paused at the door, raised a finger.
‘Did I mention you’ll be stranded on the island with Jared Malone?’
CHAPTER TWO
Stranded Survival Tip #2
Be sure to schedule your mini-meltdown for off-camera.
JARED strode into North Bondi’s Icebergs and headed for Elliott’s usual table, front and centre to the glass overlooking Sydney’s most famous beach.
His mango smoothie was waiting alongside Elliott’s double-shot espresso, his mate nothing if not predictable.
When he neared the table, Elliott glanced up from a stack of paperwork, folded his iron-rimmed glasses, placed them next to his coffee and glanced at his watch.
‘Glad you could eventually make it.’
Jared shrugged, pointed at his gammy knee. ‘Rehab session went longer than anticipated.’
Elliott’s eyes narrowed. ‘Hot physio?’
‘Hot cruciate ligament, more like it.’
The familiar pinch of pain grabbed as he sat. ‘The cruciate healed well after the reconstruction but the ongoing inflammation has the medicos baffled.’
Elliott frowned. ‘You’re seeing the best, right?’
Jared rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Putz.’
‘The putz that’s going to win you another of those film gongs you covet so much.’
Jared jerked a thumb at the pile of documents in front of him.
‘Let me guess. The usual disclaimers that anything I say or do on TV, you won’t be held responsible.’
‘Something like that.’
Elliott pulled the top document, slid it across the table towards him.
‘Here’s the gist of it.’
Jared barely glanced at the fine print, having already heard Elliott extol the virtues of his documentary at length.
Stranded on an island with a stranger for a week was the last thing he felt like doing, but if it convinced Sydney’s disadvantaged kids the Activate recreation centre was the place for them, he’d do it.
He’d spent the bulk of his life in the spotlight, his career and private life under scrutiny, providing fodder for the paparazzi. He’d hated it. Time to put all that intrusion to good use, starting with a week’s worth of free publicity money couldn’t buy.
Elliott’s award-winning documentaries were watched by millions, his cutting-edge work discussed by everyone; around water coolers, at the school gates, on the streets, everyone talked about Elliott’s topical stuff.
With a prime-time viewing slot, free advertisements would cost mega bucks so when Elliot had proposed his deal, he’d jumped at it. He’d much rather spend a billion on the centre and equipment than publicity.
Millions would see the centre on national TV, hear about what it offered, and hopefully spread the word. That was what he was counting on.
It was a win-win for them both. Elliott scored an ex-tennis pro for his documentary; Jared scored priceless advertising to tout the kids’ rec centre he was funding to the entire country.
‘So who’s the lucky lady?’
Elliott glanced towards the door, his eyebrows shooting skywards.
‘Here she comes now. And wow. You always were a lucky dog.’
Jared turned, curious to see who he’d be stuck with on the island. Not that he cared. He’d socialised on the tennis circuit for years, could fake it with the best of them. Easy.
But as his gaze collided with a pair of unusual blue eyes the colour of the cerulean-blue ocean of Bondi on a clear day, their accusatory gaze cutting straight through him, he knew spending a week on a deserted island with Kristi Wilde would be far from easy.
‘I’ll deal with you later,’ Jared muttered at a confused Elliott as Kristi strutted towards the table on impossibly high heels.
She’d always had a thing for shoes, almost as much as he’d had a thing for her.
‘Good to see you—’
‘Did you know about this?’
Though she’d cut his intro short, she had no hope of avoiding his kiss and as he ducked down to kiss her cheek the familiarity of her sweet, spicy scent slammed into him with the power of a Nadal serve, quickly followed by a host of memories.
The exhilaration of climbing the Harbour Bridge eclipsed by a laughing, exuberant Kristi falling into his arms, and his bed later that night.
Long, sultry summer nights lingering over seafood platters at Doyles on Watson’s Bay, snuggling close in a water taxi afterwards, heading back to his place, desperately trying to rein in their limited self-control.
Best of all, the easy-going, laid-back, fun-filled relationship they’d shared.
Until she’d started clinging, demanding, and he’d bolted.
With good reason. His tennis rankings had been shooting for the stars at the time, he’d had no choice but to repay the people who’d invested their time in him. He’d never wanted to be a user, someone who took their birthright for granted; like his parents.
Ironic, that what had started out as a babysitting exercise, a place the snooty Malones could offload their only child for a few hours a day, had turned into a lucrative career filled with fame, fortune and more women than any guy knew what to do with.
Strangely, only one woman had ever got close enough to see the real him, the guy behind the laid-back smile.
And he was looking straight at her.
While his career hadn’t been the only reason he’d left, seeing her here, now, just as vibrant, just as beautiful, reinforced exactly how much he’d given up by walking away from her.
His lips wanted to linger, but she didn’t give him time, stepping away with a haughty tilt of her head that might’ve worked if he hadn’t seen the softening around her mouth, the flash of recognition in her eyes.
‘Well? Did you know about this?’
Placing a hand in the small of her back to guide her to a chair, unsurprised when she stiffened, he shook his head.
‘I just learned my partner in crime’s identity in this fiasco a second before you walked through the door.’
‘Fiasco is right.’
He smiled at her vehement agreement as Elliott held out his hand.
‘Pleased to meet you. Elliott
