in Oz…’ He took out another. ‘I always liked your hair down,’ he murmured. ‘It’ll relax you.’
‘Relax…?’ Her thoughts disintegrated. Mesmerised, she gazed at him, his eyes focused on the task as he concentrated on removing the clasp on top of her head.
‘Yes…’ Then his fingers were in her hair, and she was turning towards him while he loosened it, so that it tumbled down over her shoulders and released the pressure, massaging her scalp in slow circles on either side…
Oh, yeah…She forgot all about tension and tired muscles. She wanted to arch and purr and follow him to the ends of the earth. No one had hands like Dane. No one smelled quite like Dane. A hint of spicy soap and his own brand of musky, masculine scent.
And he felt right at home, with his body heat warming her all down her left side, while water trickled over the smooth stones beside them and the air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and vegetation.
What if she leaned in now and kissed him again? He was right: it had felt darn good. She’d watch his grey eyes turn smoky. She’d let her tongue slide over his, warm and decadently rich, like rum-flavoured chocolate…
And she’d be the one to pull back first, she thought darkly. Just when his mouth responded to hers. Payback time.
Or was it all too long ago to matter?
His hands dropped away. And maybe a corner of his mouth tipped up in a hint of a smile, maybe his eyes flickered with a one-step-ahead-of you glint. Or maybe it was the barely veiled cynicism of a man all too experienced with women’s ways. She couldn’t be sure because she was still finding her way out of her little daydream.
‘Goodnight, Queen Bee.’ He rose, giving her an eyeful of male crotch. ‘I’ll lock up behind me. Pleasant dreams.’
Then he left.
As he should, Mariel told herself, pouring the rest of her beer into the fountain. Judging by the impressive bulge at the front of his jeans, one moment more might have been too late.
Pleasant dreams? Hours later Mariel lay on her bed, staring up at the familiar ceiling. Night air chased goosebumps over her naked body, pebbling her nipples and making the hairs on her arms stand up. The draught through the window was an uncomfortably warm northerly. But the heatwave conditions weren’t the cause of her shivers.
Linen shwupped beneath her restless feet as she shifted for the zillionth time. Her lips still tingled from their encounter with Dane’s; she could still smell his scent in her room.
She frowned into the dark. Despite her attempts to put tonight to the back of her mind, stubborn images—make that one stubborn image—refused to co-operate.
She’d first locked eyes with Dane when Justin had kissed her and tipped her off that he was there. She’d been subjected to that familiar cool and casual gaze he was so good at.
Ah, but at other moments his eyes had blowtorched her with such searing heat she’d wondered how her skin hadn’t blistered.
It was still there between them, that connection, like the ghost of Christmases past. She’d thought she was over it; she’d even put it behind her and moved on with Luc, but had she been fooling herself all these years?
She’d come to Dane, her closest friend, looking for comfort and support on the eve of her first solo overseas adventure. He’d come upstairs to help her close her suitcase. Then, in a fit of nerves and excess energy, she’d decided to rearrange her furniture…
They shifted the shabby-chic dressing table she’d bought at a little French provincial shop in town, relocated her blanket box, then she’d flopped back on her bed.
She’d stared up at the ceiling and told him she’d paint it indigo, like the night sky. And that she’d paint gold stars and suspend a crescent moon over the mirror. If she was staying.
He’d watched her in silence, but her young heart had been sure…
She’d taken his hand and pulled him down onto the bed so that they were both staring up and sharing her sugarplum dreams. Then, in that typically female way, she’d succumbed to the tears she’d been fighting all day.
Yes, she wanted to study overseas. She wanted a career. But she was coming back. Because she had someone to come back to. Dane.
She just hadn’t told him that.
She’d thought she was in love…And then they’d shared the most dreamy, most poignant kiss of all…
She shook the memories away. She was over it. Over him. Teenage heartache was always the most painful. The most memorable.
Years later she’d allowed herself to be swept away by another man. Flattered by his promises to make her a celebrity. Seduced by his smooth European looks, charm and attention. She’d thought she was in love again.
Just went to prove she couldn’t trust her heart. From now on she’d make decisions with her head and leave emotion out of it.
She sighed into the darkness. Dane had changed, too. He was more remote, more cynical. More attractive. Just as she wasn’t that starry-eyed girl any more, who’d spun impossible dreams around a moonlit night and a goodbye kiss.
Dane rolled over and picked up the bedside phone, checking the clock’s digital readout as he did so. Seven a.m.
‘Good morning, Mr Huntington.’ A cheery male voice greeted him.
He leaned up on one elbow. ‘Who is this, and how the hell did you get this number?’
‘The name’s Bronson; I’m a reporter with—’
‘I don’t care who you’re with—’
‘Is it true that your reunion with Ms Davenport last night has you rethinking your Bachelor of the Year status?’
What the…? He shot up, swung his legs over the side of the bed. ‘No comment.’ He slammed the phone back on its cradle.
So they hadn’t wasted any time digging up the past, had they? Running both hands through his dishevelled hair, he peered through his upstairs window. The high security wall bordering his North Adelaide home kept intruders out.
Mariel. She was alone out there in her parents’ house.
Damn. He needed to get out there ASAP.
Mariel didn’t deserve to be dragged into the media circus his life had become since he’d been named Bachelor of the Year. His gut told him she was dealing with some heavy-duty stuff right now. Since he didn’t have her mobile number, he punched in the Davenports’ home number. It went through to the answering machine. Swearing a blue streak, he disconnected and headed for the bathroom.
Setting the showerhead to massage, he let the tepid water pummel his flesh while he cursed the day he’d allowed Justin to persuade him into what was rapidly becoming a cirque des femmes.
Teenage groupies who followed the Bachelor of the Year as if he were some kind of rock star rather than a respected businessman and charity patron. Babes from the magazine
