stranger with bronzed olive skin that tempted any woman with a pulse to lick her way across that shadowed chin and linger awhile at the perfectly sculpted mouth.
His gaze met hers as if she’d summoned him to look her way. And he didn’t look pleased about that. His eyebrows lowered, his mouth firmed and a muscle clenched in his jaw.
He looked kind of familiar but she’d totally have remembered a guy like him. She’d revelled in that initial instant of feminine power but now somehow he’d reversed the situation and that cool control she could always count on, and was so proud of, was disappearing like ice on a barbecue grill.
Steely black eyes with the power to tempt. To persuade. A shiver rippled down her spine. The power to take her will and flex it between his long slender fingers like so much overcooked spaghetti.
And Olivia felt hot, as she did when standing on the steaming deck of her yacht on a midsummer’s day in Barbados. In the eye of a tropical storm even, because her usually strong sea legs were wobbly.
She was still looking at him and he was still looking at her and she swore she saw him mouth, ‘Trouble’.
Oh yeah, absolutely. Double trouble in flashing neon lights. She’d never met a man who’d affected her this way—this hot, itchy, melty way. Not that they’d met... Had they?
Her pulse took off and her heart raced to catch up. He’d moved so subtly she hadn’t noticed that he stood between her and the only route to the lower levels via the marble staircase. Intentional or not—she couldn’t be sure and the anticipation hummed through her body like a build-up of static electricity.
Fight or flight? In yachting there was only one option. Unexpected and dangerous situations were dealt with in a calm, rational manner. Dealing with men was no different. Whatever happened, she would not run away.
With feigned indifference, she tossed her bedraggled twist of feathers over one shoulder, a silky strand catching on her lip as she drew in a wheezy breath to say, ‘Hi.’
* * *
Jett knew it was time to leave when Trouble with the most eye-catching, reddest hair he’d ever seen spoke to him in that husky, breathless voice. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the feather stuck to her pouty lower lip as she made little puh-puh noises to try and blow it off. He had the weirdest image of her blowing those little noises on his belly while her fingernails raked over his nipples and her hands swirled over his chest, his hips. Lower.
Damn.
Just say hi back and walk away. Fast. But his feet obeyed only that rapidly hardening part of his anatomy, and before he knew it he’d crossed the space between them, reached out and plucked the feather from what was a very pretty mouth. He felt a sensation of warm static before he snatched his fingers back.
‘Thanks.’ Eyes the colour of his signature Blue Mint Lagoon cocktail sparkled.
He curled tingling fingers into a fist. Another damn. Trouble with a sense of humour.
He saw...something...behind the fun and she looked away quickly, as if she hadn’t meant to share. Her gaze flicked upwards and behind him. ‘Anything interesting up there?’
There could be—if you want. ‘Nope.’
‘There has to be something, or why the staircase?’
He shrugged at her logic, stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘Just a couple of telescopes.’
‘Really? I love stargazing.’
Even in the dimness he could see the fairy lines fanning out from the corners of her eyes and a splash of freckles over her nose. She enjoyed the outdoors whereas he rarely had the time for such indulgence. No doubt another spoiled socialite with plenty of time to waste. ‘Too much light pollution in the city,’ he told her, rocking back on his heels. ‘I’d say they’re for watching the harbour.’
‘Oh, yes, why didn’t I think of that?’
She walked to the bottom of the spiral stairs and peered up, one slender hand on the rail. Sun-kissed skin. Neat unvarnished nails. A nice flash of abundant cleavage. Man, he had to stop staring like some pre-pubescent teenager—
‘Did you sneak a peek?’
‘What?’ His guilty gaze shot somewhere over her shoulder, then he realised she was talking about telescopes. ‘Ah...no.’
She cast him an unreadable look then started up. ‘Why not?’
<
br /> ‘Because— Hey, you won’t want to go up like that.’ In one stride he was there, his fingers closing firmly over hers. The contact sent a zing up his forearm. All that static build-up discharged in one hit.
She must have felt it too because her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. ‘Like...what?’
He yanked his hand away. ‘Those heels—you’ll break your neck.’
‘Only if I—’ On cue, one stiletto slipped and caught in the iron lace doyley tread. She yanked it free. ‘Cripes. I see your point.’
He shook his head. ‘Why don’t you—?’
‘Okay...’ On the third tread, she toed off her shoes. And groaned lustily—a sound that did dangerous things to his already wide-awake libido. ‘Relief at last. Why didn’t I think of that earlier?’ She handed them to him over the rail, avoiding skin contact. ‘Hold these till I get back.’
‘I...’ Siren-red patent, they were warm from her feet and smelled of new leather. Dangling them from one hand, he watched her climb, toenails painted to match, strong toned calves. Smooth, golden thighs disappeared beneath the shadows of her dress’s short hemline. She moved fast and without effort, as if she worked out a lot. A yachtie’s woman?
If Jett were the skipper, he’d keep her below decks and all to himself for the entire journey. Yep, naked and barefoot—he could get creative with feet, a little warm brandy and sweet ripe apricots—
Hell. He shook his head to clear it. Now was not the time to be coming up with new recipes.
He wasn’t looking for a woman, dammit. He had to remind himself again because his mind seemed to have forgotten. He was waiting for Breanna, half-sister, who was doing whatever, with whomever. Everything, it seemed, except checking in with him. He should go back to the hotel, catch up on some sleep. Away from trouble in a red dress.
But he had her shoes. He could hardly just abandon them here. And he didn’t want to leave without one more glimpse of her. Which wasn’t quite true because he wanted more than a glimpse. A lot more.
He placed one foot on the bottom step and made an instant decision. Forget Breanna; she hadn’t answered his call. Instead, a little up-close and personal might just be on the menu for tonight. No trouble, he assured himself; he didn’t want or need to know who she was. A hot lick of anticipation stroked down his body and his steps quickened while his stomach tightened and his mouth watered. One sweet taste. The perfect dessert to end the evening.
* * *
Olivia hoped the sound of her heart pounding its way out of her chest wasn’t audible. Hearing his footsteps on the metal treads, she turned as the guy appeared on the platform behind her. And was blown away again by the sight of all that blatant masculinity. Which was unsettling because she’d relegated men to the bottom of her list of priorities a long time ago.
Determined not to let him see how much he was affecting her, she moved to the larger telescope and adjusted it for a view of the party-goers milling around Circular Quay to distract herself and give her time to think what to do next.
She could feel his gaze stroking heat down her spine and the backs of her thighs. His musky masculine scent wafted her way. As diversions went, the impromptu viewing idea was an epic fail—she had no idea if the lens was in focus or not. As for coming up with what to do next, heck, all she could think was how his lips would taste... ‘Amazing,’ she murmured.
‘Have to agree with you there.’
She turned to him but he wasn’t looking at the twinkling carpet of lights on the harbour, he was watching her and screwing with her equilibrium again. She deflected with, ‘Are you sailing in the race?’
‘Not me.’
She noticed he didn’t ask the same of her. No doubt the women he associated with were willowy, fragile types who were afraid of breaking a fingernail or a sweat. ‘Sailing’s not your thing?’
He shrugged, his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘In case you’re wondering, I’m here for the free food.’
She laughed spontaneously. ‘Ah, it was you who demolished all the prawns.’ She gestured to the crowd on the dance floor below who were swaying their hips and waving their little gold bells to ‘Jingle Bell Rock’. ‘So, were you getting your groove on down there on the dance floor tonight?’
He shook his head, a smile on his lips. ‘I’m not the prawn thief and since you didn’t ask me to dance, no, I wasn’t.’ And oh, my, in the shadowy light, the cutest, innocent-little-boy dimples flirted at the corners of his mouth. It kick-started some sort of weird maternal instinct when what it should have been doing was to warn her to run in the opposite direction.
Between talking up Snowflake to anyone who’d listen, she’d danced her feet to death—and had continued to promote Snowflake while bopping. ‘I didn’t see you...’ Men never joked with her, but this one was—at least she thought he was—and she trailed off, feeling awkward.
‘Haven’t been here long,’ he told her at last. ‘Anyway the Macarena’s not really my thing.’
‘Not even the Christmas Macarena with the jingle bells and reindeer antlers to wiggle along with?’
‘I don’t do Christmas.’ He walked to the railing, gazed at the harbour.
‘No?’ she said to his back. ‘What, like, you don’t do the whole mistletoe, eggnog, Secret Santa thing—or is it a personal belief?’
‘Two words: Christmas commercialism.’ When he turned to her, his eyes had lost their spark.
She wasn’t buying it—something had happened in his past that had nothing to do with Christmas commercialism.
‘It doesn’t have to be,’ she said. ‘Unless you let it.’
He shrugged. ‘Anyway, who needs mistletoe? If you want to kiss someone you should go ahead and kiss them, wouldn’t you agree?’ He seemed to lean towards her. ‘Why wait for Christmas?’
Why, indeed? He had leaned towards her. ‘It depends on whether that person wants to be kissed.’ She told herself she didn’t. She wished she didn’t but, oh, she really did. Every muscle in her body tightened and softened and her lips were practically puckering up in anticipation. ‘But a little festive smooch beneath the mistletoe’s always fun.’ And infinitely safer than shadowed, secluded corners.
Dark brows rose. ‘Always?’ Somehow, as if she’d willed it, he was within touching distance. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, like runaway power from a nuclear reactor. His eyes seared her with dark intensity.
‘Usually,’ she amended with a laugh that sounded nervous to her own ears. ‘With a few Christmas drinks under one’s belt and everyone bursting with good cheer, it’s harmless enough.’ Unlike that nuclear reaction approaching critical mass in the narrowing space between them.
Had she said harmless? It was a foregone conclusion; this virtual stranger was going to kiss her and she was going to let him and excitement tingled through her body like a swarm of hungry fire ants.
‘So convince me Christmas is worth all the fuss,’ he murmured, reaching out and fingering the ends of her hair.
She wondered that she couldn’t smell the singe in the air and had to fight for her composure again. ‘Where do you want me to begin?’
‘Refresh my memory and run that Secret Santa bit by me again. Is it the same as Kris Kringle?’
‘Not necessarily,’ she decided, and ventured into uncharted waters. ‘First off...’ she reached up on tiptoe, slid her boa around his neck then stepped backwards, letting it slide through her fingers until she was holding the very ends ‘...and most importantly...’ she met his eyes boldly even though her legs felt as though they were stumbling through sand ‘...it has to be a secret.’
‘Trust me, I won’t tell a soul.’ His voice was silk seduction, sliding over her and all but stealing away any sense she might have had.
‘Trust you? Where are my shoes, by the way?’
‘Safe.’ He glanced
down between their bodies then back to her face. ‘I like you barefoot.’
‘So do I, it’s so liberating, don’t you think?’ Something danced behind his smouldering gaze and her feet tickled—as if he were sucking them right into his mouth. One toe at a time. ‘You’d be my Secret Santa?’
‘For you...’ he ran one lazy fingertip over her left collarbone, making her shiver ‘...I could be persuaded. Are you sleeping with anyone?’
The question came out of nowhere and he spoke casually, as if he were asking whether she liked sugar in her coffee. A tugging sensation she’d never experienced unfurled low in her belly and her cheeks burned with fire. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’ Confusion warred with irritation at his smooth, almost lazy arrogance.
‘It is if I’m going to kiss you the way I want to kiss you.’ His fingertip moved from her collarbone to skim across her lower lip.
Her lips burned and the low tugging sensation pulled into a tight knot. Her habitual defensiveness evaporated. What was it about this man that she’d throw away any sense of caution?
She’d obviously been struck by some random insanity.
Over the years, she’d grown accustomed to guys accusing her of being intimidating or closed off. Snowflake and her studies had taken her focus and consumed her energy for so long it hadn’t left time for anything else, particularly any fleeting and indulgent liaisons with the opposite sex. She had more important things on her agenda, such as making a difference for people with serious and terminal illness.
But it was Christmas Eve and random insanity had indeed struck because right now on the top of this year’s Christmas list was his lips on hers. Her Secret Santa—dark as midnight, and an exciting mystery to unravel and enjoy. Just for tonight.
He watched her, reading her thoughts. Knowing she was going to say yes. But then he said, ‘When a woman tells me it’s none of my business, it’s usually because she wants me to kiss her regardless of the man she’s sleeping with.’
The One She Was Warned About Page 16
