were on your own tonight... And since I...’ She trailed off , biting back the needy, desperate words on the tip of her tongue .
Dammit, she wasn’t taking no for an answer. She wasn’t needy —she was taking control. She rose up on tiptoes, closer to the intercom as if to draw him into her game. ‘It’s nine minutes to midnight. Let me in, I want to wish you Happy New Year.’ She glanced at the bag in her arms. ‘And I’ve got stuff.’
‘Stuff.’
‘Eight minutes thirty seconds and counting.’
The elevator doors to his penthouse slid open to her left.
Relieved, with dignity intact—for now at least—she stepped inside. And was tempted to back out again. The mirror on the back wall reflected a woman with wild red hair topped with a green foil cone hat on an odd tilt, eyes too wide for her face. Freckles and fine lines from years of sailing in the sun. Definitely not Jett’s type—oh yeah, she’d looked him up on the Internet and seen his type.
She’d only hooked his attention the first time because it had been dim and she’d looked half decent in her new fire-engine-red cocktail dress. Tonight she was wearing an avocado-coloured ankle-length shift and gold sandals. Nothing too sexy and provocative in case he’d changed his mind about spending the night alone and had another woman up here.
Her fingers clenched around the bag. She’d die of embarrassment, she’d just die— ‘Hi,’ she said, breezing out as the door opened, not looking at him and heading straight for the fantastic view taking up one whole wall. The only light in the room came from outside and the muted TV screen. ‘Wow, look at that. The penthouse view. Almost as pretty as Sydney Harbour.’
‘You’re a Taswegian, you’re biased.’ His voice, a mellow baritone, stroked up her spine and her eyes slid closed. His woodsy soap she’d become familiar with during the race teased her nostrils. His presence behind her filled her with a new kind of longing.
Turning, she set her bag of goodies on the smoked-glass dining table where his computer blinked and now she did look at the reason she was here.
Rumpled and casual in shorts that might have been white once upon a time and a soft-looking black T-shirt. The tight fit outlined hard-packed muscles and those powerful legs, which had caught her attention that first night, were tantalisingly bare from mid-thigh down. ‘You’re an Apple Islander too.’
With only a dim light in the corner, the dusky air was thick with tension. He furrowed a hand through tousled hair, obviously not for the first time tonight. ‘I think you should go.’
She smiled and reached for her bag while butterflies swarmed in her belly. Stepped out of her sandals. ‘That’s silly, I just got here.’
Reaching into her bag, she placed the contents on the table one at a time. A bottle of her favourite sparkling white, a punnet of strawberries, a supermarket’s pre-packed selection of cheeses. Grapes.
His reaction might have been bored, as if he was used to women bearing gifts, except for a telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth before he said, ‘What’s all this?’
‘It’s New Year...’ she glanced at the countdown on the silent TV ‘...in four minutes and twenty seconds. And I want to celebrate.’ Digging deeper, she snatched up one of those party favours that unrolled like a tongue and made a funny noise, and blew it at him.
No response.
‘Party popper, then?’ She snatched it from her bag of surprises and pulled. It sounded like a gunshot in the silence. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sakes.’ Exasperated, she tossed the explosion of tiny streamers at him and moved to the TV, raised the volume so she could hear the party happening in front of the Opera House and Harbour Bridge. ‘So...it’s me.’ She waited on tenterhooks, breath backing up in her throat.
‘Yeah. And you’re still trouble,’ he said, finally, and maybe she saw a glint of humour in his eye before it vanished as quick as
Dammit, she wasn’t taking no for an answer. She wasn’t needy —she was taking control. She rose up on tiptoes, closer to the intercom as if to draw him into her game. ‘It’s nine minutes to midnight. Let me in, I want to wish you Happy New Year.’ She glanced at the bag in her arms. ‘And I’ve got stuff.’
‘Stuff.’
‘Eight minutes thirty seconds and counting.’
The elevator doors to his penthouse slid open to her left.
Relieved, with dignity intact—for now at least—she stepped inside. And was tempted to back out again. The mirror on the back wall reflected a woman with wild red hair topped with a green foil cone hat on an odd tilt, eyes too wide for her face. Freckles and fine lines from years of sailing in the sun. Definitely not Jett’s type—oh yeah, she’d looked him up on the Internet and seen his type.
She’d only hooked his attention the first time because it had been dim and she’d looked half decent in her new fire-engine-red cocktail dress. Tonight she was wearing an avocado-coloured ankle-length shift and gold sandals. Nothing too sexy and provocative in case he’d changed his mind about spending the night alone and had another woman up here.
Her fingers clenched around the bag. She’d die of embarrassment, she’d just die— ‘Hi,’ she said, breezing out as the door opened, not looking at him and heading straight for the fantastic view taking up one whole wall. The only light in the room came from outside and the muted TV screen. ‘Wow, look at that. The penthouse view. Almost as pretty as Sydney Harbour.’
‘You’re a Taswegian, you’re biased.’ His voice, a mellow baritone, stroked up her spine and her eyes slid closed. His woodsy soap she’d become familiar with during the race teased her nostrils. His presence behind her filled her with a new kind of longing.
Turning, she set her bag of goodies on the smoked-glass dining table where his computer blinked and now she did look at the reason she was here.
Rumpled and casual in shorts that might have been white once upon a time and a soft-looking black T-shirt. The tight fit outlined hard-packed muscles and those powerful legs, which had caught her attention that first night, were tantalisingly bare from mid-thigh down. ‘You’re an Apple Islander too.’
With only a dim light in the corner, the dusky air was thick with tension. He furrowed a hand through tousled hair, obviously not for the first time tonight. ‘I think you should go.’
She smiled and reached for her bag while butterflies swarmed in her belly. Stepped out of her sandals. ‘That’s silly, I just got here.’
Reaching into her bag, she placed the contents on the table one at a time. A bottle of her favourite sparkling white, a punnet of strawberries, a supermarket’s pre-packed selection of cheeses. Grapes.
His reaction might have been bored, as if he was used to women bearing gifts, except for a telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth before he said, ‘What’s all this?’
‘It’s New Year...’ she glanced at the countdown on the silent TV ‘...in four minutes and twenty seconds. And I want to celebrate.’ Digging deeper, she snatched up one of those party favours that unrolled like a tongue and made a funny noise, and blew it at him.
No response.
‘Party popper, then?’ She snatched it from her bag of surprises and pulled. It sounded like a gunshot in the silence. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sakes.’ Exasperated, she tossed the explosion of tiny streamers at him and moved to the TV, raised the volume so she could hear the party happening in front of the Opera House and Harbour Bridge. ‘So...it’s me.’ She waited on tenterhooks, breath backing up in her throat.
‘Yeah. And you’re still trouble,’ he said, finally, and maybe she saw a glint of humour in his eye before it vanished as quick as
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