‘Covered in hickies, no doubt,’ Sonja threw in, most helpfully. ‘Her mother was Miss Tasmania, after all. Down there she’s considered good breeding stock.’
Thank goodness at that moment Sonja spied someone with whom to schmooze. With a waving hand and a loud ‘daaaarling’ she was gone, leaving Bradley and Hannah alone again.
Bradley was watching her quietly, and thanks to Sonja—who’d clearly been born without a discreet bone in her body—the swirl of sexual innuendo was ringing in her ears. Hannah felt as if all the air had been sapped from the sky.
‘So you’re heading home?’ Bradley asked, voice low.
‘Tomorrow morning. Even though last night I dreamt the Spirit of Tasmania was stolen by pirates.’
‘You’re going by boat?’
She shuffled in her seat. ‘I thought you of all people would appreciate the adventure of my going by open sea.’
A muscle flickered in Bradley’s cheek. Fair enough. A reclining seat on a luxury ferry wasn’t exactly his brand of adventure. Sweat, pain, hard slog, the ultimate test of will and courage and fortitude, man proving himself worthy against unbeatable odds—that was his thing. She was secretly packing seasickness tablets.
Every time she’d been on a boat with him she picked the most central spot in which to sit, and tended to stare at the horizon a good deal of the time. Trying to keep her failing hidden in order to appear the perfect employee. Irreplaceable.
She was hardly going to tell him that the real reason she’d booked the day-long trip rather than a one-hour flight was that, while she was very much looking forward to the break, she was dreading going home. A twelve-hour boat trip was heaven-sent! She’d been back to Tassie once in the seven years since she’d left home. For her mother’s fiftieth birthday extravaganza. Or so she’d been told. It had, in fact, been her mother’s third wedding—to some schmuck who’d made a fortune in garden tools. She’d felt blindsided. Her mother hadn’t understood why. Poor Elyse, then sixteen, had been caught in the middle. It had been an unmitigated disaster.
So, if she had to endure twelve hours of eating nothing but dry crackers and pinching the soft spot between her thumb and forefinger to fight off motion sickness, it would be worth it.
‘Ever been to Tasmania?’ she asked, glad to change the subject.
He shook his head. ‘Can’t say I have.’
Hannah sat forward on her seat, mouth agape. ‘No? That’s a travesty! It’s just over the pond, for goodness’ sake! And it’s gorgeous. Much of it is rugged and untouched. Just your cup of tea. The jagged cliffs of Queenstown, where it appears as though copper has been torn from the land by a giant’s claws. Ocean Beach off Strahan, where the winds from the Roaring Forties tear across of the most unforgiving coastline. And then there’s Cradle Mountain. That’s where the wedding’s being held. Cold and craggy and simply stunning, resting gorgeously and menacingly on the edge of the most beautiful crystal-clear lake. And that’s just a tiny part of the west coast. The whole island is magical. So lush and raw and diverse and pretty and challenging …’
She stopped to take a breath, and glanced from the spot in mid-air she’d been staring through to find Bradley watching her. His deep grey eyes pinned her to her seat as he listened. Really listened. As though her opinion mattered that much.
Her heart began to pound like crazy. It was a heady thought. But dangerous all the same. The fact that he was unreachable, an island unto himself, was half the appeal of indulging in an impossible crush. It didn’t cost her anything but the occasional sleepless night.
She stood quickly and slung her heavy leather satchel over her shoulder. ‘And on that note …’
Bradley stood as well. A move born of instinct. It still felt nice.
Well, there were millions of men who would stand when she stood. Thousands at the very least. There was a chance one or two of them would even be at her sister’s bigger-than-Ben Hur wedding. Maybe looking for a little romance. A little fun. Looking for someone with whom to unwind.
Maybe more …
She took two steps back. ‘I hope New Zealand knocks your socks off.’
‘Have a good weekend, Hannah. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’
She shot him a quick smile. ‘Have no fear. I have no intention of dropping off or picking up any dry-cleaning this weekend.’
He laughed, the unusually relaxed sound rumbling through her. She vibrated. Inside and out.
As Bradley curled back into his chair Hannah tugged her hair out from under the strap of her bag, slipped on her oversized sunglasses, took a deep breath of the crisp winter air, and headed for the tram stop that would take her to her tiny Fitzroy apartment.
And that was how Hannah’s first holiday in nearly a year began. Her first trip home in three years. The first time she’d seen her mother face to face since she’d married. Again.
Let the panic begin …
CHAPTER TWO
HANNAH was in the bathroom, washing sleep out of her eyes, when her apartment doorbell rang just before six the next morning. It couldn’t be the cab taking her to the dock; it wasn’t due for another hour.
‘Can you get that?’ she called out, but no sound or movement came from Sonja’s room.
Hannah ran her fingers through her still messy bed hair and rushed to the door.
She opened it to find herself looking at the very last view she would ever have expected. Bradley, in her favourite of his leather jackets—chocolate-brown and wool-lined—and dark jeans straining under the pressure of all that hard-earned muscle. Tall, gorgeous and wide awake, standing incongruously in the hallway outside her tiny apartment. It was so ridiculous she literally rubbed her eyes.
When she opened them he was still there, in all his glory—only now his eyes were roving slowly over her flannelette pyjama pants, her dad’s over-sized, faded, thirty-year-old Melbourne University jumper, her tatty old Ugg boots.
Even while she fought the urge to hide behind the door, the feel of those dark eyes slowly grazing her body was beautifully illicit.
‘Can I come in?’ he asked, eyes sliding back to hers.
No good morning. No sorry to bother you. No I’ve obviously arrived at a bad time. Just right to the point.
‘Now?’ She glanced over her shoulder, glad Sonja’s makeshift clothesline, usually laden with silky nothings and hanging from windowframe to windowframe, had been mysteriously taken down during the night.
‘I have a proposal.’
He had a proposal? At six in the morning? That couldn’t wait? What could she do but wave a welcoming arm?
He took two steps inside, and instantly the place felt smaller than it actually was. And it was already pretty small. Kitchenette, lounge, two beds, one bath. Small windows looking out over nothing much. Plenty for two working women who just needed a place to crash.
She closed the apartment door and leant against it as she waited for him to complete his recce.
Compared with his monstrous pad, with its multiple rooms and split-levels and city views, it must seem like a broom closet.
When he turned back to her, those grey eyes gleaming like molten silver in the early-morning light, the pads of her fingers pressed so hard into the panelled wood at her back her knuckles ached.
But he was all business. ‘I hope you’re almost ready. Flight’s in two hours.’
She blinked. Suddenly as