over his beer bottle, I was four.
And the next, when a social worker didn’t believe me when I told her I was locked in a cupboard at night so I wouldn’t sneak off, I was six and in my first foster home.
I learned after that. Adults would never look after me. They would never hug me or care for me or love me.
So I did my best to make them hate me.
It ensured I didn’t get close to anyone. Knowing my shoddy behaviour would have the desired result was the one thing I could control in a crumbling world I despised.
I never trusted anyone and despite how hard Pa tried, I couldn’t let him into that hidden part of me, the part of me that wondered would he, too, eventually cast me aside.
One of the boys lets out a squeal and it pierces my reminiscing. I blink, surprised by the dampness in my eyes.
Shit, I’m turning into a sissy. Tears are wasted. The only good thing my father taught me before he dumped me at Social Services was to ‘harden the fuck up’. Apparently a snivelling five-year-old had never been in his plans after my mum shot through shortly after my birth. I’m surprised the mean prick kept me around that long.
With a shake of my head, I turn my back on the happy family and head for the resort. I have a shitload of work to do and the sooner I get started, the sooner I can leave this place and its unwelcome, maudlin memories behind.
Daisy
MY HEAD HURTS. I shouldn’t have drunk those cocktails last night. I shouldn’t have done a lot of things, starting with downing those Gorgeous Gems like cordial and ending with snogging Hart Rochester on the beach.
I have a presentation to nail shortly and the painkillers I took with OJ half an hour ago haven’t kicked in. Facing Hart after I practically mounted him will be hard enough without the drummer boy in my head practising his cymbal crashes.
I’ve done my research. I’m prepared. But unless I can pretend that kiss never happened, I’m in deep doo-doo.
I never should’ve run away. He called out to me too and I didn’t stop. I acted like some crazy hormonal teen when I should’ve been mature and blasé, as he was.
Adults kiss all the time. We were attracted, we gave into it, shit happens. But by running away like some mortified ingénue, I made more of it rather than dismissing it as a casual sexual impulse.
Maybe I can joke about it when I see him shortly. Something witty and fabulous that will clear the air and ensure he takes me seriously when I present my plans to him.
Only one problem: I can’t think of one goddamn thing to say beyond, ‘I’m an idiot for flinging myself at you but you’re a great kisser.’
Nope, not going to happen. I would’ve been nervous before this meeting regardless because I’m always like this before a presentation. Edgy and tense despite knowing I’ve considered every contingency.
My plans to promote this resort on Gem Island are foolproof. Starting with getting the new CEO, a renowned recluse, on board with a major social media ad campaign. It won’t be easy convincing him. If anything, the disparaging media surrounding the hotel giant’s fall from grace makes my job harder.
Ralfe Rochester’s failing health fails his shareholders.
The prodigal grandson returns to manage the teetering family business.
Has the Rochester empire lost its Hart?
I’m up for the challenge, but Hart’s minimal experience in this business and his lack of an online social profile means I’m in for a fight.
Hart needs me but what he doesn’t know is that I need him just as badly. I need a final gold star on my CV before I consider going out on my own. I want to be the woman who puts Rochester Hotels and Gem Island back on the tourism map.
Starting now.
Tucking my portfolio and laptop tighter under my arm, I shut the door to my villa and follow the frangipani-lined stone path to the main building. Reception staff smile in greeting as I traverse the polished stone tiles. Lush palms in terracotta pots are placed alongside cream and cobalt cushioned cane sofas. Floral arrangements featuring local tropical flowers—the Queensland Black Orchid, the Powderpuff Lilly-Pilly and the Giant Palm Lily—throw splashes of colour, adding to the overall sense of understated elegance.
It won’t take much to make this place noticeable amid the plethora of Whitsunday resorts. The owner may be another story. While Kevin gave me a rundown of the basics over the phone I garnered more information from what he didn’t say than what he did.
Hart will be a challenge. His email responses to mine have been terse. I expect my clients to be more forthcoming, especially when we’ll be working together.
I’m about to knock on a glass door leading to the office area when the concierge nearby waves me through.
‘He’s waiting for you.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, with a quick glance at my watch. I’m ten minutes early so I hope Hart values punctuality. With nerves making my knees wobble at our first confrontation since the awkwardness of last night, I need all the brownie points I can get.
The door to the sole office is open so I knock and push it when I hear a short, sharp, ‘Come in.’
Taking a steadying breath, I fix a smile on my face and enter the office.
To discover Hart Rochester glaring at me with ill-concealed disapprobation.
His disapproval washes over me and the blood drains from my face. I can’t move. My feet are soldered to the floor as embarrassment swamps me.
So much for witty banter to dismiss what happened last night.
A deep frown slashes his brow as he waves me in. ‘Come in, Daisy, and let’s get started.’
For a warped second I flashback to last night and think of the many ways we can get started. Before giving myself a mental slap upside the head.
I need to nail this job. Not this client.
I had my whole intro spiel worked out as I crossed the lobby on my way to his office. Something along the lines of, ‘That was bizarre what happened last night, me running off like that after a kiss that meant nothing. So let’s get down to work.’
But if he exuded powerful sexual vibes last night, I’m totally disarmed by seeing him again. He’s wearing a crisp pale blue shirt, with the top two buttons undone and his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. The shirt is tight, like his impressive torso doesn’t like being confined, and I can’t help but remember how hard those muscles felt last night.
His hair is tousled and it’s lighter than I thought: a lovely sorrel brown with caramel streaks from the sun rather than a hairdresser’s foil.
And those vivid indigo
