id="u4357e7f6-32dc-5ce5-aa9d-16bf91840231">
Table of Contents
“Don’t play your sexy games with me,”
Jarrod said hoarsely.
Georgia’s lips parted with involuntary provocation and her tongue tip moistened her dry mouth. She lifted her hand to rest it gently along his jaw, moved her fingers to trace the outline of his mouth.
“Leave it, Georgia, for both our sakes. Unless you want to take the consequences.”
His words cut through her and the old wounds bled, transporting her agonizingly back in time. She was that naive, trusting, so-in-love nineteen-year-old again. “Don’t you want me, Jarrod?”
“Want you? Oh, yes, I want you, Georgia. That’s one of the jokes of my life. I’ll go on wanting you with every breath…”
LYNSEY STEVENS was born in Brisbane, Queensland, in Australia, and before beginning to write she was a librarian. It was in secondary school that she decided she wanted to be a writer. “Writers, I imagined,” Lynsey explains, “lived such exciting lives-traveling to exotic places, making lots of money and not having to work. I have traveled. However, the taxman loves me dearly and no one told me about typist’s backache and frustrating lost words!” When she’s not writing she enjoys reading and cross-stitching and she’s interested in genealogy.
Close Relations
Lynsey Stevens
JARROD took the new exit off the main Brisbane to Ipswich highway and approached the roundabout. There weren’t many people about but he remembered that at certain times of the day this area could become chock-a-block with local traffic.
The small shopping centre had mushroomed in the four years he’d been away and he grimaced. It was hardly the sleepy little town it had been when his father had first brought him here when he had been a troubled thirteen-year-old.
He accelerated out of the turn and took the right fork past the Honour Stone. On his right was the small group of businesses that used to constitute the sum total of the village’s commercial centre. Groceries. Fruit shop. Drapery. Bank.
A car shot out of the parking area in front of the shops and sped up the hill. That much hadn’t changed. Disaster Alley they’d half-jokingly called it. One car tried to leave and other shoppers vied aggressively for the vacant parking space.
He followed the winding road lined with houses that ranged from the wooden Queenslanders with their wide verandas to the aesthetic angles of architectural designs in brick and tile. Rolling paddocks had now well and truly become sprawling suburbia.
At least the fifty acres around his father’s home would still be intact. His father would never sell his land. Apart from the one block he’d sold to his best friend, Geoff Grayson. And his wife. Why wouldn’t his father want Geoff Grayson’s wife nearby? he asked himself bitterly.
Pushing a surge of painful memories out of his mind, he increased the speed of the car, for the first time wanting to see the large old house that had been home to him for his adolescence. And that need overcame his reluctance to revisit his father and stepmother-the family he had turned his back on four years ago.
His father. He’d never managed to call Peter Maclean that. And yet Peter Maclean was his biological father. A mere accident of conception, one of nature’s jokes, he reflected wryly. without bitterness.
He’d learned the truth about his parentage just before his mother died of cancer. She’d told him of the brief affair she’d had with the handsome Queenslander. Peter Maclean had been visiting Western Australia as a consulting engineer and his mother had been the temporary secretary assigned to him.
Three weeks later Peter Maclean had left for home, unaware that the young woman he’d spent most of his time with in Perth was pregnant. His mother had had no inclination to contact his father and had decided to raise her son alone.
And she’d done her best to do so. When he’d questioned his mother about his absent father she had told him his father was dead, killed in a construction-site accident before he was bom.
The construction-site
