Deserted Island, Dreamy Ex!

by Nicola Marsh

  Through months of painful, monotonous rehab, he’d planned Activate from the ground up, investing an exorbitant sum, determined to give something back to those who needed it the most.

  While his parents had been AWOL from the time he could walk, he’d never wanted for anything, their wealth a cushion against the harsher side of life.

  From what he’d seen these past few months around Kings Cross, a lot of local kids needed that kind of shield.

  So the centre had grown, catering for all disadvantaged kids, physically and emotionally. He’d keep the money coming, grab the free publicity from Elliott, then move on to his next venture. Whatever that was.

  ‘Got a minute?’

  He raised his head at the sound of a hesitant voice, tried to place the red-haired kid with enough facial piercings to rival his freckles, and remembered his name after a quick mental rummage.

  ‘Sure, come in, Bluey.’

  The flash of surprise in the kid’s eyes, along with a quick nod of acknowledgment, vindicated the time he’d spent at the centre. He might only be financing the venture, but if his presence encouraged drop-ins for the simple fact they recognised him from tennis it was time well spent.

  The kid slouched across the room, flopped into the chair.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  Bluey picked at a hole in his jeans, plucked at the frayed edges, concentrating on his fiddling rather than looking up.

  ‘Word on the street is you’re planning on keeping this joint open day and night. That true?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Why?’

  Bluey’s head snapped up, fear mixed with mistrust in the furtive shadows clouding his eyes.

  ‘What do you get out of it? You’re just some hotshot tennis jock. Why do you care?’

  ‘Because I do.’

  A lousy response but what could he say?

  He had no idea what it was like to semi-doze on a park bench, night after night, so tired you could fall into a coma, too terrified to sleep for fear of any number of horrors nabbing you.

  He didn’t understand the pinch of hunger, the hollow, scraping feeling in one’s gut that made Dumpster leftovers an appealing feast after a while.

  But he sure as hell recognised the fear in this kid’s eyes, the lonely emptiness inside that no one gave a damn about you.

  He might have had everything money could buy and parents only too happy to splash their cash around, but he’d lived with that same emptiness every day growing up, wishing for acknowledgement, willing them to show some semblance of sentiment rather than treating him as if he were a nobody, as if he didn’t exist.

  So did he care?

  Hell, yeah, but how to get that across to a kid who viewed him as just another adult he couldn’t trust?

  ‘This place is here if you want it. Tell your mates. No pressure, no expectations. Just a place to hang out, play some sport.’

  Bluey shrugged, resumed picking at his frayed edges. ‘Chill, man. Just wondering, that’s all.’

  Jared couldn’t tell the kid’s age. Twelve? Fourteen? With his slight build, hunched shoulders, grimy face, he could’ve been any number of kids that frequented the Kings Cross area.

  While his slashed cheekbones highlighted a gauntness honed by hunger, there was resilience about the boy, a toughness that defied anyone to pity him.

  That was when it hit him.

  Bluey reminded him of himself.

  Fierce, determined, resentful, he’d been all that and more before he’d discovered tennis, when being the best at a sport had given him an outlet for his bitterness.

  Where would Bluey end up with a little help?

  It reinforced he was doing the right thing, investing in this place. Now all he had to do was tell the world about it, and that was exactly what he’d do, starting tomorrow, first day on the island.

  ‘Do you network on the web?’

  Bluey glanced up again, curious. ‘Like Facebook and MySpace and stuff?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Bluey sent him an ‘are you for real?’ sneer.

  ‘’Course. A few dudes have mobile phones. We get to check stuff out.’

  ‘Good. Make sure you spread the word about this place. And keep an eye on Twitter and a blog I’ve set up.’

  At last, a flash of recognition, of interest, reinforcing he was doing the right thing in taking part in Stranded. The kids would definitely sit up and take notice now.

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’

  Apparently Bluey had said what he’d come to say because he unfolded his lanky limbs from the chair, raised a hand in farewell before heading out of the door, his scuffed Doc Martens leaving a muddy trail behind him.

  With a wry grin, Jared refocused on his paperwork. The sooner he dotted every i, crossed every t, the faster this place could really get off the ground.

  ‘Any last-minute questions?’

  Kristi tore her gaze from the distant view of Sydney’s city skyline and turned to Elliott.

  ‘No, I think you’ve pretty much covered everything.’

  Satisfied, Elliott glanced at Jared, who shrugged, grinned.

  ‘A-okay here.’

  ‘Good.’ Elliott snapped his clipboard shut. ‘Then you’re on your own.’

  ‘Thanks, mate.’

  As Jared slapped him on the back she waved, quickly dropped her hand when it shook with trepidation as Elliott stepped onto the powerboat and shot away from Lorikeet Island, leaving her alone with the man who intruded her thoughts constantly these days.

  She’d been a mess at work the last week, Ros plying her with questions and suggestions for her seven days on the island, and Meg hadn’t been much better.

  If she didn’t want the money for Meg so badly, and couldn’t almost taste the promotion Rosanna had dangled in front of her, she would’ve quit this whole crazy scheme.

  But the fact remained: Meg was living in a hovel, with a gorgeous seven-year-old to raise who grew faster than her mum could outfit her, and working her butt off to survive.

  Enough money could change all that and she could give her that gift. As for the promotion, a girl could never have too many Louboutin shoes.

  Slinging an arm across her shoulder, Jared hugged her close.

  ‘Looks like it’s just you and me, kid.’

  She stiffened, darted a quick glance around. ‘Are there any cameras here?’

  His eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed. ‘Safe zone. You weren’t listening.’

  She shrugged out of his embrace on the pretext of studying some particularly riveting marine life at the water’s edge.

  ‘I tuned out when Elliott repeated his spiel for the fifth time.’

  ‘He just wants this to be perfect. It’s what he does.’

  Feeling bad, she turned back to him. ‘I know. He’s a great producer. Guess I’m just angsty now we’re actually here.’

  Squaring his shoulders, he dusted off his hands. ‘Right. Let’s get cracking.’

  Now that the moment of truth had arrived, she didn’t want to leave this spot, didn’t want to step in front of the cameras to have her every move filmed and scrutinised and analysed.

  ‘First things first. Accommodation.’ Jared jerked his thumb east. ‘Our humble abodes are that way, apparently.’

  ‘Mmm,’ she mumbled, scuffing her sandal in the sand, reluctant to move.

  Laying a hand on her shoulder, he squeezed, an innocuous comforting touch that shot a spark of awareness straight through her.

  ‘You can do this.’

  Think of the money, think of the promotion.

  She’d been thinking of nothing less to keep her motivated—discounting the inordinate amount of time she’d spent thinking about this man and how to approach their enforced proximity over the next week.

  She’d replayed every moment of their dinner together, had marvelled at how laid-back he’d been, slipping into comfortable conversation, content to ignore or glide over her silences, her monosyllabic responses.


  She’d done her best that night to send him a message: that he could smile and flirt all he liked, she was immune. And while she’d like nothing better than to vent her long-suppressed feelings about how things had ended, harbouring ongoing animosity would make the next seven days unbearable.

  So she’d made a decision.

  She would be polite but distant.

  Respond to his questions but not get too friendly.

  Play the part of a woman determined to win the cash while trying to ignore the cameras.

  And not, repeat not, let Jared and his fabled charm creep under her guard again.

  She should’ve been glad she’d established a cool distance the night at dinner. Instead, a tiny part of her had fallen back under his spell that night and that knowledge was what kept her standing here, her feet riveted to the spot, her heart pounding with fear that the moment she truly embarked on this crazy week would signal the beginning of the end. The end of her peace of mind, the beginning of a possibility. That couldn’t last.

  ‘Come on, I’ll be with you every step of the way.’

  He held out his hand and she stared at it, the broad palm, the long, strong fingers, the curve of his thumb pad.

  She didn’t want to place her hand in his, to trust him, had learned the hard way it was all an illusion.

  Lowering his voice, he said, ‘We’ll have a ball. It’ll be just like old times.’

  Old times?

  She’d adored him, craved him, loved him so fiercely she could scarcely breathe for wanting him.

  He wasn’t offering her anything, but for an insane moment, staring into his eyes, so frank, so honest, she wanted to recapture some of that old magic, wanted to feel half as good again.

  On a drawn-out sigh, she placed her hand in his, her pulse leaping in recognition as he curled his fingers over hers.

  ‘Okay. Let’s do it.’

  KRISTI’S BLOG, DAY 1

  Lorikeet Island: beautiful views of Sydney, surrounded by the bluest ocean on the planet, perfect weather. I’ve lasted the first hour without making any major gaffes in front of the cameras. Then again, have sat petrified, sipping soda on the postage-stamp veranda of my ‘home’ for the next week, watching Jared act all he-man by scoping out the lay of the land.

  Don’t know why he’s bothering. Not like we’ll get attacked by any wild animals, right?

  Yikes! What was that growling sound?

  Oh, only my stomach. Woman does not survive on soda and fresh air alone. Time to rustle up lunch. Baked beans on campfire toast?

  I miss Sydney already.

  JARED’S BLOG, DAY 1

  Not a bad spot. Might take up fishing. Kristi brought too many shoes. She’s such a girl.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Stranded Survival Tip #6

  Blogging is fun but for ever. Choose your words wisely.

  ‘YOU ever use Twitter before?’

  Kristi shook her head, trying to sneak a peek over Jared’s shoulder as he fiddled with his iPhone.

  ‘No time. Work keeps me pretty busy. I email. Facebook page. That’s about it.’

  His eyes not leaving the screen, he said, ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’

  Her scoffing snort had him darting an amused glance her way.

  ‘What’s so special about informing the world what you’re up to in one hundred and forty characters or less?’

  ‘It’s the challenge, to make your tweet interesting in so few words.’

  Typing quickly, he finally laid his phone down, his stare loaded.

  ‘Surely you know how much guys like a challenge?’

  ‘Guys or just you?’

  He chuckled. ‘Last time I checked I was a guy. Or would you care to verify—?’

  ‘Stop that!’ she hissed, jerking her head towards one of the not-so-hidden cameras. ‘We’re live.’

  Dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, he leaned forward and spoke behind his raised hand.

  ‘Viewers love this sort of thing. A bit of light-hearted banter, flirting. Good for ratings.’

  He wiggled his eyebrows until the unimpressed twist to her lips relaxed into a smile. ‘Sex sells, baby.’

  Okay, so he was hamming it up for the cameras. Not that she could blame him. There was something so weirdly unnatural about all of this. As to why anyone would be remotely interested in watching the two of them have dinner or quibble over the last Tim Tam was beyond her.

  But she couldn’t deny Elliott Barnaby was a genius; and the one salient fact: she was in this for the money, and the promotion.

  Faking a huff, she tossed her hair over her shoulder like any screen heroine worth her salt.

  ‘I’m not your baby.’

  ‘You were once.’

  He whispered it so softly the cameras wouldn’t have a chance of picking it up, her skin prickling with alarm as he scooted closer, his warm breath fanning her neck as he murmured in her ear, ‘Want to recreate some of the old magic?’

  ‘No!’

  Her body made a mockery of her instant refusal, heat flushing her skin rosy as she inadvertently leaned into him, practically inviting him to slip an arm around her and cradle her close as he used to.

  ‘Liar,’ he whispered, his fingertips trailing across the back of her neck and sending a quiver of desire through her as he casually draped an arm over her shoulder, appearing to the whole world as if they were best buddies.

  An instant, unexpected, fierce need pounded through her body, setting a relentless tempo, willfully ignoring her supposed immunity to him these days and urging her to be totally reckless, fling herself into his arms, cameras be damned.

  But there was a difference between making a fool of herself over this man again and doing it with the general public eagerly looking on, so she slid out from under his arm on the pretext of retrieving his phone.

  ‘Here. Tweet something.’

  His low, husky laugh rippled over her, his knowing stare leaving her in little doubt he didn’t buy her brush-off for a second.

  ‘Okay. Watch this.’

  His thumb flew over the phone’s keypad, his grin widening before he handed over the phone.

  ‘Go ahead. Take a look.’

  With increasing foreboding she glanced at the screen, her heart skipping a beat, several, as she read his brief message to the cyber world.

  Twitter.com/Stranded_Jared

  Old flames never die. They just burn brighter if you fan the fire.

  Ignoring the irrational leap of her pulse, and the distinct urge to skip the fanning part and jump directly into the fire, she handed him back the phone.

  ‘You sure you’re not a pyromaniac? All this talk of flames and your incessant need to poke at the campfire?’

  ‘Being obtuse won’t help.’

  He pressed the phone into her palm. ‘Your turn.’

  ‘I don’t have an account.’

  ‘Elliott set one up for both of us. Yours is under Stranded_Kristi.’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  Mustering a sickly sweet smile, she tapped at the phone, saw her PR picture on her Twitter home page.

  ‘Remember, play nice,’ he murmured, his wink urging her to do the exact opposite.

  She searched her brain for something suitably witty to say, something other than the mundane. In the end, she settled for the partial truth.

  Twitter.com/Stranded_Kristi

  Ever wish an ex could see you now? Be careful what you wish for!

  Jared clutched his chest. ‘Harsh.’

  ‘Honest,’ she said, handing him back his phone with a smirk. ‘I think I’m getting the hang of this Twitter thing.’

  He slipped the phone into his pocket with a rueful grin.

  ‘Yeah, just don’t go singing my praises too much.’

  ‘No risk of that.’

  She stilled as he reached out and touched her cheek, a brief brush of his fingertips that tingled all the way to her toes.

  ‘What happened to the girl w
ho used to look at me with stars in her eyes?’

  Not liking this turn of conversation, she shrugged, aimed for levity.

  ‘Stars fade, lose their lustre.’

  She knew she’d said the wrong thing the instant he stood, his eyes shuttered, his expression deliberately blank.

  ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘I know you didn’t.’

  He turned his back on her, strolled towards the water’s edge, staring across the water to the Harbour Bridge glittering like a sparkly coat hanger in the distance.

  ‘You miss it, don’t you?’

  His shoulders stiffened imperceptibly before he thrust his hands into his pockets, his casual stance at odds with his tense posture.

  ‘Everyone has to retire some time.’

  ‘But that choice was taken away from you by the injury. It’s different.’

  ‘I could’ve come back if I’d wanted to.’

  His voice held a wistful edge, a hint of vulnerability she’d never heard from the invincible charmer, and the part of her that had once loved him urged her to go to him, offer what comfort she could.

  ‘Why didn’t you? Really?’

  She laid a hand on his shoulder, willing him to turn around, to let her comfort him. But he didn’t move, continued staring out over the water as if she hadn’t spoken.

  She wanted to push him for answers, wanted to use the old philosophy ‘a problem shared is a problem halved’, but she had no right.

  They’d been apart for eight years and she knew little about him beyond what she’d read in the tabloids, knew little beyond what he’d told her when they’d been dating; and that hadn’t been much.

  No, she had no right to push him for answers, none at all. For answers would give her a glimpse into the guy behind the confident façade, would make it harder for her to pretend they were nothing more than friends.