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.
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.’
