by Ally Blake
‘You can’t come,’ Hannah said.
He was silent for a beat. Two. She was sure he was about to agree wholeheartedly—until he looked down at her and said, ‘And why not?’
With his eyes on her, she said, ‘Because you’d cramp my style.’
The sun was behind him, so she couldn’t see his eyes, but the rumble in his voice more than made up for it. ‘Would I, now?’
She felt a smile creep across her face, and her impish streak flashed back to life as her mother disappeared from view. ‘You’ll never know.’
His, ‘Mmmm …’ was far too non-committal for comfort. ‘So, how does your father cope around all that frenetic feminine energy?’
Hannah’s smile faded. She fiddled with her father’s old watch. ‘He died when I was fourteen.’
And from the moment it had happened she’d felt like Cinderella, left all alone with the step-family—only the family she’d been left with was her own.
She felt Bradley’s eyes on her as she explained. ‘He adored Virginia to bits. Elyse and I actually thought it rather disgusting how often we caught them kissing at the kitchen sink. Then he died. And she remarried within six months. Things have been particularly cool between us ever since.’
Several moments passed before Bradley said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Thanks.’
In the quiet of the great open space, Hannah wondered if the time was right, for the first time, to ask about his family. She had no idea if his parents were alive or dead. Missionaries or UFO-chasers. Or the King and Queen of some small European country populated by only the most beautiful people. Or if he spent Sunday lunch with them every weekend.
But at the last second she baulked, unsure how far to press the quiet moment. Instead she just said, ‘Mum’s been married again. Twice to date.’
Promising to love and honour each of them with as much supposed vim as she had their lovely father. Each and every time clearly nothing more than a pretty lie. It was why Hannah would never make another person such a promise unless she really meant it. Unless she knew she would be assured of the same level of commitment right back. The idea of doing anything else made her feel physically ill.
She looked to where her mother was now drumming up help in the shape of goodness knew who.
She felt Bradley turn away to watch Virginia. Moth to a flame. Then he said, ‘Your mother …’
Hannah stiffened, preparing for the thing she’d heard a million times before. Your mum’s so glamorous. And Elyse is like a little doll. While you are … different.
‘She’s …’ Bradley paused again. ‘I do believe that dress of hers is the place ruffles come to die.’
Hannah laughed so unexpectedly, so effusively, so delightedly, it fast turned into a cough.
Bradley gave her a thump on the back. It only made her cough all the harder. And feel absolutely certain that her earlier fantasies of Bradley doing anything out of a deeply buried sense of human-being-like protection were just that. Fantasies. The likes of which she needed this long weekend without him in order to stamp out.
Once she’d caught her breath, she said, ‘Virginia does like her ruffles. As well as her pink fluffy cardigans and cocktails with umbrellas in them.’
The rhinestones went without saying, but the crease in his cheek told her he’d heard her all the same.
She smiled. She couldn’t help herself.
Then, as though he too felt the strange familiarity building between then, he frowned and looked away, up at the clear crisp sky. He sniffed in a trail of ice-cold air and thrust his hands into his pockets. Shutting her out.
And there she was, feeling like a satellite to his moon. If that wasn’t reason enough to put an end to her impossible crush, she didn’t know what was.
‘The day is moving on and we’re standing still. Time to get a move on. I’ll drop you at your resort and then be on my way.’
‘Resort?’ Hannah could all but hear her exclamation bouncing off the band of clouds hovering above the hills in the distance.
Bradley didn’t even flinch. ‘Spencer’s itinerary has me starting at Cradle Mountain. I studied his route, and it actually makes good sense. As does giving you a lift, since you clearly need one.’
Hannah snapped her mouth shut. If she’d been in charge of setting his itinerary she would have said the same. But she was on holiday. Out of the loop. And, yes, she was in need of a ride.
She threw her hands in the air and headed for the terminal.
He followed, his long legs catching up with her in two short strides.
She swallowed down the lick of envy at the happy tone in his voice. ‘This car that Spencer hired had better be something big and solid. The roads on this island can get mighty windy.’
‘It’s a black roadster. Soft-top.’ His large hands waved slowly through the air, as though he was tracing its curves in his mind.
Never before had Hannah felt so jealous of a machine.
‘Are you kidding me? Seems to me he’s passed on his drooling habits.’
A gentle kind of laughter tickled her ears.
She walked faster. But with his long, strong legs the blackguard kept up without any effort at all.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘ARE we there yet?’ Hannah muttered, stretching as much of herself as she could in the confined space of the ridiculous sports car Spencer had blithely allowed their valuable boss to zoom around in. She’d be having a talk with him when they got home!
‘Turn left in eight hundred metres,’ said the deep Australian drawl of the GPS.
‘Ken,’ she said, ‘you are, as ever, my hero.’
‘Who on earth is Ken?’ Bradley asked, uttering his first words in nearly two hours. His mind was undoubtedly focussed on the embarrassment of gorgeous scenery they’d passed from Launceston to the mountain.
‘Ken’s the GPS guy.’
‘You’ve named him?’ he asked.
‘His mother named him. I just chose his voice when you were busy pretending to check the car for prior damage while actually drooling over the chassis. I’m certain you would have preferred Swedish Una, or British Catherine, but it seemed only fair that, since you and my mother have railroaded me over and over again today, I got my way about one tiny part of my holiday.’
‘Your way is Ken?’
‘Don’t you use that tone when you talk about Ken. I’ll have you know I have him to thank for getting me out of many an oncoming tram disaster when I first moved to Melbourne.’
He glanced her way, giving her nothing more than a glimpse of her reflection in his sunglasses. ‘So your idea of the perfect man is one with a good sense of direction?’
‘I have no idea what my idea of the perfect man is. I’ve yet to meet one who even came close.’
She watched Bradley from the corner of her eye, waiting for his reaction to her jibe. He just lifted his hand from the windowsill and ran it across his mouth.
She fluffed her poncho till it settled like a blanket across her knees and said, ‘Though Ken is reliable. And smart. And always available. And he cares about what I want.’
‘Turn left. Then you have reached your destination,’ Ken said, proving himself yet again.
Before she even felt the words coming Hannah added, ‘And, boy, does he have the sexiest voice on the planet.’
Bradley’s hand stopped short. Mid-chin-stroke. It slowly lowered to the steering wheel. ‘And there I was thinking he sounds a bit like me.’
He moved the car down a gear. Slowed. Then turned from the road onto a long, gumtree-lined drive. Hannah stared demurely ahead and said, ‘Nah.’
But the truth was that Ken’s deep, sexy Australian drawl reminded her so much of Bradley’s she’d often found herself turning her GPS on even when driving home on the rainy days she drove her little car to work rather than take a tram. She’d told herself it was the comfort of feeling as if there was someone else in the car when driving dark streets at night.
She’
d lied.
And then, appearing from between a mass of grey-green flora sprinkled in glittering melting white snow, there was the Gatehouse. A grand façade dotted with hundreds of windows, dozens of chimneys and fantasy turrets. It was like something out of a fairytale, rising magnificent and fantastical out of the Australian scrub.
‘If this is the Gatehouse,’ Bradley said, slowing to a stop so that the sports car rumbled throatily beneath them, ‘what’s behind the gate?’
Hannah placed a hand on his arm, doing her best to ignore the frisson scooting through her at even the simplest of contacts, and pointed to their left. Between two turrets there was a glimpse of the reason a chalet-style hotel could exist in such a remote place.
The stunning, stark, ragged peaks of Cradle Mountain.
Bradley slid his glasses from his face, eyebrows practically disappearing beneath his hairline. ‘God must be a cinematographer at heart to dream up this place.’
‘I know!’ Hannah said, practically bouncing on her seat. When she realised she was tugging at his sleeve, she let go and sat back and contained herself.
Bradley’s eyes slid to the building towering over them. ‘How many rooms?’
‘Enough for cast and crew.’
He finally dragged his eyes from the picture-perfect view to look at her. They were gleaming with the thrill of the find. The buzz of adventure. It was the closest he ever came to revealing anything akin to real human emotion. Moments like those were the reason her impossible crush sometimes felt like it was veering towards something just a little bit more.
Her hand shook ever so slightly as she tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘It’s perfect, right? Rugged and yet accessible. And wait till you get a load of the mountain up close. You’ll never want to leave. For me that moment will no doubt come the minute I step foot in the corner spa in my room.’
A crease, then three, dug grooves into his forehead.
Okay, so maybe she was laying it on too thick. But if he understood her enthusiasm for the place, for the project, then come Tuesday she might be in with a chance for the promotion to actual producer she’d so blithely flung out there the day before.
He put the car back into gear and curved it around the circular drive until they pulled to a stop in front of a sweep of wide wooden stairs. Finally her holiday—read ‘Bradley-free time’—could begin in earnest.
When he got out of the car at the same time as her, she gave him a double-take. It turned into a triple when she realised he wasn’t dragging her luggage from the boot. He was eyeing the hotel’s front doors.
Her stomach sank. She waved a frantic hand at the hotel. ‘No, no, no! First you show up at my apartment and practically drag me here on your plane. Then you force me into that excuse for a tourist car. And now this?’
He turned to her, his eyes unreadable. ‘And there I was thinking I had been generous in supplying a private jet and a free hire car as a way of thanking you for all your hard work.’
For half a second she felt a stab of guilt. Then she remembered that Bradley never did anything that didn’t somehow serve him.
‘Fine,’ she shot back. ‘Play it your way. But I can tell you now you won’t get a room.’
For the first time that day she saw a flicker of doubt. So she rubbed it in good. ‘Winter is peak season in this corner of the world, so the Gatehouse has been booked out for months. And, apart from the other big party here—a high-school reunion—this wedding of ours is huge. My mother knows everybody, Elyse is too sweet not to invite everyone she’s ever met, and Tim’s mother is Italian. Half the territory will be here. If they have a broom closet they’ll be making a hundred bucks a night on it.’
He looked at the hotel, and at the glimpse of ragged peaks beyond. Then his jaw stiffened in the way that she knew meant he was not backing down.
His voice was smooth as honey as he said, ‘You clearly have a relationship with the management. Use your magic and get me somewhere to sleep. One night to see this mountain you have raved so much about. And then you won’t see me for dust.’
The temptation to wield her organisational magic in order to have him on his way the next day was mighty powerful. But after the day she’d had she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him.
‘I’m. On. Holiday. You want a room? You go in there and make it happen.’
‘Are you intimating I can’t even book a hotel room without you holding my hand?’
Hannah tried hard to get the image of holding Bradley’s anything out of her mind.
‘I’m not intimating anything. I’m telling you outright.’ She rubbed her arms and shivered theatrically. ‘It gets dark quick around here this time of year. Cold too. And you’re still a good two hours to Queenstown. Old copper mine. A couple of old motor inns there. You might just luck out.’
She heaved open the boot and dragged her luggage free. By the time it plopped at her feet she realised Bradley had eaten up the distance between them till they stood toe to toe.
She crossed her arms. ‘You won’t get a room.’
‘Want to bet?’
Hannah wasn’t a gambler by nature. She had an aversion to nasty surprises. But the odds were so completely in her favour. When Elyse had told her about Great-Aunt Maude’s absence she’d called the hotel, and they’d all but cried with relief at being able to give her room to someone on the list of people desperate for it. Bradley would be driving on within the hour.
‘Sure,’ she said, a sly smile stretching across her face. ‘I’m game.’
‘Excellent. Now, we need to talk terms of the bet. What’s in play? Ladies first.’
She thought about asking for an extra week off, at his expense. Now she was here, now she’d survived seeing her mum, it seemed like something she might be able to handle. It seemed like something she might need.
But it was unlikely she was ever going to get a chance as good as this to beat him at something. She had to make the most of it. ‘I get co-producer credit if you make a show here.’
Bradley’s forehead creases were back with a vengeance. Everything suddenly felt all too quiet. She could hear her own breaths gaining speed. Her heart-rate was rocketing all over the place. She wondered if she’d just screwed everything up royally.
Then she thought again. She deserved a producer credit, considering the amount of input she’d had in his productions to date. And if this was what it took for him to realise she meant more to his organisation than a way with middle management …
‘Deal,’ he said.
‘Really?’ she squeaked, jumping up and down on the spot as if firecrackers were exploding beneath her feet. She swished a hand across the sky as if she was looking at a podium at an awards ceremony. ‘I can see it now: co-produced by Hannah Gillespie. “And the award goes to Hannah Gillespie and Bradley Knight.”’
‘Don’t you mean Bradley Knight and Hannah Gillespie?’
‘These things are always alphabetical.’
‘Mmm.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘And if I do get a room?’
‘You won’t.’
He grabbed his leather bag and her heavy suitcase and walked towards the hotel as though he was carrying a bag of feathers. She hurried after him.
‘Bradley? The terms?’
‘What does it matter? You’re so sure I’m not going to win.’
He shot her a grin. An all too rare teeth and crinkly eyes grin. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. Big, broad-winged, jungle butterflies.
He wouldn’t win. There was just no way. But this was Bradley Knight. So long as she’d known him—whether it was getting the green light on every show he pitched, getting any time slot he wanted, or keeping his private life private—he always got his way.
She jogged up the steps, puffing. He took them two at a time as if it was nothing. At the top he slowed, opened the door, and waved her through. She shot him a sarcastic smile and, head held high, walked inside.
Two steps in, they came to a halt as one. Hannah breathed out h
ard as she realised with immense relief that the Gatehouse was as beautiful as she’d hoped it would be. All marble floors and exposed beams and fireplaces the size of an elephant. It was fit for kings. But not Knights. No Knights.
‘Stunning,’ he said.
‘And fully booked,’ Hannah added.
Bradley laughed, the deep sound reverberating in the large open space. ‘You are one stubborn creature, Miss Gillespie. I do believe it would behove me to remember that.’
She couldn’t help but smile back.
Until he said, ‘I’m coming to your sister’s wedding.’
‘I’m sorry? What?’
‘If I get a room tonight it would be a waste not to thoroughly check out this part of the world. And if I’m here it would be the height of rudeness not to take up your sister’s invitation.’
‘And the hits just keep on coming!’
His eyes gleamed with the last vestiges of a smile. ‘Are we on?’
The jungle butterflies in her stomach were wiped out by a rush of liquid heat that invaded her whole system. Red flags sprang up in its wake, but the prize was simply too big to back down now.
‘We’re on.’
He narrowed determined eyes, looked around, then took her by the shoulders and aimed her at the bar. ‘Give me five minutes.’
‘What the heck? I’ll give you twenty.’
As she headed to the bar his laughter followed like a wave of warmth that sent goosebumps trailing up and down her spine.
She plonked onto a barstool in the gorgeous, sparsely populated lounge bar. In twenty minutes’ time she’d know if she’d bet her way into a promotion, or if her impossible boss was coming to her little sister’s wedding.
Either way she needed a drink.
Hannah let the maraschino cherry from the garnish of her soul-warming Boston Sour slide around inside her mouth a while before biting blissfully down. A pianist in the far corner was tinkling out a little Bee Gees, and the view from the twelve-foot windows was picture-postcard-perfect.
She sighed as the whisky worked its magic. And finally, for the first time since she’d headed off that morning, she began to unwind enough to feel as if she was really on holiday.
