What right did Brody have to hurt her friends like that? And worse than that, he hadn’t even had the guts to get his hands dirty and contact them himself.
Juno muscled her way through the waiting crowd and folded her arms over the barrier. Ignoring the insistent rat-a-tat-tat of her heartbeat, she studied the stream of owl-eyed transatlantic passengers flowing through the arrival gate. Her mouth set in a grim line of determination. She’d have to hide her hostility towards him if this was going to work. But whatever happened, she was not going to give Brody the satisfaction of seeing how nervous she was—or how much she had at stake—and she absolutely refused to beg.
It would only make the contemptible man feel more superior.
Juno’s eyes narrowed sharply as she spotted a tall solitary figure strolling down the concourse alone. In contrast to the other travellers, who were rumpled but well dressed, this guy’s clothes were comfortable to the point of being disreputable. Faded denim hung from his lean hips and an ancient LA Dodgers T-shirt stretched across tanned biceps as he lugged a large leather holdall over his shoulder. The matching Dodgers baseball cap had been pushed down so the peak covered his face, but Juno could still see a day’s worth of stubble on his chin, and the wavy black hair that touched broad shoulders.
Could that be Brody? She stared, trying to make up her mind. If it was him, he wasn’t what she’d expected. With his shoulders hunched, his head down and his fingers fisted on the handle of his holdall, the man walking towards her looked as if he was trying to be inconspicuous.
And it was working. But for his height, which towered at least a foot over her own five feet two, Juno guessed no one would have given him a second glance. But then Juno noticed the way the stranger moved and she knew he had to be Mac Brody. He had the exact same loose, languid gait as his brother, Connor.
She jostled her way through the crowd to head him off at the exit gate—her heartbeat bumping right back up to warp speed.
Keeping his eyes on the grey industrial flooring, Mac Brody blanked out the crowd noise and hitched his shoulder to relieve the knot of tension and fatigue.
He’d never been keen on airports, and Heathrow held some bad memories. The last time he’d been here three years back, the paparazzi had been lying in wait to ambush him. It had been less than a week after his public bust-up with supermodel Regina St Clair—and a mere two days after Gina had sold her story to the press and branded him a coke-snorting wild man who bedded a different woman every night.
Gina’s X-rated fantasies might have been funny—but for the fact that a lot of people had believed her and the fallout had followed him around like a monkey on his back ever since. The press had smelled blood that day, and they hadn’t let him alone since. He’d never been comfortable exposed to the media spotlight, so it had been a harsh lesson to learn and no mistake.
He’d been mad as hell with Gina at the time. But he’d got over it soon enough. Somehow she’d deluded herself into believing they were in love and he hadn’t been paying enough attention to notice. He adjusted the weight of his carry-on bag on his shoulder. Lesson learned. Whenever he dated now, he made it plain exactly what he wanted out of a relationship—and exactly what he didn’t want—right from the start.
He glanced up to search the terminal for the exit. Seeing no sign of any photographers or press hounds, he heaved a sigh. He could cope with the paps if he had to, but right now he was exhausted after an eleven-hour flight and back-to-back night shoots during the past week and he didn’t need the hassle. Luckily for him, he’d learnt to blend into the woodwork at an early age; people rarely recognised him in a crowd unless he wanted them to.
Spotting the ‘Way Out’ sign, he changed direction, but as he lowered his head to make for the exit a small figure stepped from behind a pillar straight into his path.
‘What the…?’ He pulled up sharply to stop knocking the girl down.
‘You’re Cormac Brody.’ Her voice wavered, but the statement was loud enough to attract attention.
‘Keep your voice down,’ he said, scanning the surrounding crowd. Luckily no one seemed to have heard her.
‘I’m sorry to bother you. But I need to speak to you,’ she said, polite as you please, but he detected a definite edge. ‘It’s extremely important.’
‘Extremely important, is it?’ He’d heard that before. A firm dismissal hovered on the tip of his tongue, but, as his gaze drifted over her figure and then settled back on her face, it refused to come out of his mouth.
Whoever the girl was, she was seriously cute.
The torn jeans and layered T-shirts should have made her look like a tomboy, but somehow they suited her, hugging her subtle curves and accentuating her narrow waist and a pair of small but pert breasts.
Then there was the impact of that pale heart-shaped face to consider.
Not quite green and not quite blue, her round, translucent eyes grabbed most of the attention, but when you added in the soft, carelessly cut cap of dark blonde hair, the clear, creamy skin and perfectly defined bone structure—plus the fact she didn’t have a spot of make-up on—he had to admit the effect was striking.
He wondered if she was a fan. And hoped she wasn’t.
‘What is it that’s so extremely important?’ He could spare her a moment—after all it was a long time since he’d been this intrigued. ‘I haven’t much time at the minute, darlin’.’
The doe-like eyes narrowed and she looked even cuter—sort of like Bo Peep in a strop. ‘Don’t patronise me, Mr Brody.’
He blinked, surprised by the ballsy comeback. No way was she a fan. ‘I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop saying my name so loudly,’ he said, keeping his tone light, even though this was the second time he’d had to mention it. ‘I’m in no hurry to draw attention to myself.’ Intriguing or not, she was turning into a bit of a liability.
He glanced past her again to make sure she hadn’t given him away and spied the one person he didn’t want to see. ‘Damn.’
She frowned and began to turn. Throwing his bag down, he grabbed her shoulders and shoved her against the pillar to get them both out of Pete Danners’s line of sight. His nemesis. The same freelance photographer had dogged him like a Rottweiler three years back and he had no desire to repeat the experience.
‘Don’t look round,’ he snapped. He propped his elbow above her head, trapping her body against his to look round the pillar. ‘If yer man over there sees me, this trip’ll be a misery.’
Juno sucked in a sharp breath, so shocked she forgot to exhale.
What was happening?
One second she’d been staring into staggeringly blue eyes and thinking Cormac Brody was a lot better-looking than he had any right to be and quite as arrogant as she had assumed. The next she’d been pinned against his lean, muscular body.
She got light-headed and remembered she needed air. One breath gushed out and she sucked in another. She could feel every single inch of him. The solid planes of his chest flattening her breasts. The long length of his thighs pressed to hers and the buckle of his belt, outlined against her stomach. The overwhelming scent of minty toothpaste and man suffocated her.
‘What are you doing?’ she panted, the outraged squeak muffled against his chest.
She hadn’t been this close to a man in six years. By rights she should be screaming her head off. But right alongside the shock was the unfamiliar blast of heat that throbbed in every place their bodies touched.
He