‘It has to be Thursday the ninth. I think I’ve found a resolution for your hero and heroine interaction problem. And there’s a publisher who’s interested in seeing a revised copy of your book.’
Late-night research had shown Brian Hamilton to be one of the best literary agents in Australia. After initial contact he had asked for, and read, Nate’s synopsis and first three chapters, then requested the full manuscript. His brutal honesty on its marketability had convinced Nate he was the contract negotiator he wanted.
Attempts to rewrite the scenes he’d specified, however, had proved that particular aspect wasn’t his forte. And when he’d been tempted to suggest cutting them out, the feeling in his gut had told him it wasn’t that simple, and to ask if the agent could find a better solution.
It wasn’t the possibility of income that drove Nate to his computer. Astute investment of an inheritance and a significant part of his earnings while working abroad meant he was financially secure for years. Or, as his brother claimed, ‘filthy rich’—a phrase he detested. Although he envied Sam the satisfaction he’d achieved as a pilot in the air force, currently stationed at Edinburgh, north of Adelaide.
His compulsion to write had been driven by the need to put the hardships and traumas he’d witnessed as an international reporter where they belonged—in his past. Those harrowing images of man’s inhumanity to man were still in his head, though for the most part he managed to keep them buried.
There was nothing he could do regarding the way he now viewed life and interacted with new acquaintances. The walls he’d built for his own emotional protection were solid and permanent.
Frowning at the number of floors all six lifts had to descend before reaching him, he punched the ‘up’ button and tapped his fingers on his thigh. Okay, so he wasn’t so hot on the touchy-feely sentimental stuff. Hell, the rest of his hundred thousand words were damn good, and his target readers weren’t romantic females.
No disrespect intended.
The street doors sliding open drew his attention. The woman who came in brushing raindrops from her hair held it. He had a quick impression of black tights, then a flash of blue patterned fabric under a beige raincoat as she unbuttoned and shook it.
His mind registered long brown hair, a straight nose and red lips above a cute chin—great descriptive characterisation for an author, Thornton—then, as their eyes met, he felt a distinct jolt in his stomach.
Dark blue eyes framed by thick lashes stared, then blinked. Her smooth brow furrowed, and she swung away abruptly to study the board on the wall. He huffed in wry amusement at having been dismissed as un-noteworthy—not his usual first reaction from women.
The lift pinged and he moved aside to allow an exiting couple room. Another quick appraisal of the stationary figure of the woman, and he stepped inside.
* * *
Brian’s personal assistant had notified Brian of Nate’s arrival, and in less than the time it took her to hang his damp jacket on a stand in the corner the agent was greeting him with enthusiasm.
‘Punctual as always.’ He peered over Nate’s shoulder, as if expecting someone else. ‘Come on in. Coffee?’
‘Yes—if it’s going to be rough and take that long.’
Brian laughed. ‘It all depends on how determined you are to have a successful publication.’
He followed Nate into the well-appointed corner office, waved at the four comfy leather armchairs round a long low table and went to the coffee machine on a built-in cabinet.
‘Strong and black, right?’
‘Please.’
Nate sat and studied the view of nearby commercial buildings: hundreds of glass pane eyes, letting in sunlight while hiding the secrets of the people behind them. He’d need to be a heap of floors higher to get even a smidgeon of a harbour view.
‘How was the journey down? Ah, excuse me, Nate.’ Brian walked over to answer the ring from his desk phone, said ‘Thank you, Ella,’ then hung up and went to the door.
‘I won’t be a moment, then we can get started. Your coffee should be ready.’
Spooning sugar into the mug, Nate added extra, figuring he was going to need it. He heard Brian’s muted voice, and a quiet female answer. Distracted by the sounds, he drank too soon, letting out a low curse when the hot brew burnt his tongue. This day wasn’t getting any better.
‘Come in—there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’
A second later he was experiencing the same reaction as he had a few moments ago on the ground floor. The woman who’d caused it stood in the doorway, her stunning eyes wide with surprise. And some other, darker emotion.
The absence of her raincoat—presumably hanging up with his jacket—revealed a slender form in a hip-length, blue-patterned, long-sleeved garment with no fastening at the front. The black tights drew his gaze to shapely legs and flat black laced shoes.
This close, he appreciated the smoothness of her lightly tanned skin, the blue of her irises and the perfect shape of her full lips. Not so acceptable was her hesitation and the glance behind her. An action that allowed him to make out the nuances of colour in her hair—shades of his teak table at home.
One look at his agent’s satisfied expression and his brain slammed into full alert. This young woman seemed more likely to be a problem for his libido than a resolution for his fictional characters’ relationship. What the hell did Brian have in mind?
* * *
With Brian urging her in, Jemma Harrison had no choice but to enter the room, pressing the tips of her left-hand fingers into her palm. The man from the lobby seemed no more pleased to see her than she felt about him. Down there, with the length of the foyer between them, his self-assured stance and the arrogant lift of his head had proclaimed his type. One she recognised, classified and avoided.
She’d dismissed the blip in her pulse as their eyes met, swinging away before her mind could process any of his features. Now, against her will, it memorised deep-set storm-grey eyes with dark lashes, thick, sun streaked brown hair and a stubborn jaw. Attractive in an outdoor, man-of-action way. The tan summer sweater he wore emphasised impressive pecs and broad shoulders. He’d teamed it with black chinos and sneakers, and she knew her socialite sister, Vanessa, would rate him as ‘cool.’
‘Jemma, meet Nate Thornton. Nate, Jemma Harrison.’ Brian grinned, as if he’d pulled off an impossible coup.
Jemma stepped forward as Nate placed his mug on the bench and did the same. His cool eyes gave no indication of his thoughts, and his barely there smile vanished more quickly than it had formed.
For no fathomable reason her body tensed as he shook her hand, his grip gentle yet showing underlying strength. A man you’d want on your side in any battle. A man whose touch initiated tremors across her skin and heat in the pit of her stomach. A man she hoped lived a long way from her home town.
‘Hello, Jemma. From your expression, I assume Brian didn’t tell you I’d be here, so we’re both in the dark.’
Against her will, she responded to the sound of his voice—firm and confident, deep and strong, with a hint of abrasion. The kind of voice that would stir sensations when whispering romantic phrases in a woman’s ear.
Oh, heck, now she was thinking like one of her starry-eyed heroines, and feeling bereft as he let go and moved away.
‘Brian invited me to come in any time I was in Sydney. He didn’t mention anyone else being here today.’
‘I’ll explain once you have a drink,’ Brian said. ‘Coffee, tea or cold?’
‘Flat white