by Nicola Marsh
As if she wasn’t nervous enough already. She’d agreed to pitch tonight. She hadn’t agreed on kissing Rory Devlin.
‘We’re here.’
‘Great.’ She managed a tight smile as he meandered along the never-ending driveway, looking but not seeing the designer town-houses lining the fairways, the Heritage Retreat and Mii Spa, the sprawling clubhouse.
If driving into this place hadn’t rattled her enough, his kiss had done it. The way he’d touched her hair, along with his genuine compliment, had made her feel special and desirable and feminine. As she’d mulled over his motivation for the entire two-hour drive, while pretending to hone her presentation, she’d come to the startling conclusion that she could end up feeling more for this guy than was good for her.
He pulled up under an elaborate portico, increasing her foreboding.
She didn’t belong in a place like this.
It might be for only one night, and on business, but staying in an exclusive resort raised her hackles. She’d rather be roughing it in a tent than holed up in some posh hotel room, trying not to climb the walls.
She might have been raised in an upper-class suburb and attended a private school but she’d been an outcast, and being surrounded by obvious wealth disconcerted her, reminding her of every instance when she hadn’t belonged growing up.
It was why Portsea meant so much—why losing the land had ripped a hole in her carefully constructed confidence. Having a safe place to go to, her place, where she could be herself, had meant the world to a tough girl determined on hiding her vulnerabilities. Take that away and she risked stripping down the rest of her defences too. Scary.
Clamping down on the urge to balk and stay in the car, she entered the cosy foyer alongside Rory, trying not to stare at her dishevelled backpack next to his designer overnight bag.
The faded denim backpack had frayed straps, a broken zip on the front pocket, and a tiny hole in the bottom left corner. Next to his bag, with the designer’s shiny logo embossing it, it looked tacky, reinforcing the yawning gap between them.
She was natural, earthy, without pretence.
He was smooth, slick, without a clue as to what made someone like her tick.
So why the hell couldn’t she forget that kiss?
‘Here’s your keycard.’
He handed her a small folder and she tried not to snatch it so she could bolt for the sanctuary of her room. ‘Thanks.’
‘We’re next to each other.’
Goody.
‘The presentation’s at eight?’
He nodded, his probing stare making her uncomfortable. Not that she blamed him for trying to fathom why she’d switched from enthusiastic to withdrawn.
‘There’s a conference room next to the Lodge Bar.’ He snapped his keycard against his palm repeatedly, on edge. ‘I can make a dinner reservation at the Bella if you like—’
‘Thanks, but I couldn’t possibly eat anything before the presentation. I’ll grab some room service later.’
‘No worries.’
But there were plenty of worries, judging by the awkward, stilted conversation. She’d gone from having the upper hand, savouring her power to unsettle this uptight businessman, to perpetually remembering how he’d loosened up long enough to kiss her.
‘We better head up to our room … s,’ he said, his slip lightening the tension, making her chuckle while he ducked his head to grab the bags.
‘Let’s do that,’ she said, back to her confident best as she shot him a coy smile.
His lips thinned as he shouldered the bags and strode ahead, as fast as his long legs could carry him.
After a sleepless night, Rory rolled out of bed at 6:00 a.m., punching his pillow in frustration along the way.
How on earth had Gemma messed with his head in twenty-four hours? If she’d impressed him during her pitch to the project managers yesterday morning, her presentation to the investors last night had blown him away. He knew the investors had been sold, even though they’d made a grand show of deliberating and making them wait for a final decision until after their early-morning golf game today.
He should be rapt. His plan to use her as the face of Portsea Point would come to fruition.
If he didn’t go insane in the process.
He’d sat through a full hour of her presentation, using the sixty minutes to mentally list every reason he shouldn’t be attracted to her.
Nothing in common; complete opposites; eco-obsessed versus city-savvy; batty scientist versus levelheaded businessman.
When he’d still found himself staring at her legs and working his way up he’d started nit-picking, adding average fashion sense and atrocious taste in jewellery and awful shoes to his list.
Only to find himself counteracting each and every one of his petty arguments by noticing the way her nose crinkled when she was really concentrating, how she smiled with her eyes as well as her mouth, how she lit up a room by being in it.
He didn’t want to be attracted to her—didn’t want to complicate their business arrangement. But no way would he let Devlin Corp suffer if he made bad decisions from lack of sleep.
He confronted issues head-on.
He’d do the same with Gemma.
Starting today.
‘You don’t strike me as the picnic type.’
Gemma stifled a grin as Rory tightened his grip on the picnic basket. She shouldn’t bait him, she really shouldn’t, but who went on a picnic wearing a suit?
‘We need to wait for the investors to make their final decision—better to wait outside than in.’
A logical explanation—she’d expect nothing less from him—but she couldn’t shake the feeling there was more behind his impromptu invitation.
‘True.’
While breakfast at the Bella Restaurant had been superb, she’d been too fidgety to enjoy the amazing Bircher muesli and delicious crêpes.
She’d been hyped-up after her presentation last night, hadn’t slept, and the adrenalin hadn’t subsided this morning. That was her excuse for placing her palm flat against the wall next to her bed, wistfully imagining Rory doing the same on the other side.
Unbelievable. For a woman without a romantic bone in her body she’d done a good job of romanticising that brief greeting kiss. All night.
At least she’d been smart enough not to tempt fate and had bolted after the presentation finished. The last thing she’d needed was to sit around with Rory in a cosy bar downing drinks.
If he’d seemed distracted during her morning pitch, he’d been one hundred percent focussed last night—to the point she’d almost squirmed under his intense scrutiny.
At one stage his stare had been so potent, so mesmerising, she would have sworn he could see right down to her soul.
She’d soldiered on, pretending she was talking to a roomful of blobby jellyfish—her technique for being at ease during public speaking—not risking another glance his way.
It had worked, and she’d been suitably confident she’d nailed her presentation. She wished she could be as confident of handling Rory and his strange mood this morning.
‘How’s this spot?’
They’d strolled along the walking trail on the periphery of the hotel for ten minutes before he’d stopped on the banks of the Yarra River.
‘Perfect.’
He produced a purple picnic blanket from the basket, spreading it like an amethyst cape on a field of emerald.
She slipped off her sandals and stared pointedly at his shoes. He looked at her feet, his, and frowned.
‘Come on—you’re not seriously having a riverside picnic wearing shoes?’
‘I guess not,’ he muttered, slipping off his shoes and stuffing his socks into them.
He had sexy feet, she thought, belatedly realising she was staring when he wriggled his toes.
She sighed as her feet hit dirt, savouring the warm grittiness on her soles. She loved the gravel texture under her feet almost as much as she loved the grating
of sand.
No matter how many beaches she visited around the world, when she first dug her toes into the sand it always felt like coming home.
Her dad had sworn the only reason she’d got good grades at school was because she’d lived for their weekends at the beach. He’d been right. She’d always finished her work in class, because homework meant time away from the outdoors after school and homework on the weekends meant no Portsea.
She’d loved those weekends. Loved the ocean spray in her face and the sand between her toes and the icy brace of the sea. Loved swimming and building sandcastles and playing beach cricket.
Mum would set up the umbrella and lay out lemonade and peanut butter sandwiches on the towels before settling back to read, while she cavorted with her dad. They’d been happy—a close family unit. She’d missed that familial bond after her dad died as much as she’d missed him.
Thinking of her dad and how her relationship with her mum had been fractured always made her melancholy, and she wished she hadn’t headed down memory lane.
No beach came close to what Portsea meant to her and never would. The thought that some rich folk who probably wouldn’t appreciate it would be living on her land in their fancy mansions … Best not go there. No use spoiling this picnic before it had begun.
‘Great spot.’
He nodded and sat next to her, knees bent, forearms resting on top of them, as he stared out over the sludgy Yarra.
She mirrored him, content to stare at the water and feel the warmth of his deliciously close body radiating towards her.
She never felt completely comfortable around guys like Rory: rich, powerful, able to command attention with a wave of their pinkie. She’d worked with enough of them to know.
Yet sitting here with Rory seemed different. He was different, with a heart of gold underlying his steely exterior.
Despite her unusual tactics, he hadn’t had to grant her an interview. And he certainly hadn’t had to give her an opportunity to pitch her ideas to his project team or the investors while footing the bill.
People usually did things for a reason, were motivated by all sorts of causes from money to recognition and everything in between. She’d like to think Rory wasn’t like that, but how well did she really know him?
A corporate go-getter like him wouldn’t cave easily to demands, yet he’d given her a chance when she’d expected she’d need to browbeat him. More than that, he understood her rationale and seemingly supported her environmental quest. The sad thing was, she wondered why.
This picnic only served to heighten her suspicions. She never let people close for a reason: if even her mother rejected the real her, why was a busy businessman taking time out? And why was he being so darn nice to her?
She didn’t like her defences crumbling and that was what was happening. With every smile, with every nicety, he was slowly chipping away at the emotional armour she’d been developing since the first time she’d realised her uniqueness wasn’t always appreciated. So she went in for the kill.
‘Why did you kiss me yesterday?’
He didn’t answer, his forehead creased in thought. When he finally looked at her, the confusion in his eyes mirrored hers.
‘I have no idea.’
She snorted. ‘That’s a cop-out.’
He rubbed the back of his neck, out of his comfort zone. ‘You’re not like any woman I’ve met before.’
‘Good to know.’
He winced, as if her sense of humour pained him as much as his momentary slip in kissing her.
‘I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.’ His nose crinkled, as if the river had washed up rank reeds. ‘I don’t do complications and drama and the inevitable fallout of getting involved.’
She should have been pleased he was a fellow relationship cynic, but his answer disappointed her somehow.
‘Then why do it?’
He plucked at blades of grass, tossing them in the air, watching them fall, buying time before reluctantly meeting her curious gaze.
‘Because you intrigue me. You bowled me over the way you barged your way into an interview with gumption and sass. But most of all because I really want to do this.’
He captured her face in his hands and lowered his lips to hers, brushing them once, twice, before giving in to the irresistible pull between them and kissing her. A deep, hot, luscious kiss that lasted for ever and left her leaning all over him—because she didn’t have a hope of sitting up straight with her boneless spine.
‘Wow.’
She touched her lips and his gaze darkened.
‘Wow is the effect you have on me.’
Their stunned gazes held for five long, loaded seconds before she glanced away, her heart pounding in exhilaration, her head throbbing with confusion.
Having Rory kiss her might set her on fire physically, but logically it didn’t make any sense.
She didn’t want to like him.
He was the enemy—a money-oriented, autocratic property developer who defiled the environment she loved.
On the flipside, he’d demonstrated an unexpected spontaneity by organising this picnic, and an admirable honesty in professing confusion over his rationale for kissing her.
She confused him? The feeling was entirely mutual.
‘You hungry?’
‘Ravenous.’
He wasn’t looking at the hamper.
Before she straddled him and cut loose, she flipped open the basket on the pretext of looking at the food.
The hotel had done well, and her stomach rumbled as she helped set out salmon and asparagus rolls, figs wrapped in prosciutto, crusty baguettes slathered in duck and walnut pâté, cheese scones with caramelised onion jam, brie quiche and tropical fruit skewers.
When she pulled out a bottle of Shiraz, she studied the label in surprise. ‘Great drop. My dad had this vintage in his cellar.’
She handed it to him for the uncorking honours.
‘You know this is on a par with Grange Hermitage, right?’
‘In that case I’m surprised Mum didn’t sell that too,’ she muttered, wishing Coral had flogged the wine before the land.
‘Her selling the land must’ve really divided you.’
She didn’t want to discuss this, not with him, but it was the lesser of two evils.
Talk about her mother or dwell on that kiss? Considering her heart rate hadn’t slowed and her lips still tingled, no contest.
‘We were already divided.’ She picked at the edges of the wine label until it frayed. ‘After Dad died we drifted apart and nothing I did seemed good enough.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘You must’ve had decent grades to get into science at uni?’
‘Academically I wasn’t a problem.’
She laid the bottle down, half its label stripped. ‘I was a tomboy and our interests never matched. We co-existed in the same house but were worlds apart. It felt like …’
Heck, why had she opened up? He didn’t want to join a pity-party any more than she did. ‘Like what?’
Balling her hands, she willed the sting of tears away.
‘Like she couldn’t accept me for who I was so she rejected me instead.’
She focussed on a far tree-line, waiting for the blur in her eyes to clear.
‘I’m sorry.’
He touched her shoulder and she struggled not to flinch.
‘Don’t be. I learned a long time ago to depend on no one.’
‘Me too.’ He squeezed her shoulder and released it. ‘Not sure what’s worse. Having a mum emotionally shut down or not having a mum at all.’
She knew via the Coral gossip grapevine his mum had left, but she couldn’t let on—not without giving away the fact she’d been discussing him.
‘What happened with yours?’
He shrugged, his expression impassive. She’d bet he’d spent a lifetime honing it, as she had.
‘She was an artist, pretty flighty. Couldn’t tolerate Dad’s infidelities—not that I bl
ame her—so she left when I was five.’
‘That’s so young.’
‘Yeah, I missed her at the start.’
‘Did your dad step up?’
He snorted. ‘My dad stepped out. Continually. But at least he hung around and didn’t ship me off somewhere, so it’s all good.’
‘Do you hear from your mum?’
The tightness around his mouth softened as he nodded. ‘All the time. We e-mail, Skype, chat on the phone. She’s the same scatterbrain, wrapped up in her pastels and oils, oblivious to reality. But she stays in touch—guess that’s the main thing.’
She envied him. He was a guy whose parents seemed flaky at best, but he’d come to terms with it. Shame she couldn’t say the same for herself.
Sadness clogged her throat, and she grabbed a glass from Rory’s outstretched hand and took several sips of the exquisite wine.
‘Easy.’ A worry line had appeared between his brows. ‘How about we forget our dysfunctional families and enjoy the picnic?’
Annoyed she’d become maudlin—though it had succeeded in distracting her from that kiss—she smiled and gestured at the food.
‘Let’s eat.’
Gemma glanced at her empty driveway and breathed a sigh of relief. Her mum wasn’t home so there was no risk of her interrogating Rory and embarrassing her.
‘Would you like to come in?’
She issued the invitation out of politeness, hoping he’d refuse. The last thing she wanted was to spend more time with him after blurting out her innermost fears during that picnic.
Thankfully, apart from that hiccup, it had been a success. They’d eaten—or he’d eaten. She’d toyed with a cheese scone, her appetite lost along with all common sense when she’d divulged her private thoughts—and they’d talked. They’d shared an impulsive hug when the investors had rung through their decision.
She had the job.
They’d headed back to the clubhouse and shared a drink with a few of the guys postgame at the Nicklaus Bar, but their back-slapping camaraderie had reeked of old boys’ club exclusivity and she’d been relieved when Rory had indicated it was time to leave.
There’d been no buffer of her work on the ride home, and she’d been forced to chat and smile and pretend as if nothing had happened between them at the Sebel: the kiss, the shared family tales, the inevitable bonding.
