don’t want you touching any of the equipment in this room, Ms Hartley.’
She nodded and apologised again, hesitated and then said, ‘I guess there’s no chance of you calling me Imogen, is there?’
‘None whatsoever.’ He did his best not to feel guilty about that either. ‘Didn’t you bring a laptop or tablet to the island?’
For some reason that made her laugh. ‘Ah, but, you see, I haven’t been given the keys to the kingdom.’
What on earth was she talking about?
‘The Wi-Fi password,’ she clarified.
Why on earth not?
‘Apparently I don’t have the right security clearance.’ Her lips twitched irresistibly. ‘It must be above my pay grade.’
She quoted that last sentence as if it was a line from a movie, but he wasn’t familiar with it. Then again, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d watched a movie.
He pushed that thought aside. Why on earth hadn’t Katherine given her niece the password?
None of his business. He knew Katherine was keeping secrets from her family, but he had no intention of getting involved. Without a word, he wrote the login details down and pushed them across to her.
She glanced at them and her eyes started to dance. ‘Does that mean I just got a promotion?’
He resisted the urge to smile back. ‘It now means you can log onto the Internet using your own devices rather than mine, Ms Hartley.’
The smile dropped from her lips. Again. Banter with the boss wasn’t going to happen and the sooner she understood that, the better.
Something rebellious and resentful at the strictures he’d placed upon himself prickled through him, but he squashed it. It was for the best.
She shifted from one leg to the other. ‘Look, I wanted to apologise again about earlier. I—’
‘It’s all forgotten, Ms Hartley.’
‘But—’
‘I’d appreciate it if you’d close the door on your way out.’
He turned back to his computer and opened a fresh spreadsheet. She stood there frozen for a moment, and then shook herself. ‘Yes, of course, sir.’
And if her sir held an edge of sarcasm, he didn’t bother calling her on it. He wasn’t interested in winning any Best Boss of the Year awards. Imogen was only here temporarily while Katherine sorted a few things out. She’d be gone again in a flash. And peace would reign once more.
The moment she left he closed the spreadsheet. He’d only opened it to look busy and get Imogen to leave his office. Ms Hartley, he corrected. Not Imogen. He checked his Internet browsing history more thoroughly.
She’d started precisely one search. That was it. She’d wanted to know the surf conditions. As she’d said. She wasn’t a journalist. She hadn’t lied.
Good. He hadn’t relished the thought of telling Katherine her niece was a thief, liar or cheat. He eased back in his seat, glad that the open friendliness of Imogen’s face wasn’t a front for deception. He was glad his instincts hadn’t let him down.
You could’ve made an effort to be a little friendlier.
He squashed the notion dead. No, he couldn’t. It started with a couple of shared jokes, and evolved to shared confidences, and before you knew it a friendship had formed—a friendship you’d started to rely on. But when it all went to hell in a handbasket you found out that you couldn’t rely on anyone. Not your friends, not your girlfriend and sure as hell not your family. He wasn’t walking that road again.
It was easier to not start anything at all. He’d learned to rely on nothing beyond his own resources. It’d worked perfectly for the past two years, and if it wasn’t broken…
A sudden image of Imogen’s face—the fear in her eyes as she’d edged away from him—speared into his gut, making a cold sweat break out on his nape. Who was he kidding? He was broken.
And a man like him needed to stay away from a woman like Imogen Hartley.
Shooting to his feet, he strode to the window, his lip curling at the tropical perfection that greeted him. He should’ve chosen the site of his exile with more care—picked some forlorn and windswept scrap of rock off the coast of Scotland or…or Norway. All grey forbidding stone, frozen winds and stunted trees.
Two years ago, though, all he’d cared about was getting as far from Australia as he could, as quickly as he could.
He wheeled away from the window. He’d never cared that the island was beautiful before, so why wish himself away from it now? He should never have cut his run short—that was the problem. Running and swimming kept the demons at bay. He should’ve stuck to his routine. And a hard forty minutes’ worth of laps would rectify that.
He flung the door of his office open at the exact same moment the front doorbell sounded. He blinked. He hadn’t known that the doorbell even worked. It hadn’t rung in the two years he’d been in residence. All deliveries—food and office supplies, the mail—were delivered to the back door and Katherine. The villa was huge and sprawling, and the back entrance was closer to the jetty, which suited everyone. Nobody visited Tesoura. Nobody.
He’d bet his life it was Imogen Hartley. She’d probably rung it for a lark. She was exactly the kind of person who’d do that—just for the fun of it, to see if it worked. He waited for her to pop her head into the room and apologise. She’d probably feed him some story about polishing it or some such nonsense. He’d even be gracious about it.
Imogen came rushing through from the direction of the kitchen. ‘Was that the—?’
The doorbell rang again.
‘—the doorbell?’ she finished.
He gestured towards the front entrance, his gut clenching. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d answer it, Ms Hartley.’
Those vivacious eyes danced as she started for the door. ‘Butler is definitely a promotion.’
Even if he hadn’t put his ‘no smiling’ rule into place, he couldn’t have smiled now if he’d wanted to. Somebody ringing the front doorbell here on his island miles from civilisation could only mean one thing—trouble. ‘If it’s the press…’ he managed before she disappeared into the front hall.
She swung around. ‘Short shrift?’
‘Please.’
She gave him a thumbs-up in reply before disappearing, and despite himself a smile tugged at his lips. The woman was irrepressible.
He stayed out of sight but moved closer so he could listen.
‘I understand this is the residence of Jasper Coleman,’ a pleasantly cultured male voice said.
‘May I ask who’s calling, please?’
