You think that rational analysis is the best approach in all situations
LUCY woke early after another restless night. She hated listening to the sound of others sleep. Always had. Even boyfriends. In fact she preferred her lovers to leave late in the night, giving her a few hours’ uninterrupted attempted sleep time—alone, in silence and safety. Insomnia sucked.
Years of boarding-school had been a torment. Space and security were what she’d love. But the hostel in central Wellington was never going to offer either. A zillion backpackers made sure of that. She dragged herself out of bed, wishing sleep came easy. She’d had a fantastic dream at one point. Very fantastic. She’d been in the arms of one big, strong male and loving it. Then his features had firmed into those of her new employer. Daniel. Right at that moment three English girls had arrived loudly in the room. Good thing too. Explicit dreams about Mr Lawyer should not be happening. No way. He was so straight. So wrong. Not her type at all. But he made a suit more attractive than she’d ever have thought possible. And having him feature in her dreams was infinitely preferable to the shadowy figure who still haunted her periodically—turning her sleep time into terror time.
Fighting off the fuzzy features, the fuzzy memories that she’d never be able to fully recollect, she saw the queue for the bathroom in the hall and abandoned the idea of showering there. Pulling on her jeans and a tee, she grabbed her bikini together with her towel and toilet bag, stuffing them into her backpack. She wound her unruly mess of hair into a loose knot on the top of her head and quickly tripped down the stairs and out to the street below.
On the waterside of Wellington stood a fabulous swimming pool. An indoor haven for government workers and hip students wanting a complete workout. Lucy didn’t really want to work out. She liked to walk along the waterfront but you’d never catch her running along it like the Lycra-clad bunnies and yummy mummies jogging with their baby buggies. Swimming, however, was different—a pleasure, a relaxant. Splashing in warm water, striking out with her arms and legs, the silky feeling of her hair as it fanned out. She loved the freedom of feeling her body floating—weightless, worriless. She could spend hours in a pool and often had. It was her second favourite thing next to dancing.
She scrabbled in her pocket for enough coins to gain entry to the pool, darted to the women’s facilities, stepped out of her clothes and into her bikini. She didn’t bother putting her bag in an automated locker—it wasn’t as if she had anything of value to worry about losing. Her goggles hung loosely from her wrist and she padded barefoot to the poolside, dropping her bag on the bottom row of spectator seating. Swimming lanes were set up and general speed signs posted. On the far side a couple of men were striking out with great pace. Relentlessly they traversed the length of the pool, turning and heading back again, time after time, no pause for breath or thought. Like a duel they were chasing each other, one going up as the other came down the pool, and for a second she wondered who was chasing whom. They were a sight, with their strong arms powering through the water with ease, their faces obscured by the close-fitting goggles and the spray of the water. She shook her head a little to let her hair tumble free and then she quickly twisted it into a plait. Untied, the plait would work loose in the water after a few lengths, but that was part of the feeling of freedom she enjoyed.
The middle lanes were slightly more crowded—a greater number of average-speed swimmers. She chose the one with the fewest number of swimmers. Waiting for the last swimmer to be a decent distance she dived in, loving that split second between jump and splash where for that instant she pretended she was a dolphin diving in delight.
She swam a few lengths and after a time paused at the end for some deep breaths and time to float. The blood pumped through her body and she felt alive again—despite that lack of sleep. She stretched out her arms, laughing at herself. The number of times she’d gone to a day’s work on little or no sleep must surely be in the hundreds, but it had never seemed to matter before. Today was different. Today she didn’t just want to do her job, she wanted to do a good job.
She trod water at the deep end, checking the time on the clock, and replaited her hair. Then she struck out again for the far end, and with every stroke she tried to think about the club. For once in her life she was determined to do well. She wanted to prove she could—to Mr Type A himself. He’d given her the chance but perversely seemed doubtful she’d be able to pull it off. Well, she’d show him. And it was to Daniel that her thoughts turned time and time again. Instead of drink orders and duty rosters it was the man with the golden eyes. His height and physique thrilled her but those golden eyes threatened to be her undoing. If she wasn’t careful they’d see right through her. Her aggression channelled into adrenalin and energy and she swam harder and faster than she had in ages. She tried to swim him out of her mind, forcing her focus back to the job again and again but failing each time. After a few more lengths, another couple of plaits, she was breathless and ready to get on with her day. She didn’t want to be late. She reached up with her hands and with a push heaved herself up to sit on the edge of the pool, waiting for most of the water to slide from her body before she’d step over to her towel-covered bag.
She glanced along the pool and saw only one of the super-fast swimmers was still in the water, still stretching out with seemingly endless energy towards her end of the pool. She turned away towards her bag and stopped. There was a large expanse of bronzed, broad chest in her way. She blinked and looked up.
Golden eyes danced. Were they hazel or brown? Really she couldn’t quite decide—either way the amber lights were incredible. She didn’t think she’d ever seen such a colour before and they were most definitely wasted on a man.
Man.
Daniel.
Right in front of her and all but naked. Her jaw dropped. She knew it did and she tried to do something about it but the ability to make even that tiny movement seemed to have been stolen from her. Stolen by the five-hundred-per-cent male, male, male obscuring her path.
He was staring down at her. All of her. He wasn’t smiling. Nor was he saying anything. And she felt the path of his gaze as if it had been his finger grazing her skin. Every slow inch he covered burned.
In, out. In, out.
That was how you breathed, wasn’t it? Basic instructions to calm the shell-shocked brain. Except she was suddenly thinking about something else going in and out and what would it be like to have that body all about…?
Not good.
He looked up at her face and she tried to hide the saucy thoughts from his all-too-observant eyes. How long had they been standing there staring at each other like that? It had felt like eons but she hoped time had done one of those weird blips that it did every now and then—when what felt like hours had really only been seconds. Milli, mini, itty, bitty. Just like her bikini.
‘Hi.’ She might have smiled if he weren’t looking so serious.
‘What are you doing?’
Man, he was direct. Bordering on rude. And he made her feel as if she were doing something bad—just by his tone. She’d hate to be on the witness stand with him on the cross-examination team.
‘Roasting peanuts. What do you think?’ OK. Maybe it wasn’t the best way to start the day with her new boss, but really.
Those gold flecks in his eyes sharpened. ‘You like them dry roasted?’
‘Yeah, with lots of salt.’
‘I prefer mine honey coated.’
Well, bully for him. She grimaced. She
