arched an eyebrow in an imperious taunt. ‘I don’t know. Do we?’
Disappointed, he shook his head. ‘You didn’t play games. One of the many things I admired about you.’
Her withering glare wavered and dipped, before pinning him with renewed accusation. ‘We had a fling in the past. Yonks ago. I’m over it. You’re over it. There’s no air to clear. Ancient history. The next week is business, nothing more.’
‘Then why are you so antagonistic?’
She opened her mouth to respond, then snapped it shut, her icy façade faltering as she ran a hand through her hair in another uncertain tell he remembered well.
She’d done it when they’d first met at a beachside vendor’s, when they’d both reached for the last chilled lemonade at the same time. She’d done it during their first dinner at a tiny trattoria tucked into an alley. And she’d done it when he’d taken her back to his hotel for the first time.
In every instance he’d banished her uncertainty with practised charm, but after the way they’d parted he doubted it would work in this instance.
‘Cal—’
‘Us being involved in the past complicates this campaign and I’m not a huge fan of complications.’
She blurted it without meeting his eye, her gaze fixed on her laptop screen.
He wished she’d look at him so he could see how deeply this irked, or if she was trying to weasel out of the deal.
‘You said it yourself. It’s in the past. So why should it complicate anything?’ He didn’t want to push her, but her antagonism left him no choice. ‘Unless...’
‘What?’ Her head snapped up, her wary gaze locking on his, and in that instant he had his answer before he asked the question.
The spark they’d once shared was there, flickering in the depths of rich brown, deliberately cloaked in evasive shadows.
‘Unless you still feel something?’
‘I’m many things. A masochist isn’t one of them.’
She stood so quickly her chair slid backward on its castors and slammed into the wall. The noise didn’t deter her as she stalked towards him, defiant in high heels.
With her eyes flashing warning signals he chose to ignore, he stepped back into the office, meeting her halfway.
Before he could speak she held up her hand. ‘I’m not a fool, Archer. We were attracted in Capri, we’re both single, and we’re going to be spending time together on this campaign. Stands to reason a few residual sparks may fly.’ Her hand snagged in her hair again and she almost wrenched it out in exasperation. ‘It won’t mean anything. I have a job to do, and there’s no way I’ll jeopardise that by making another mistake.’
He reached for her before he could second-guess, gripping her upper arms, giving her no room to move. ‘We weren’t a mistake.’
‘Yeah? Then why did you run?’
He couldn’t respond—not without telling her the truth. And that wasn’t an option.
So he did the next best thing.
He released her, turned his back, and walked away.
‘And you’re still running,’ she murmured.
Her barb registered, and served to make him stride away that little bit faster.
CALLIE strode towards Johnston Street and her favourite Spanish bar.
Some girls headed home to a chick-flick and tub of ice-cream when they needed comfort. She headed for Rivera’s.
‘Hola, querida.’ Arturo Rivera blew her a kiss from behind the bar and she smiled in return, some of her tension instantly easing.
Artie knew about her situation: the necessity for her business to thrive in order to buy the best care for her mum. He knew her fears, her insecurities. He’d been there from the start, this reserved gentleman in a porkpie hat who’d lost his wife to the disease that would eventually claim her mum.
She hadn’t wanted to attend a support group, but her mum’s doc had insisted it would help in the disease’s management and ultimately help her mum.
So she’d gone along, increasingly frustrated and helpless and angry, so damn angry, that her vibrant, fun-loving mother had been diagnosed with motor neurone disease.
She’d known nothing about her mum’s symptoms until it had been too late. Nora had hidden them well: the stumbling due to weakness in her leg muscles, her difficulty holding objects due to weak hands, her swallowing difficulties and the occasional speech slur.
The first Callie had learned of it was when her mum had invited her to accompany her to see a neurologist. Nora hated needles, and apparently having an electromyograph, where they stuck needles in her muscles to measure electrical activity, was worse to bear than the actual symptoms.
The diagnosis had floored them both—especially the lack of a cure and mortality rates. Though in typical determined Nora fashion her mum had continued living independently until her symptoms had made it impossible to do so.
Nora had refused to be a burden on her only daughter, so Callie had found the best care facility around—one with top neurologists, speech, occupational and physiotherapists, psychologists, nurses and palliative care, while trying not to acknowledge her mum’s steady deterioration.
It was as if she could see the nerve cells failing, resulting in the progressive muscle weakness that would eventually kill her mum.
So she focussed on the good news: Nora’s sight, smell, taste, sensation, intellect and memory wouldn’t be affected. Nora would always know her, even at the end, and that thought sustained her through many a crying jag late at night, when the pain of impending loss crowded in and strangled her forced bravery.
To compound her stress she’d had to reluctantly face the fact she had a fifty-fifty chance of inheriting it too. She hadn’t breathed all through the genetic testing consultation, when the doctors had explained that Nora’s motor neurone disease was caused by mutations in the SOD1 gene. That tiny superoxide dismutase one gene, located on chromosome twenty-one, controlled her fate.
Insomnia had plagued her in the lead-up to her testing, and the doctor’s clinical facts had been terrifying as they echoed through her head: people with the faulty gene had a high chance of developing MND in later life, or could develop symptoms in their twenties.
Like her.
She’d worried herself sick for days after the test, and even though it had come back clear—she didn’t carry the mutated gene—she’d never fully shaken the feeling that she had a swinging axe grazing the back of her neck, despite the doc’s convincing argument that many people with the faulty gene didn’t go on to develop MND.
Then
