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Why had he invited Nate Thornton to join them? She’d bet he had no idea of the romance genre, and wouldn’t appreciate any relevant cover if she held it up in front of his face.
Brian placed a mug in front of her, sat down with his and smiled—first at her, then towards Nate.
‘We have here an agent’s dilemma: two writers with great potential for literary success, both with flaws that prohibit that achievement.’
Jemma turned her head to meet Nate’s appraising gaze and raised eyebrows and frowned. Why wasn’t he as surprised as she was at this announcement?
Brian regained her attention and continued.
‘Discussions and revision attempts haven’t been successful for either of you. But, as they say in the game, I had a lightbulb moment after Jemma told me she was coming to Sydney.’
He took a drink before going on, and Jemma’s stomach curled in anticipation—or was it trepidation? She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear any solution which meant involvement with this stranger by her side.
‘Nate has a talent for action storytelling—very marketable in any media. Regrettably, the interaction between his hero and heroine is bland and unimaginative.’
That was hard to believe. Any man as handsome as he would have no trouble finding willing women to date and seduce. She’d seen the macho flare in his eyes when they’d been introduced, and her body’s response had been instinctive.
‘Jemma’s characters and their interaction make for riveting reading. But the storyline between the extremely satisfying emotional scenes has little impact and won’t keep pages turning. So, as a trial, I’m proposing we combine your strengths in Nate’s manuscript.’
* * *
Nate’s protest drowned out the startled objections coming from the woman on his right. It took supreme effort not to surge to his feet and pace the room—a lifelong habit when agitated or problem solving.
‘Oh, come on, Brian. You know the hours and the effort—physical and mental—that I’ve put into that book. I can understand bringing someone else in...could even accept an experienced author...’
He struggled for words. Huh, so much for being a great writer.
‘You expect me to permit an unproven amateur to mess with my manuscript? Her hearts and flowers characters will never fit.’
‘Isn’t your “amateur status” the reason you’re here too, Mr Thornton? I doubt you’ve ever held a romance novel, let alone read the blurb on the back.’
The quiet, pleasant voice from minutes ago now had bite. He swung round to refute her comment, so riled up its intriguing quality barely registered.
‘Wrong, Jemma. Every single word of one—from the title on the front cover to the ending of that enlightening two-paragraph description—to win a bet. Can’t say I was impressed.’
Her chin lifted, her dark blue eyes widened in mock indignation and her lips, which his errant brain was assessing as decidedly kissable, curled at the corners. Her short chuckle had his breath catching in his throat, and his pulse booting up faster than his top-of-the-range computer.
‘Let me guess. It was selected by a woman—the one who claimed you wouldn’t make it through the first chapter, let alone to the happy ending.’
Shoot! His stomach clenched as if he’d been sucker-punched. Baited and played by his sister, Alice, he’d read every page of that badly written, highly sexed paperback to prove a point.
Brian cut in, so his plans for sibling payback had to be shelved for the future.
‘Relax, Nate. Your hero and heroine’s action stories are absorbing and believable. It’s their relationship that won’t be credible to the reader. I’m convinced Jemma can rectify that.’
‘You’re asking me to give her access? Let her delete and make changes to suit her reading preferences?’
No way. Not now. Not ever.
‘No.’
‘No!’
Their denials meshed.
Brian was the one who negated his outburst.
‘No one’s suggesting such a drastic measure. To start with I’d like the two of you to have lunch. Get to know each other a little. If you can reach a truce, we could start with a trial collaboration on two or three chapters.’
Lunch? Food and table talk with a woman who’d shown an adverse reaction to him on sight?
He sucked in air, blew it out and shrugged his shoulders. What did he have to lose? A book contract, for starters.
He matched the challenge in Jemma’s eyes, nodded and forced a smile.
‘Would you care to have lunch with me, Jemma?’
‘It will be my pleasure, Nate.’
Her polite acceptance and return smile alleviated his mood a tad, though the option he’d been given still rankled. He disliked coercion—especially if it meant having a meal with an attractive woman who was somehow breaching the barriers he’d built for mental survival. Another reason for not entering into a working relationship with her.
He avoided entanglements. One heart-ripping experience had been enough, and was not to be chanced again. It was only his fact-finding skill that had prevented his being conned out of a fortune as well. Any woman he met now had to prove herself worthy of his trust before it was given.
Brian had been straight and honest with him from the start. And Jemma had shown spirit, so she might be good company. He’d enjoy a good meal, and then...
Well, for starters he’d be spending a lot of time reading writing manuals until he’d mastered the art of accurately describing a relationship.
* * *
It was warming up as Jemma exited the building with Nate. The rain had cleared, leaving the pavements wet and steamy and the air clammy. With a soft touch to her elbow he steered her to the right and they walked in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.
She was mulling over the recent conversation between the two of them and Brian, and assumed he was doing the same. Agreeing to Brian’s proposition would mean being in frequent contact—albeit via electronic media—with a man whose innate self-assurance reminded her of her treacherous ex-boyfriend and her over-polite and social-climbing brother-in-law.
But unlike those two Nate also had an aura of macho strength and detachment. The latter was a plus for her—especially with her unexpected response when facing him eye to eye and having her hand clasped in his. Throughout the meeting she’d become increasingly aware of his musky aroma with its hint of vanilla and citrus. Alluring and different from anything she’d ever smelt, it had had her imagining a cosy setting in front of a wood fire.
Other pedestrians flowed around them, eager to reach their destinations. Nate came to a sudden stop, caught her arm and drew her across to a shop window. Dropping his hand, he regarded her for a moment with sombre eyes, his body language telling her he’d rather be anywhere else, with anyone else.
‘Any particular restaurant you fancy?’ Reluctance resonated in his voice.
‘I haven’t a clue.’ She arched her head to stare beyond him. An impish impulse to razz him for his hostile attitude overrode her normal discretion and she grinned. ‘How about that one?’
He followed her gaze to the isolated round glass floor on the communications tower soaring above the nearby buildings. His eyebrows arched, the corner of his mouth quirked, and something akin to amusement flashed like lightning in his storm-grey eyes.
‘The Sydney Tower? Probably booked out weeks ahead, but we can try.’
‘I was joking—it’s obviously a tourist draw. If we’d been a few steps to the right I wouldn’t even have seen it. You decide.’
‘You’re not familiar with Sydney, are you?’
His voice was gentler, as if her living a distance away was acceptable.
‘Basic facts from television and limited visits over many years—more since some of my friends moved here.’
‘Darling Harbour’s not too far, and there’s a variety of restaurants there. We’ll take a cab.’
‘Sounds good.’ She’d have been content to walk—she loved the hustle and bustle of the crowds, the rich accents of different languages and the variety of personal and food aromas wafting through the air. Tantalising mixtures only found in busy cities.
She followed him to the kerb, trying to memorise every detail while he watched for a ride. Once they were on their way her fingers itched to write it all down in the notepad tucked in the side pocket of her shoulder bag—an essential any time she left home.
As a writer, he might understand. As a man who’d been coerced into having lunch with her, who knew how he’d react?
Erring on the side of caution, she clasped her hands together and fixed the images in her mind.
CHAPTER TWO (#uab175d41-c943-57b1-8d88-ad164abe8139)
THE FORMAL ESTABLISHMENT Nate steered her towards was a pleasant surprise. She’d been expecting something similar to the casual restaurants she’d passed on her way to Brian’s office from the station. White and red linen, crystal glassware and elegant decor gave it a classy atmosphere, and made it look similar to her parents’ current venture in Adelaide. The difference was in the plush red cushioning on the seats and the backs of the mahogany chairs.
They received a warm welcome, and at Nate’s request were led to a corner table by the window. The view of moored yachts and the cityscape behind them was postcard-picturesque, and would be more so at night with the boats and buildings lit up. She made a mental note to return to the area after dark with Cloe, the friend she was staying with in North Ryde.
Occasionally taking a sip of the chilled water in her glass, she perused the menu options carefully. Having grown up experiencing different flavours and cuisines, she loved comparing the many ways different chefs varied tastes.
‘What would you like to drink, Jemma?’
Looking up, she encountered a seemingly genuine smile from Nate. Pity it didn’t reach his eyes. But at least he was giving her a choice—something her ex had rarely granted. She placed her menu down, food decision made, and flicked back the hair from her right cheek.
‘White wine, please. I’m having fish for both entrée and main courses.’
‘Any special kind?’
That impulsive urge to rattle his staid demeanour rose again: so not her usual behaviour.
‘I guess I should pick a local label—though our South Australian ones are superior.’ She raised her chin and curled her lips, daring him to dispute her statement.
She achieved her aim and then some.
His eyes narrowed, drawing his thick dark brows obliquely down, and his mouth quirked as he spoke in a mild tone. ‘We’ll save that war until later. For that quip, I’ll select.’
His flippant remark left her breathless, lips parted and with tingles scooting up and down her spine. She drained her water glass, incapable of forming a retort. He was smart—a fast thinker. A man not to be toyed with.
Her mind inexplicably recalled the adage Make love not war, and a hot flush spread up from her neck. Lucky for her, a young waiter arrived for their orders, and she ducked her head to read from the menu.
I’ll start with the smoked salmon with capers,’ she told him, ‘and have the barramundi with a fresh garden salad for my main.’
Nate chose oysters with chilli, coconut and lime as an entrée, followed by grilled salmon and steamed vegetables.
The wine he ordered was unknown to Jemma, and the hours she’d spent stacking refrigerators and racks had given her an extensive knowledge of labels. She’d also filled and emptied many a dishwasher, so figured she’d earned any offer to dine out for years to come.
‘You obviously enjoy seafood.’
Nate’s upper body leant forward over his crossed arms on the table, his intent to follow their agent’s suggestion of becoming acquainted evident in his posture. Pity there was little affability in his tone, and a suspicion there was more to his manner than giving her access to his writing began to form.
‘Barramundi is my mother’s specialty. I like to compare other offerings with hers.’
‘She’s a good cook, huh?’
Jemma laughed. ‘Don’t ever call her that if she has a knife in her hand—which, by the way, will always be sharp. Both she and Dad are qualified chefs, and live for their profession.’
A speculative gleam appeared in his smoky eyes, holding her spellbound, feeling as if he were seeking her innermost thoughts. His features remained impassive, his voice with its intriguing hint of roughness calm. The only sign of emotion was the steady tapping of two left-hand fingers on his right elbow, an action he seemed unaware of.
‘I’m guessing that didn’t leave much time for child-rearing.’
‘I didn’t mean—’
The waiter appeared with their wine, sending the next words back into her throat. She’d have to set him straight—hadn’t meant to give that impression. Yet as Nate sampled the small amount of wine poured into his glass she couldn’t deny the facts. There had been little time for any of the usual parent/child activities, though they’d encouraged and financed Vanessa’s modelling courses. They’d gained publicity, of course, when she’d won an international contract.
On Nate’s approval, her glass was filled. As she savoured the crisp, dry flavour he raised his glass to her without speaking, drank, then set it down.
‘This is good. I approve of your choice, Nate.’ She took another sip and let it linger on her tongue, waiting for him to continue the conversation about family. He didn’t.
I presume you don’t write full-time? Do you have another career?’
‘I paint pictures of Australian flora and fauna, mostly on small tiles, and work part-time in the gift shop where they’re displayed. I also sell them at local markets.’
‘Let me guess—koalas and wombats top the list?’
Hearing the hint of condescension in his voice, she clenched her teeth and felt her spine stiffen. She tightened her grip on the stem of her glass and held back the retort his words deserved.
‘They’re up there. Mother animals with babies are my bestsellers, along with bright native flowers.’
‘And where’s home?’
Firing questions seemed to be his idea of becoming acquainted. She obliged, giving him only the information she wished to reveal.
‘The Adelaide Hills.’
‘South Australian bushfire territory? I was there in 2015. The risks don’t worry you?’
* * *
Nate saw the flicker of pain in her eyes and the slight convulsion in her throat—heard the hitch in her voice when, after gazing out of the window for a moment, she answered.
‘That year was my first summer as a resident there. A close friend lost property, some sheep and their pets—a cat and two dogs. Meg and her family were devastated, yet they stayed, rebuilt and adopted from the animal shelter. They taught me how to minimise risks, and although the worry is there every year, it’s balanced by living with fresh air in a friendly, small-town atmosphere. Big cities are for holidays and shopping sprees. How about you?’
Sprung. He’d kept his questions basic, complying with the intent of Brian’s words if not the spirit. He hadn’t expected to hear a familiar story—one he’d heard a few times since he’d moved to the mountains. Given her parents’ profession, he’d pictured her living in Adelaide or one of its suburbs.
Bracing himself for her reaction, he answered.
‘The Blue Mountains.’
