From Paradise...to Pregnant!

From Paradise...to Pregnant! Kandy Shepherd One night with consequences…A week in Bali was accountant Zoe Summers’s dream vacation. But when the tropical island paradise is hit by an earthquake, she’s trapped…alongside Mitch Bailey, sports star and blast from her past! High on the thrill of survival, they seek comfort in each other’s arms…It was only supposed to be one night but Zoe soon discovers an unexpected souvenir…she’s pregnant! Now Zoe and Mitch will have to ask themselves…can one night lead to parenthood and a lifetime of love? For a long, still moment their eyes held. The intensity of his gaze reminded her of Mitch as a student, determined to understand the subject she was helping him to master. Back then he’d been reading a page in a poetry book; right now it felt as if he was reading her face as his gaze searched her eyes, her mouth. In turn she explored his face. His chiseled face. His strong jaw. The knowing glint in his green eyes framed by those too-expressive eyebrows. And his mouth, which lifted to a half-smile that gave a promise of pleasure and that made her own lips part expectantly, her breath quicken. Her eyes locked with his and a thrill of anticipation tingled through her. Mitch Bailey was about to kiss her. And she was going to kiss him right back. From Paradise…to Pregnant! Kandy Shepherd www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) KANDY SHEPHERD swapped her fast-paced career as a magazine editor for a life writing romance. She lives on a small farm in the Blue Mountains near Sydney, Australia, with her husband, daughter and a menagerie of animal friends. Kandy believes in love at first sight and real-life romance—they worked for her! Kandy loves to hear from her readers. Visit her website at www.kandyshepherd.com (http://www.kandyshepherd.com). To my husband, James, for the trip to Bali and the answers to my endless questions about “The Beautiful Game.” Contents Cover (#ud6307ee3-33ca-597b-baa4-709593a785e8) Introduction (#u69ae1238-06ae-5bb5-ba1b-06e92ff5a484) Title Page (#u7faca95d-e97f-5bc2-a7e7-4558c35eb9a0) About the Author (#ub897f3c3-d682-59f2-a85b-273bf6e837b8) Dedication (#ufa7c1b64-086e-5672-82e0-6a6e264c0bf8) CHAPTER ONE (#u44def496-190a-5cca-9ac3-d6dc815c9f09) CHAPTER TWO (#ud57bbc8b-a7ad-54ea-aae2-1fb588cabacf) CHAPTER THREE (#u38ddf282-3bc9-58c1-ba49-16fb209a2e4f) CHAPTER FOUR (#u64877f07-7142-5762-b1fa-e8be10f657a3) CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo) Extract (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_103bfe5a-a5f0-567c-a1dc-086b4d19fb08) ZOE SUMMERS KNEW she wasn’t beautiful. The evidence of her mirror proved that. Plain was the label she’d been tagged with from an early age. She wasn’t ugly—in fact ugly could be interesting. It was just that her particular combination of unruly black hair, angular face, regulation brown eyes and a nose with a slight bump in the middle added up to pass-under-the-radar plain. After a particularly harrowing time in her life, spent at the basement level of the high school pecking order, she’d decided to do something about her unremarkable looks. Not a makeover, as such—rather, she’d aimed to make the best of herself and establish her own style. Now, at the age of twenty-seven, Zoe Summers was known as striking, stylish and smart. She couldn’t ask for more than that. As a consequence of her devotion to good grooming she’d spent some time every day of her vacation on the beautiful tropical island of Bali in the spa of her luxury villa hotel. Back home, fitting in beauty treatments around running her own accountancy and taxation business could be problematic for a self-confessed workaholic. Here, a programme that included facials, exfoliation, waxing, manicure and pedicure fitted right in with her mission to relax and replenish. And all for less than half the price of what it would cost in Sydney. Late on the fourth and final afternoon of her vacation, she lay face-down on a massage table in the spa and let the masseuse work her skilled magic on the tight knots of tension in her shoulders. Bliss. As she breathed in the soothing scents of sandalwood, frangipani and lemongrass her thoughts started to drift. She diverted them from anything to do with her business and the decisions she still had to make. Or from the very real concern that her cat had gone on hunger strike at the cat boarding place. Instead she pondered how soon after her massage she could take a languorous swim in the cool turquoise waters of the hotel’s lagoon pool. What to choose for dinner at one of the many restaurants in Seminyak. Should she buy that lovely batik print sundress in the nearby boutique? Or the bikini? Or both? The price tags bore an astonishing number of Indonesian rupiah, but in Australian dollars they were as cheap as chips. She sighed a deep sigh of contentment and relaxed into that delicious state somewhere between consciousness and sleep. When the massage table began to vibrate she thought at first, through her blissed-out brain, that it was part of the treatment. But then the windows rattled and the glass bottles of scented oils and lotions started to jiggle and clank. When the bottles crashed to the stone floor she jumped up from the table in alarm. She knew before her masseuse’s cry of, ‘Earthquake!’ what was happening. It was an effort to stay on her feet when the floor moved beneath them like the deck of a boat on choppy waters. No use trying to hold on to the walls, because they seemed to flex inward. The masseuse darted under the protection of the wooden table. Zoe did the same. She cowered with her knees scrunched up to her chest, heart pounding, swallowing against a great lump of fear, her hand gripping tightly to the girl’s—she didn’t know who’d grabbed whose hand first, but she was grateful for the comfort. The room shuddered around them for what seemed like for ever but was probably seconds, stopped, then shuddered again. Finally everything went still. Cautiously, Zoe inched out from under the table. She nearly gagged on the combined scent of spilled aromatherapy oils. When the masseuse told her they had to head to an emergency meeting point she nodded, too choked with anxiety to actually reply. She wanted to get out into the open ASAP. But she was naked—save for the flimsy paper panties she’d donned for the massage to protect her modesty—and her clothes and sandals were in an inaccessible closet. She snatched up the white towel that had covered her on the massage table and with clumsy, trembling fingers wrapped it around her, tucking it in as securely as she could. In bare feet, she picked her way around the shards of broken bottles on the floor, grabbed her handbag and followed the masseuse outside. Still reeling with shock, Zoe hurried along the tropical plant-lined pathway that led from the spa to the main building and pool area of the hotel. To her intense relief there didn’t appear to be a lot of damage. But her fear didn’t dissipate. Once before disaster had struck from nowhere, changing her life for ever. Who knew what she could expect here? During her stay she hadn’t taken much notice of the other guests. Each villa was completely private, with high walls around it and its own lap pool. Now she was surprised at the number of people gathered for an emergency briefing in the open courtyard outside the reception area. She was the only one in the crowd to be clad in just a towel, but other people were in swimwear or wearing assorted hastily donned garments. Could she get to her room? If she was going to die she didn’t want it to be in a white standard-issue hotel towel. The other guests were terrified too. She could see it in their grim faces, hear their concern in the murmur of conversation in several different languages. The hotel manager took the floor to reassure them that the tremor was low on the Richter Scale of seismic activity. He told his guests that electricity had been knocked out but that the hotel emergency generators would soon kick in and it would be business as usual. There was no need to panic. But what if there were aftershocks? The manager’s reassuring words did little to make Zoe’s rapid heartbeat subside or her hands less clammy. It was time to get out of here, before any other disaster might strike. She’d seen the sights. She’d wound down. She’d been pampered from head to toe. Now she was anxious to get home. She was just about to ask the manager if the airport was open when a man spoke from several rows of people behind her. ‘Is there a tsunami warning?’ he asked. The word ‘tsunami’ was enough to strike renewed fear into Zoe’s heart. But it wasn’t the thought of an imminent tidal wave that kick-started her heartbeat into overdrive, it was the man’s voice. Deep, confident, immediately familiar. Mitch Bailey. But it couldn’t be. There must be lots of Australian-accented male voices in Seminyak. The west coast town was a popular vacation playground for Australians. Besides, it was ten years since she’d last heard that voice. She must be mistaken. ‘No tsunami warning,’ the manager replied to the man. ‘There’s no danger.’ ‘What about aftershocks?’ The man asked the question she was too paralysed by fear to ask herself. It sounded so like him. ‘Not likely now,’ said the manager. ‘It was a small tremor.’ Zoe risked a quick glance behind her to identify the owner of the voice. And froze. It was Mitch Bailey, all right—right up at the back of the room. He was instantly recognisable: green eyes, dark blond hair, wearing a pair of blue checked board shorts and nothing else. His tanned, well-honed chest was bare. The blood drained from her face and her mouth went dry. He was as handsome as he’d been at seventeen. More handsome. His face was more chiselled, more lived in, and his dark blond hair was cut spikily short—much shorter than when she had known him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, but lean, with well defined muscles. Then he’d been a suburban high school heart-throb. Now he was an international soccer star, who regularly topped magazine lists of ‘The Sexiest Men Alive’. She quickly turned back and ducked her head. Dear heaven, don’t let him recognise her. He was part of a past she had chosen to put well behind her. She couldn’t let him see her. Zoe thought back to the first day she’d met him. Grieving over the death of her parents, in an accident that had also injured her, she’d been removed from her inner city home and her laid-back, no-uniform high school and dumped mid-term by her disapproving grandmother—her father’s mother—into an outer suburbs school where she’d known no one and no one had seemed to want to know her. The uniform had been scratchy, uncomfortable and hideous—which was just how she’d felt during her time at Northside High. Her first sight of Mitch Bailey had been of him surrounded by girls, with his girlfriend Lara—blonde and beautiful, of course—hanging possessively onto his arm. Zoe had kept her head down and walked past. But a burst of chatter had made her lift her head and she’d caught his eye. He’d smiled. A friendly, open smile born of his place as kingpin of his social group. He’d been a jock, a sports star—the most popular of the popular boys. He hadn’t needed to smile at nerdy her. But he had, and it had warmed the chill of her frozen heart even though she’d been unable to manage more than a polite stretching of her lips in return. Later they’d become sort of friends, when he’d had a problem she’d been able to help him with. But the last time she’d seen him he’d been so unforgivably hurtful she’d shrivelled back into her shell and stayed there until she’d got out of that school. Now she had no desire to make contact again with anyone from that place—least of all with him. She tensed, her eyes darting around for an escape route, then realised her panic was for nothing. No way would he recognise her. She looked completely different from the unhappy seventeen-year-old he’d befriended all those years ago. But she kept her eyes to the ground anyway. She wanted to ask the manager about the airport as she was due to fly back to Sydney the next morning. But she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. If she’d recognised his voice, Mitch might recognise hers. It was unlikely, but possible. She kept her mouth shut just in case. The manager had said it was okay for the guests to return to their villas. That was where she was headed—pronto. As other people started to ask more questions Zoe inched to the edge of the group. Not meeting anyone’s gaze, and as unobtrusively as she could, she edged away towards the pathway that led to her private villa. Once there she could order room service for the rest of her stay, to make sure she didn’t bump into Mitch Bailey. Please, please don’t let him be anywhere around when she checked out. She quickened her pace as she got near the pathway. ‘Zoe?’ His voice came from behind her and she started. She denied the reflex that would have had her turning around. Instead she kept her head down and kept walking, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t call her name again. Let him think he’d been mistaken. * * * Mitch had noticed the dark-haired girl wrapped in a white towel as soon as she’d come into the courtyard. What red-blooded male wouldn’t? The skimpy towel barely covered a sensational body. It was knotted between high, round breasts and fell just to the top of slender, tanned thighs. Might it fall off at any moment? And, if so, was she wearing anything underneath? He’d been lying by his pool when the earthquake had hit. What had she been doing to be clad only in a towel? But he’d thought no more about it as the girl had found a place near the front of the group of guests who had gathered to hear the charming Balinese hotel manager explain the ramifications of the earth tremor. Mitch had been to Bali before, and knew small tremors like this weren’t uncommon. He’d appreciated the manager’s well-meant reassurances. But still, he’d asked the question about the tsunami because it didn’t pay to ignore possible danger. Mitch was the kind of guy who liked to anticipate and prepare for the next move—‘reading the play’, they called it in soccer. There was a prominent sign on the beach warning people what to do if there was a tsunami warning. Therefore he’d needed to ask about it. At his second enquiry the girl in the towel had turned briefly, to see who was asking the scary questions. Recognition had flashed just briefly before she had hastily turned back round. He was used to that these days. Strangers recognised him as being an international soccer player. Or from the endorsements for designer menswear and upscale watches he’d posed for—the advertisements were on billboards even here in Bali. This woman might be a young mum who wanted him to sign her child’s soccer ball. Or a fan with much more than signing on her mind. He narrowed his eyes. The thing was, she had also seemed familiar to him. Her eyes had only caught his for a split second but there had been something about the expression in them—anxious, in a pale, drawn face—that had tugged at his memory. He’d met so many people over the last years, but he couldn’t place her. He’d dredged his memory with no luck. But then she’d hotfooted it away from the group of guests. He’d admired her shapely behind, swaying in that tightly drawn towel as she’d headed for the pathway that led to the private villas. Once she was gone he’d probably never see her again, and would be left wondering who she could possibly have been. Then he’d noticed the slight, almost imperceptible limp as she’d favoured her right leg. It was enough to trigger memories of a girl he’d known for a short time in high school. ‘Zoe!’ he’d called. She’d paused for a moment, her shoulders set rigidly. Then continued to walk away. Now he pushed his way to the edge of the row of people and took a few strides towards her to catch up. ‘Zoe Summers?’ he asked, raising his voice. This time she stopped and turned to face him. For a long moment their gazes met. Mitch was shocked to realise she had recognised him and yet had chosen to walk away. He was swept by conflicting feelings—the most predominant being shame. It was what he deserved after the way he’d treated her all those years ago. ‘Mitch Bailey,’ she said, head tilted, no trace of a welcoming smile. ‘After all this time.’ ‘I knew it was you,’ he said. Her expression told him a kiss on the cheek, a hug, even a handshake would not be welcome. He kept his hands to his sides. She looked much the same. More grown-up, of course. But the same sharp, intelligent face. The same black hair—only shorter now, and all tousled around her face. The piercings she’d sported so defiantly at school had gone, leaving tiny telltale holes along the top of her right eyebrow and in her nose, and there was just one pair of discreet gold studs in her ears instead of multiple hoops. There was something indefinably different about her. Perhaps it was her air of assuredness. He didn’t remember that. Back then she’d emanated a miasma of misery that had made other adolescents uncomfortable around her. The ‘keep away’ glower hadn’t helped either. He’d considered himself privileged to have discovered the amazing person behind it all. Until he’d blown their friendship. ‘I didn’t think you’d recognise me,’ she said. He’d forgotten what an appealing voice she had: mellow, slightly husky. ‘You mean you hoped I wouldn’t.’ He’d intended his words to sound light-hearted, but they came out flat. She shrugged. ‘I didn’t say that. It’s been years.’ He swallowed uncomfortably. ‘Strange way to meet again. In an earthquake.’ ‘A “tremor” the management called it,’ she said with a wry twist to her lips. ‘Playing it down so as not to freak out the tourists.’ ‘Whatever name you give it, it scared the daylights out of me.’ She reacted with a raising of her perfectly shaped black eyebrows. ‘Me too,’ she said, with the shadow of a smile. ‘I thought my end had come. Still think it’s a possibility.’ ‘Where were you when the quake struck?’ ‘Having a body massage down at the spa.’ Where she must have been naked. So that was why she had only a towel wrapped around her. Mitch willed his eyes to stay above her neck. Before today he’d only ever seen Zoe in a shapeless school uniform. He hadn’t taken much notice of her body back then—it was her brain that had interested him. Besides, he’d had a girlfriend. Now he realised what great shape Zoe was in—in her own quiet way she was hot. ‘Where were you when it hit?’ she asked. ‘Just about to dive into my lap pool. Then I noticed the surface of the water shimmering, which was kind of weird.’ ‘That must have been scary.’ She shuddered as she spoke. ‘Yeah. It was.’ ‘So much for relaxing in a tropical paradise,’ she said, with a bravado that didn’t hide the shadow of unease in her eyes. She clutched her towel tighter to her. Mitch refused to let himself imagine what might happen if it slid off. An awkward silence fell between them. Zoe was the first to break it. ‘I’m going to head back to my villa,’ she said. ‘How about I come with you? Who knows what we’ll find when we get back to our rooms.’ Her response was more of a cynical twist than a smile, but it was nonetheless attractive. ‘Thank you, but I don’t need a big strong man to protect me. I’m quite capable of looking after myself.’ ‘I’m sure you are,’ he said. ‘But I... Well, I don’t really want to be on my own if we get any aftershocks.’ He wasn’t afraid to admit to vulnerability. Just never on a football pitch. ‘Oh,’ she said. For the first time she seemed flustered. ‘You’re not...you’re not with someone?’ ‘You mean a girlfriend? No. What about you? Are you on your own?’ ‘Yes,’ she said, with no further explanation. He glanced down at her hand. No wedding ring. Though that didn’t necessarily mean no man in her life. ‘I’d like to catch up, Zoe. Find out what you’ve been doing in the last ten years.’ She paused. ‘I don’t need to ask what you’ve done since we last met,’ she said. ‘You’re quite the sporting hero. The media loves you.’ He shrugged. ‘Yeah... That... Don’t believe everything they dish up about me. But seriously, Zoe, I’d really like to spend some time with you.’ * * * Zoe looked up at him and her heart gave a flip of awareness. Mitch Bailey. Still the same: so handsome, so unselfconscious, standing before her in just a pair of swim shorts that did nothing to hide the athletic perfection of his body. So full of the innate confidence that came with the knowledge that he had always been liked, admired, wanted. So sure she’d want to spend time with him. And she’d be lying to herself if she said she didn’t. He was the best-looking man she’d ever met. Had been then—still was now. She couldn’t deny that. But all those years ago she’d seen a more vulnerable side of Mitch that had endeared him to her before he’d pushed her out of his life. Had it survived his stardom? It was difficult to resist the chance to find out. ‘I’d like to catch up too,’ she said lightly. ‘After all, it isn’t every day an earthquake brings long-lost school buddies together.’ He didn’t seem to remember the circumstances of their last meeting. It had been a long time ago. Devastating to her at the time. Insignificant, it seemed, to him. Had she had a crush on him back then? Of course she had. A deeply hidden, secret, impossible crush. He’d been so out of her league she would have been relentlessly mocked if anyone had found out. ‘Great,’ he said with a smile. If she didn’t know better, she’d think it was tinged with relief. ‘The manager said it was business as usual. We can order drinks. I don’t know about you, but I could do with a beer.’ ‘Me too,’ she said. And the first thing she’d do before she spent any more time alone with Mitch Bailey would be to put on some clothes. CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_325f95bf-d861-501e-afac-8b6c73ea8aa8) ZOE’S VILLA HAD suffered minimal damage from the tremor—just a few glasses she’d left out had smashed to the tiled floor. Still, it was a shock—a reminder of how much worse it could have been. Might yet be. She wanted to clear up the broken glass. But she felt awkward dressed only in the towel and she still felt very shaky. For every piece she picked up, she dropped another. Mitch insisted he do it for her. Thanking him, she escaped into her bedroom and pulled closed the door that divided the room from the living area. The villa was like a roomy one-bedroom apartment, with all the external doors folding back to access the enclosed courtyard and private lap pool. Her heart was thumping like crazy. Residual fear from the earthquake? More likely the effect of being in close proximity to Mitch Bailey. She hadn’t stalked him over the years. Not that. But when a boy she’d gone to school with had shot to fame she wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t read the magazine stories, watched the television interviews, cheered for him when he’d been the youngest ever player in the Australian Socceroos team for the World Cup. All the while she’d been getting on with her life—first studying, then working, dating, and only ever thinking about him when the media brought him to her attention. Now he’d been thrust into her life again. And she was clad in a towel, with no make-up on and her hair all mussed up with massage oil. Hastily she pulled on a sleekly cut black bikini, then slid into a simple sleeveless dress in an abstract black-and-white print. It fell to just above her knees. The humid tropical heat made anything else uncomfortable. She pulled a brush through her hair and slicked on a natural toned lipstick. Did she want to look her best for Mitch? Her ‘best’ involved twenty minutes in front of a mirror with a make-up kit and heated hair tongs. She shouldn’t be worried about how she looked now; he’d seen her at her worst ten years ago. She shuddered at the memory of what she’d looked like back then. The mono-brow. The bushy hair. The prone-to-eruption skin. But still, she wished today she could look her usual polished, poised self. Her best self. There was no denying she’d feel more confident with straightened hair and more make-up. But she didn’t want to waste time fussing over her appearance when she could be catching up with Mitch. Who knew when she’d see him again—if ever? He’d switched on the television in the living area and was watching the screen when she came back out of her bedroom. ‘The manager was right—there’s minimal disruption,’ he said. ‘Seems like Bali gets small tremors like this quite often. But the risk of aftershocks is real.’ Aftershocks. She knuckled her hand against her mouth to suppress a gasp; she didn’t want to appear too fearful. Not when Mitch seemed so laid back about the risk. He switched off the TV and turned to face her. Had he grown taller since she’d last stood so near to him? They were both in their bare feet. He seemed to stand about six-foot-one to her five-foot-five. Six-foot-one of total hotness. Mitch was an elite sportsman in his prime, and he had celebrity status with as many fans as any actor or musician. Her proximity to his bare chest was doing nothing to slow down her revved-up heartbeat. If she’d had a T-shirt big enough to stretch over all those muscles, she would have offered to lend it to him. But wouldn’t it be a crime to cover that expanse of buff body? She wanted to take a step back, but didn’t want to signal how disconcerted she felt by said buff body being so close to her. Instead she stood her ground and forced her voice to sound controlled and conversational. ‘So this region sometimes gets harmless tremors? That didn’t stop it from being frightening, though, did it?’ she said. ‘I huddled under the massage table, making all sorts of bargains with myself about what I’d do if I got out safely.’ ‘What kind of bargains?’ he asked. ‘Spend more time with friends and less at work. Give more to charity.’ She shrugged. ‘Stuff that wouldn’t interest you.’ His eyes were as green as she remembered them, and now they looked intently into hers. ‘How do you know they wouldn’t interest me?’ he said, in a voice that seemed to have got an octave deeper. A shiver of awareness tingled through her. Sexiest man alive, all right. ‘Our lives are so different. It’s like we inhabit different spaces on the planet,’ she said. ‘What do you think is my space on the planet?’ ‘Spain? I believe you play for one of the top Spanish teams. I’ve never been to Spain.’ ‘I live in Madrid.’ ‘There you go. I still live in Sydney. Fact is, the air you breathe is way more rarefied than mine.’ ‘I don’t know if that’s true or not. We’re both staying in the same hotel.’ ‘My booking was a last-minute bargain on the internet. Yours?’ He smiled. The same appealing, slightly uneven smile he’d had at the age of seventeen. ‘Maybe not.’ ‘That’s just my point. You’re famous. Not just for being a brilliant football player but for being handsome, wealthy, and photographed with a different gorgeous woman on your arm every time you’re seen in public.’ And they were all tall, blonde and beautiful clones of Lara, back in high school. ‘That’s where you have an unfair advantage over me,’ he said. ‘You’ve read about me in the media—seen me on TV, perhaps. That’s not to say what you’ve seen is the truth. But I know nothing about what’s happened to you since we were at Northside High.’ ‘Because we occupy different space on the planet,’ she repeated, determined to make her point. ‘I went to another school after Northside, but I was still in Sydney. Away from school I hung out in the same clubs and went to the same concerts as other kids our age. But our paths never crossed again.’ ‘Until now,’ he said. ‘Yes. It took an earthquake to shake us back into the same space.’ He laughed, and she had to smile in response. ‘You’ve still got a quirky way of putting things. Seriously, Zoe, I want to know all about you,’ he said. His words were flattering, seductive. Not seductive in a sexual way, but in a way that tempted her to open up and confide in him because he sounded as though her answer was important to him. That she was important to him. Even aged seventeen he’d had that gift of being totally focussed on the person he was addressing. She realised it was highly unlikely she’d see Mitch again after today. He would go home to Madrid; she would fly back to Sydney. There was also a chance that a bigger earthquake might hit and the whole resort area would be wiped out. It was unnerving in one way—liberating in another. ‘How about we get that beer and then we can talk?’ she said. ‘About you?’ ‘And you too,’ she said, finding it impossible not to feel flattered. ‘I’d like to hear about your life behind those media reports.’ ‘If that’s what you want.’ ‘I’m warning you: my life story will be quite mundane compared to yours.’ ‘Let me be the judge of that,’ he said. ‘There are beers in the mini-bar,’ she said. ‘I’ve been on an alcohol-free detox since I’ve been in Bali and sticking with mineral water. Not that I drink a lot,’ she hastened to add. ‘I think getting out of an earthquake unscathed is reason enough to break your fast,’ he said, heading towards the fridge. He brought out two bottles of the local Indonesian beer, took off the caps and handed one to her. ‘Let’s take them out near the pool,’ she said, picking up one of the remaining glasses to take with her. The ceiling fans were circulating air around the rooms, but the air-conditioning didn’t appear to be back on yet. Besides, it felt too intimate to be alone in here with Mitch, and the king-sized bed was too clearly in view. It was only a few steps out to the rectangular lap pool, which was edged on three sides with plantings of broad-leaved tropical greenery. Two smart, comfortable wooden sun loungers with blue-striped mattresses sat side by side in the shade of a frangipani tree. A myriad of pink flowers had been shaken off the tree by the quake onto the loungers and into the water. The petals floated on the turquoise surface of the pool in picture-perfect contrast. In different circumstances Zoe would have taken a photo of how pretty they looked. Instead she placed the beer bottle and the glass on the small wooden table between the two loungers. She flicked off the flowers that had settled on one lounger before she sat down, her back supported, her legs stretched out in front of her. Thank heaven for all that waxing, moisturising and toenail-painting that had gone on in the spa yesterday. She felt very conscious of Mitch settling into the lounger on her right. His legs were lean, with tightly defined muscles, his classic six-pack belly hard and flat. Even she knew soccer players trained for strength, speed and agility rather than for bulky muscle. Come to think of it, she might know that from hearing him being interviewed on the subject at some stage... These villas were often booked by honeymooners, she knew. The loungers were set as close as they could be, with only that narrow little table separating them. Loved-up couples could easily touch in complete privacy. She had never touched Mitch, she realised. Not a hug. Not even a handshake. Certainly not a kiss. Not even a chaste, platonic kiss on the cheek. It just hadn’t been appropriate back then. Now she had to resist the urge to reach out and put her hand on his arm. Not in a sexual way, or even a friendly way. Just to reassure herself that he was real, he was here, that they were both alive. She and Mitch Bailey. He swigged his beer straight from the bottle. The way he tilted back his head, the arch of his neck, made the simple act of drinking a beer look as if he was doing it for one of those advertisements he starred in. He was graceful. That was what it was. Graceful in a strong, sleek, utterly masculine way. She didn’t remember that from the last time she’d seen him. Off the football field he’d been more gauche than graceful. At seventeen he hadn’t quite grown into his long limbs and big feet. Since then he’d trained with the best sports trainers in the world. Yes, he inhabited not just a different space but a different planet from her. But for this time—maybe an hour, maybe a few hours—their planets had found themselves in the same orbit. Mitch put down his beer. ‘So, where did you go when you left our school?’ he asked. ‘You just seemed to disappear.’ Zoe felt a stab of pain that he didn’t seem to remember their last meeting. But if he wasn’t going to mention it she certainly wasn’t. Even now dragging it out of the recesses where her hurts were hidden was painful. She poured beer into her glass. Took a tentative sip. Cold. Refreshing. Maybe it would give her the Dutch courage she so sorely needed to mine her uncomfortable memories of the past. She considered herself to be a private person. She didn’t spill her soul easily. ‘I won a scholarship to a private girls’ boarding school in the eastern suburbs. I started there for the next term.’ ‘You always were a brainiac,’ he said, with what seemed to be genuine admiration. Zoe didn’t deny it. She’d excelled academically and had been proud of her top grades—not only in maths and science but also in languages and music. But if there’d been such a thing as a social report card for her short time at Northside she would have scored a big, fat fail. She’d had good friends at her old inner city school, an hour’s train ride away, but her grandmother had thwarted her efforts to see them. The only person who had come anywhere near to being a friend at Northside had been Mitch. ‘I had to get away from my grandmother. Getting the scholarship was the only way I could do it.’ ‘How did she react?’ ‘Furious I’d gone behind her back. But glad to get rid of me.’ Mitch frowned. ‘You talk as though she hated you?’ ‘She did.’ It was a truth she didn’t like to drag out into the sunlight too often. ‘Surely not? She was your grandma.’ Mitch came from a big, loving family. No wonder he found it difficult to comprehend the aridity of her relationship with her grandmother. ‘She blamed me for the death of my father.’ Mitch was obviously too shocked to speak for a long moment. ‘But you weren’t driving the car. Or the truck that smashed into it.’ He remembered. She was stunned that Mitch recalled her telling him about the accident that had killed her parents and injured her leg so badly she still walked with a slight limp when she was very tired or stressed. They’d been heading north to a music festival in Queensland; just her and the mother and father she’d adored. A truck-driver had fallen asleep at the wheel and veered onto their side of a notoriously bad stretch of the Pacific Highway. ‘No. I was in the back seat. I...I’m surprised you remember.’ He slowly shook his head. ‘How could I forget? It seemed the most terrible thing to have happened to a kid. I loved my family. I couldn’t have managed without them.’ Zoe shifted in her seat. She hated people pitying her. ‘You felt sorry for me?’ ‘Yes. And sad for you too.’ There was genuine compassion on his handsome famous face, and she acknowledged the kindness of his words with a slight silent nod. As a teenager she’d sensed a core of decency behind his popular boy image. It was why she’d been so shocked at the way he’d treated her at the end. As she’d watched his meteoric rise she’d wondered if fame and the kind of adulation he got these days had changed him. Who was the real Mitch? Here, now, in the aftermath of an earthquake, maybe she had been given the chance to find out. CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_71dee605-7a34-568a-8743-262524cf6de8) WERE THERE ELEPHANTS in Bali? There were lots of monkeys; Mitch knew that from his visit to the Ubud area in the highlands. He’d heard there were elephants indigenous to the neighbouring Indonesian island of Sumatra that had been trained to play soccer. But he would rather see elephants in their natural habitat, dignified and not trained to do party tricks. Whether or not there were elephants on Bali, there was an elephant in the room with him and Zoe. Or rather, an elephant in the pool. A large metaphorical elephant, wallowing in the turquoise depths, spraying water through its trunk in an effort to get their attention. Metaphorical. Zoe had taught him how to use that term. The elephant was that last day they’d seen each other, ten years ago. He’d behaved badly. Lashed out at her. Humiliated her. Hadn’t defended her against Lara’s cattiness. He’d felt rotten about it once he’d cooled down. But he had never got the chance to apologise. He owed her that. He also owed her thanks for the events that had followed. Zoe hadn’t said anything, but he’d bet she remembered the incident. He could still see her face as it had crumpled with shock and hurt. He mightn’t have been great with words when it came to essays, but his words to her had wounded; the way he’d allowed her to be mocked by Lara had been like an assault. Now Zoe sat back on the lounger next to him, her slim, toned legs stretched out in front of her. He didn’t remember her being a sporty girl at school. But she must exercise regularly to keep in such great shape. It seemed she hadn’t just changed in appearance. Zoe was self-possessed, composed—in spite of the fact they’d just experienced an earthquake. Though he suspected a fear of further tremors lay just below her self-contained surface. ‘I want to clear the air,’ he said. ‘What...what do you mean?’ she said. But the expression in her dark brown eyes told him she knew exactly what he meant. Knew and hadn’t forgotten a moment of it. ‘About what a stupid young idiot I was that last day. Honest. I didn’t know that would be the last time I’d see you.’ Mitch was the youngest of four sons in a family of high achievers. His brothers had excelled academically; he’d excelled at sport. That had been his slot in the family. His parents hadn’t worried about his mediocre grades at school. The other boys were to be a lawyer, an accountant and a doctor respectively. Mitch had been the sportsman. They could boast about him—they hadn’t expected more from him. But Mitch had expected more of himself. He’d been extremely competitive. Driven to excel. If his anointed role was to be the sportsman, he’d be the best sportsman. The trouble was, the school had expected him to do more than concentrate on soccer in winter and basketball in summer. With minimal effort he’d done okay in maths, science and geography—not top grades, but not the lowest either. It had been English he couldn’t get his head around. And English had been a compulsory subject for the final Higher School Certificate. His teenage brain hadn’t seen the point of studying long-dead authors and playwrights. Of not just reading contemporary novels but having to analyse the heck out of them. And then there was poetry. He hadn’t been able to get it. He hadn’t wanted to get it. It had been bad enough having to study it. He sure as hell hadn’t been going to write the poem required as part of his term assessment. He couldn’t write a poem. Zoe Summers hadn’t been in his English class. No way. The new girl nerd was in the top classes for everything. But during a study period in the library she’d been sitting near him when he’d flung his poetry book down on the floor, accompanied by a string of curses that had drawn down the wrath of the supervising librarian. The other kids had egged him on and laughed. He’d laughed too. But it hadn’t been a joke. If he didn’t keep up a decent grade average for English he wasn’t going to be allowed to go to a week-long soccer training camp that cut into the school term by a couple of days. He’d been determined to get to that camp. The teenage Zoe had caught his eye when he had leaned down to pick up his book from the floor. She’d smiled a shy smile and murmured, ‘Can I help? I’m such a nerd I actually like poetry.’ Help? No one had actually offered to help him before. And he’d had too much testosterone-charged teenage pride to ask for it. ‘I’ll be right here in the library after school,’ she’d said. ‘Meet me here if you want me to help.’ He’d hesitated. He couldn’t meet her in public. Not the jock and the nerd. A meeting between them would mean unwanted attention. Mockery. Insults. Possible spiteful retaliation from Lara. He could handle all that, but he had doubted Zoe could. His hesitation must have told her that. ‘Or you could meet me at my house after school,’ she’d said, in such a low tone only he could have heard it. She’d scribbled something on a piece of paper and passed it unobtrusively to him. He’d taken it. Nodded. Then turned back to his mates. Continued to crack jokes and be generally disruptive until he’d been kicked out of the library. But he had still needed to pass that poetry assignment. He had decided to take Zoe up on her offer of help. No matter the consequences. Her house had been just two streets away from his, in the leafy, upmarket northern suburb of Wahroonga. Their houses had looked similar from the outside, set in large, well-tended gardens. Inside, they couldn’t have been more different. His house had been home to four boys: he still at school, the others at universities in Sydney. There’d been a blackboard in the well-used family room, where all family members had chalked up their whereabouts. The house had rung with lots of shouting and boisterous ribbing by the brothers and their various friends. Zoe’s house had been immaculate to the point of sterility. Straight away he’d been able to tell she was nervous when she’d greeted him at the front door. He’d soon seen why. An older woman she’d introduced as her grandmother had hovered behind her, mouth pinched, eyes cold. He’d never felt more unwelcome. The grandma had told Zoe to entertain her visitor in the dining room, with the door open at all times. Mitch had felt unnerved—ready to bolt back the way he’d come. But then Zoe had rolled her eyes behind her grandmother’s back and pulled a comical face. They’d established a connection. And in the days that had followed he’d got to like and respect Zoe as she had helped him tackle his dreaded poetry assignment. ‘I want to explain what happened back then,’ he said now. Zoe shrugged. ‘Does it matter after all this time?’ she said, her voice tight, not meeting his eyes. It did to him. She had helped him. He had let her down. ‘Do you remember how hard you worked to help me get my head around poetry?’ he asked. ‘You were the one doing all the work. I just guided you in the right direction.’ He slammed down his hand on the edge of the lounger in remembered anger. ‘That’s exactly right. You made me use my own words—not yours. It was unfair.’ ‘What...what exactly happened in the classroom that day?’ ‘The teacher had had the assignment for a week. So I was on edge, waiting to see if I’d passed or not. By then it had become something more than just wanting to go to the soccer camp. She handed out the marked essays, desk by desk. She saved mine for last.’ ‘You should have easily passed. By that time we’d spent so much time on it—you really understood it.’ ‘I thought I’d understood it, too. She got to my desk. Held up the paper for everyone to see the great big “Fail” scrawled across it. Told the class I was a cheat. Read out my grade and added her comments for maximum humiliation.’ The look on that teacher’s face was still seared into his memory. Before he’d studied with Zoe he would have made a joke of it. Clowned around. Annoyed the teacher until she’d kicked him out of the classroom. But not that time. He’d deserved better. ‘What happened?’ ‘I snatched the paper from the teacher’s hand and stormed out.’ ‘To find me lurking outside in the corridor. Pretending I was waiting for a class to start in the next room. Ready to congratulate you on a brilliant pass. Instead I got in your way.’ He noticed how tightly she was gripping on to her glass. No wonder. He’d vented all his outraged adolescent anger and humiliation on her. It couldn’t be a pleasant memory. ‘Instead I behaved like a total jerk.’ ‘Yeah. You did. You...you thrust the paper in my face. I can still see that word written so big in red ink: “Plagiarism”.’ ‘She thought I was too stupid to write such a good essay. And I took it out on you.’ He’d yelled at her that it was her fault. Told her to get out of his way. Never talk to him again. Had he actually shoved her? He didn’t think so. His words had been as effective as any physical blow. He’d seen her face crumple in disbelief, then pain, then schooled indifference as she’d walked away. She’d muttered that she was sorry—she’d only been trying to help. And he’d let her go. Worse, a half-hour later he’d encountered Zoe again. This time he’d been hanging near the canteen, with his crowd of close friends and his girlfriend, Lara. Zoe had obviously been startled to see them. Startled and, he’d realised afterwards, alarmed. She’d immediately started to turn away, eyes cast down, shoulders hunched. But that hadn’t been enough for Lara, who hadn’t liked him studying with another girl one little bit. ‘Buzz off, geek-girl,’ Lara had sneered. ‘Mitch doesn’t need your kind of help. Not when he’s got me.’ Then Lara had pulled his face to hers and given him a provocatively deep kiss. Her girlfriends had started to laugh and his mates had joined in, their laughter echoing through the corridors of the school. He’d just kept on kissing Lara. When he’d finally pulled away Zoe had gone. It was only later that he’d realised how he’d betrayed her by his silence and inaction. That had been ten years ago. Now she smiled that wry smile that was already becoming familiar. ‘Teenage angst. Who’d go back there?’ ‘Teenage angst or not, I behaved badly. And after ten years I want to take this opportunity to say sorry. To see if there is any way I could make it up to you.’ * * * Digging deep into feelings she’d rather were kept buried made Zoe feel uncomfortable. She found it impossible to meet Mitch’s gaze. To gain herself a moment before she had to reply, she put her glass down onto the table and tugged her dress down over her thighs. ‘We were just kids,’ she said. Though Lara’s spite had been only too grown up. And the pain she’d felt when Mitch had ignored her hadn’t been the pain of a child. Truth was, the episode was a reminder of a particularly unhappy time in her life. She’d rather not be reminded of how she’d felt back then. That was why she had tried to avoid Mitch earlier on, when she’d first recognised him. ‘I was old enough to know better,’ he said. Now she turned to face him. ‘Seriously, if you hadn’t always been popping up in the media I would have forgotten all about what happened. I’m cool with it.’ He persisted. ‘I’m not cool with it. I want to make amends.’ She wished he would drop it. ‘If it makes you feel any better, my experiences at Northside made me stronger—determined to change. No way was I going to be that miserable at my new school. I decided to do whatever it took to fit in.’ ‘Your piercings? Which, by the way, I used to think were kinda cute.’ ‘Gone. I wore the uniform straight up—exactly as prescribed. Put the “anything goes” lifestyle I’d enjoyed with my parents behind me. Played the private school game by their rules. I watched, learned and conformed.’ And it had worked. At the new academically elite school she hadn’t climbed up the pecking order to roost with the ‘popular’ girls, but neither had she been one of the shunned. ‘Was it the right move?’ Again she was conscious of his intent focus on her. As if he were really interested in her reply. ‘Yes. I was happy there—did well, made some good friends.’ One in particular had taken the new girl under her wing and helped transform the caterpillar. Not into a gaudy butterfly, more an elegantly patterned moth who fitted perfectly into her surroundings. ‘I’m glad to hear that. But I want you to know I feel bad about what happened. I want to right the wrong.’ Zoe shrugged, pretended indifference, but secretly she was chuffed. Mitch Bailey apologising? Mitch Bailey maybe even grovelling a tad? It was good. It was healing. It was—she couldn’t deny it—satisfying. ‘Consider it righted,’ she said firmly. ‘Apology accepted. You were young and disappointed and you took it out on the first person who crossed your path.’ ‘I tried to find you,’ he said. ‘You did?’ she said, startled. That he’d remembered the incident at all in such detail was mind-boggling. ‘After the soccer training camp I went away on vacation with my family. When I got back to school you weren’t there. I went around to your house. Your grandmother told me you didn’t live there any more. I thought she was going to slam the door in my face.’ ‘Sounds like my grandmother.’ ‘Remember how she always made you leave the door open and patrolled outside it? I felt like a criminal. Did she think I was going to steal the silver?’ ‘She was terrified you’d get me pregnant.’ Mitch nearly choked on his beer. He stared at her for a long, astounded moment. ‘What?’ Zoe waited for him to stop spluttering, resisting the temptation to pat him on that broad, muscular back. She probably shouldn’t have shared that particular detail of her dysfunctional relationship with her grandmother. She felt her cheeks flush pink as she explained. ‘I told her we were just friends. I told her you had a girlfriend. That the only thing going on in that room was studying.’ Not to mention that Mitch Bailey wouldn’t have looked at her as girlfriend material in a million years. ‘Why the hell did she think—?’ ‘She wasn’t going to let me—’ Zoe made quote marks in the air with her fingers ‘—“get pregnant and ruin the future of some fine young man” the way my mother had ruined my father’s. You counted as one of those fine young men. She knew of your family.’ How many times had her grandmother harangued her about that, over and over again, until she’d had to put her fingers in her ears to block out the hateful words? Mitch frowned. ‘What? I don’t get it.’ Thank heaven back then her grandmother hadn’t said anything to Mitch about the pregnancy thing. She would have been mortified beyond redemption. ‘It sounds warped, doesn’t it? I didn’t get it either when I was seventeen. I thought she was insane. I’d adored my parents. They’d adored each other. But Mum was only nineteen when I was born. Because my father dropped out of his law degree my grandmother blamed my mother for seducing him, getting pregnant on purpose and ruining his life.’ ‘Whoa. You said your life story was mundane.’ He paused, narrowed his eyes. ‘And she transferred the blame to you, right?’ ‘Yep. If I hadn’t come along her son would have got to be a lawyer.’ ‘And he wouldn’t have died?’ ‘Correct.’ ‘That’s irrational.’ ‘You could say that.’ ‘Yet she gave you a home?’ ‘Reluctantly. She couldn’t even bear to look at me. I look like my dad, you see. A constant reminder of what she had lost. But she felt she had to do the right thing by her granddaughter.’ In spite of herself a note of bitterness crept into her voice. ‘After all, what would her golfing friends have thought?’ ‘Did you have any other family you could have gone to?’ ‘My mother’s brother, whom I love to pieces. But as he has a propensity to dress in frocks sometimes the courts didn’t approve of him as guardian to a minor.’ Mitch laughed. ‘The lawyers must have had fun with that one.’ He sobered. ‘No wonder you were so miserable back then.’ The rejection by her grandmother had hurt. There had been no shared grief. No comfort. Just blame and bitterness. ‘I did something about it, though,’ she said. ‘What could a kid of seventeen have done?’ ‘My new best friend at school—who incidentally is still my best friend—had a mother who was a top lawyer. She helped me get legal emancipation from my grandmother. There was compensation and insurance money from the accident that got signed over to me. I was able to support myself.’ He whistled. ‘That was a tough thing to do. Brave too.’ She shrugged. ‘My new life started then.’ ‘You had worse things going on than a teenage me ranting at you...’ She met his gaze. ‘What happened with you hurt me. I won’t deny it. I...I valued our friendship. It was a beacon in the darkness of those days.’ Mitch swore low and fluently. She waited for him to finish. ‘It’s history now. I appreciate your apology. And I don’t want to hear one more word about it.’ ‘Just a few more words,’ he said, with that engaging grin. ‘I can’t imagine what more there is to be said,’ she said, her lips twitching into a smile in response. ‘But okay. Your final words. Fire away.’ ‘I was sent to the principal to be punished for my plagiarism. She was new that year and didn’t know me. When I explained she listened. Turns out I had a mild form of dyslexia that had never been diagnosed. I got help. My grades picked up. Not just in English, but all my subjects. I could have gone to university on my Higher School Certificate results if I hadn’t chosen to play soccer instead.’ ‘Mitch, that’s wonderful news!’ Her instinct was to reach out and hug him. With every fibre of her being she resisted it. She could not trust herself to touch him. But while she thought touching was not on the agenda, Mitch obviously thought otherwise. He reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘I have a lot to thank you for, Zoe,’ he said. His hand was warm and firm on her bare skin and she had to force herself not to tremble with the pleasure of it. She had to clear her throat before she could reply. ‘Not me. The principal. Yourself. That’s who you should thank.’ He let his hand drop from her shoulder and she felt immediately bereft of his touch. That attraction she’d felt for him at seventeen was still there, simmering below the surface. ‘I’m determined to thank you, whether you acknowledge your role in the outcome or not,’ he said. ‘The least I can do is buy you dinner.’ He looked at his watch. ‘An early dinner?’ That threw her. She’d assumed once they’d sorted out the problems of the past he’d be on his way. ‘Here? Now?’ ‘I don’t think it would be a good idea to go into Seminyak so soon after the quake. Too dangerous.’ ‘I...I was going to order room service,’ she blurted out. ‘I was going to suggest the hotel restaurant. But I might get recognised. And I don’t want anyone else intruding on our reunion celebration. Room service is a great idea. Your villa or mine?’ ‘Uh... H-Here would be good,’ she stammered. Reunion celebration? Had the earthquake knocked her off that massage table and she’d hit her head? Was she hallucinating? Or in some some kind of coma? Her and Mitch Bailey, having dinner t?te-?-t?te in the seclusion of a luxurious private villa in Bali? Maybe she’d wake up and find herself back in the spa, sprawled amid the debris with a big fat headache. But if it was a dream, or a long-ago fantasy come true, she was going to enjoy every second of being with Mitch. Who knew what tomorrow might bring? She swung her legs off the side of the lounger. ‘I’ll go get the room service menu.’ CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_aae675ac-1d4c-5ca4-8653-a94878f725ed) MITCH RECLINED ON HIS lounger and watched Zoe as she walked into the living area. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the way her hips swayed enticingly under the body-hugging dress. Somehow he doubted that seductive sway was intentional. He’d seen enough of the type of woman who turned on the sex appeal with seduction in mind to know the difference. No. Zoe had a natural, unconscious sensuality. The fact that she seemed unaware of it made her only more appealing. Zoe Summers. Who would have thought it? He couldn’t get over the difference in her. It wasn’t that he’d found her unattractive as a teenager. There’d been something quirky and rebellious about her that he’d liked. But now...now she was sexy as hell. Sparky and feisty too. He was finding it fascinating to discover the woman she’d become. Was grateful to the twist of destiny that had flung them together. She headed back towards the pool, waving a cardboard folder. ‘I had to hunt for it, but I’ve got the room service menu.’ Mitch swung his legs from the lounger so he sat on the edge. ‘Let’s take a look.’ ‘It’s the same food as the restaurant. I’ve eaten there a few times. It’s good.’ Menu in hand, she hesitated near his lounger. He patted the seat next to him. Cautiously she sat down, being so careful to keep a distance between them that it made him smile. Again she tugged down her dress to cover her thighs. But that only meant the neckline of her dress slid down, revealing more than a tantalising glimpse of the swell of her breasts. Surely he would have noticed if she’d had a body like that back at school? ‘What’s for dinner?’ he asked, shuffling a little closer to her until her scent filled his senses. ‘Any recommendations?’ ‘I don’t know what you like,’ she said. Of course she wouldn’t. Despite that briefly opened window on a shared past, he and Zoe were strangers. ‘What are you going to order?’ he asked. ‘Something not too spicy,’ she said. ‘The curries don’t agree with me.’ ‘Bali belly, huh?’ he said. ‘Happens to the best of us. But you survived?’ Zoe pulled a face. ‘I’ll spare you the details,’ she said. ‘I seem to be over it now, but don’t want to risk a relapse.’ She handed over the menu. ‘I’m going to stick with the ayam bakar—I’ve had it before with no...uh...ill effects.’ Mitch read out the description of her chosen dish. ‘Organic chicken pieces marinated in a special blend of Indonesian spices, grilled, and served with a lemongrass salsa. Sounds good.’ ‘It’s absolutely delicious. I want to learn how to make it when I get home.’ ‘You like cooking?’ She nodded. ‘I wanted to have cooking lessons while I was in Bali but I’ve run out of days.’ ‘Next time,’ he said. She bit her lip and paled at his words, paused for a long moment. ‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘Next time.’ Mitch cursed himself for his insensitivity; he’d already suspected she was only masking her fear. Would there be a next time? Or another earthquake? Maybe a tsunami? Despite the manager’s reassuring words Mitch knew there was a risk the entire resort would be wiped out by breakfast. But he tended towards optimism in his view of life. Not so Zoe, he suspected. She’d lost her whole family when disaster had hit from nowhere. No wonder she was frightened. He wanted to take her in his arms and reassure her that there was a low statistical risk of any more serious danger. But he sensed she wouldn’t welcome it. He sensed a ‘hands off’ shield around her. ‘Y’know, I’m not really that hungry,’ she said in a diminished voice. She twisted her hands together. To stop them trembling, he guessed. ‘You do realise it’s highly unlikely anything else is going to happen?’ he said gently. Her chin rose. ‘I know that.’ ‘There’s no need to be frightened.’ ‘Who said I was frightened?’ ‘I thought that was why you’d lost your appetite?’ ‘No. I...’ She met his gaze. ‘Maybe I am a little frightened,’ she admitted. ‘Let’s order for you anyway. You might get hungry later.’ He scanned the menu. ‘I’m hungry right now.’ ‘You were always hungry,’ she said, with a weak smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth. Her lovely, lovely mouth. ‘Back then, I mean.’ ‘Your granny mightn’t have been so nice, but she made good cookies.’ Zoe nodded. ‘Baking cookies with her is one of the few nice memories I have of her. She liked having a boy to cook for. I realise that now.’ ‘Is she still around?’ Her lips tightened. ‘I guess so. I don’t know and I don’t care.’ ‘I don’t blame you,’ he said. Not after the way she’d been treated by someone who should have cared for her. Hearing about the old woman’s pregnancy fear for Zoe had given him the creeps. She nodded and quickly changed the subject. ‘Anything on the menu appeal?’ This was the first time he’d eaten at the hotel apart from breakfast. He’d spent most evenings with friends who owned the most fashionable beachfront nightclub in Seminyak. ‘I’m going for the Balinese mixed seafood.’ Zoe had to shift a little closer to him to read the menu. Her scent was fresh, tangy, with an underlying sweetness. Much like her personality, he suspected. ‘That looks good,’ she said. ‘Healthy.’ She looked up at him. ‘I guess you have to watch everything you eat?’ ‘All the time. When I’m training or before a game I carb-load. On vacation I stick with lean protein and vegetables.’ ‘I eat healthily too,’ she said. ‘But as I’m far from a professional athlete I also make room for chocolate.’ ‘I can’t remember when I last ate chocolate.’ From the time when he’d first started playing for Sydney soccer clubs his diet had been overseen by a nutritionist. It was all about discipline. Discipline and constant self-denial. ‘You want to order dessert?’ he said, flipping the menu to the appropriate page. ‘Why not? The mini chocolate lava pudding with lychee ice cream might be good for my nerves.’ He liked her self-deprecating attitude to her fears. ‘That’s as good an excuse as any,’ he said. ‘Fruit salad for me. I’ve spent a season on the sidelines. I have to be at my peak when I start intense training again.’ She glanced at his right knee. So she knew about the incident when two opposing players had slammed into him and his anterior cruciate ligament had snapped. ‘Australia’s most famous knee...’ she said. Mitch found it disconcerting that Zoe was so aware of the details of his life while he knew so little about hers. He doubted he’d ever get used to the scrutiny he endured as a celebrity athlete. Even his knee had become public property. ‘I wouldn’t say “most famous knee”,’ he said, laughing it off. ‘How about most notorious knee?’ she said, her head tilted to one side, teasing. ‘Notorious knee? I like that.’ Most painful knee was more like it. Both in terms of the actual injury and also in the way it had lost him a season of play. The memory of being carried off the field came flooding back. The agony. The terror that he wouldn’t be able to play again. The months of rehabilitation and physiotherapy that had followed. The effort to get himself back to peak fitness after the weeks on crutches. ‘I don’t see a scar,’ she said, her eyes narrowed. ‘No scar,’ he said. ‘Three small incisions for keyhole surgery have left tiny marks. That’s all.’ For a moment he was tempted to place Zoe’s hand on his knee and let her feel the punctures. Not a good idea. He found her way too attractive to be able to trust himself. ‘Is it healed now?’ she asked. ‘Good as new.’ He wouldn’t admit to anyone his niggling fear that once he was back in the game his knee would betray him again. His sporting life would be over if it did. ‘There was talk that your injury might force you to retire,’ she said. ‘No way,’ he said vehemently. This exact injury had brought other great players’ careers to a skidding halt. He wasn’t going to let it end his. It would take something more catastrophic than a cruciate ligament repair for his manager, his fans or himself to allow him to consider giving up. At the age of twenty-seven he was in his football prime. He cursed the six months it had taken him to achieve full recovery. Now he had to get back out there on the field and prove he could play better than ever. Soccer was his life. Zoe drew her dark brows together. ‘So, why are you in Bali?’ ‘I was visiting family in Sydney, then decided to have a break here on the way back to Madrid. I met up with a mate who has a surf gear business. Another runs a big nightclub.’ ‘When do you go back?’ ‘Who knows how the earthquake has affected the airlines? But I’m scheduled to fly to Singapore then back to Madrid the day after tomorrow.’ It was May. He would hurl himself into intense training immediately he got back. Pre-season games started at the end of June. He needed those ‘friendly’ games to test his knee and get back into top form before the season proper commenced. The first games for La Liga—the Spanish league—started at the end of August. ‘What about your flight?’ he asked Zoe. ‘I fly out tomorrow morning, if all goes well.’ She crossed her fingers. ‘I guess the airlines will keep us informed,’ he said. If all goes well. He didn’t repeat her words—didn’t want to bring her fear to the fore again. There was an awkward pause that she rushed to fill. ‘Do you like living in Madrid?’ ‘Madrid rocks. An Aussie boy from the north shore of Sydney living in one of Europe’s great cities never tires.’ All true. But he hadn’t admitted to anyone how lonely he could get there, despite the buzz of playing for one of the world’s best teams. He had friends on the team, of course, but there were also some big egos to deal with—and the truth was they were in competition with each other as well as the opposing teams. He wasn’t about to admit to that downside now. Zoe had flitted into his life again and he was very careful of what he said to people except his family and his closest friends—careful of who he let in to his private world. You never knew who would talk to the press. Or misrepresent his words on social media. Or post a compromising selfie. ‘Do you speak Spanish?’ she asked. ‘Enough to get by.’ Mitch decided the conversation had centred too much around him. He was way more interested in her. ‘Me muero de hambre.’ Zoe laughed—a low, husky laugh that hadn’t changed at all since she was a teenager. She’d grown into that sensual, adult laugh. ‘You’re dying of hunger. Did I get that right?’ ‘You speak Spanish?’ He knew so little about her—wanted to know more in this accelerated getting-to-know-you situation they found themselves in. ‘Hablo un poco de espa?ol,’ she said, with an appropriately expressive shrug. ‘You speak a little Spanish,’ he translated. ‘And a little French, and a little Italian, and a few phrases in Indonesian that I’ve learned in the last few days.’ ‘You’ve travelled a lot?’ ‘So far most of my travel has been of the armchair variety. I’d like to travel a lot. I’d love to be fluent in different languages. I’ll study more some day—when I’m not so busy working.’ Of course she would. Zoe had been so smart at school. And she’d grown up into a formidable woman. Formidable and sexy. How very different from the women he usually dated. From nowhere came the thought that Zoe Summers would be a challenge. The kind of challenge it would be pleasurable to meet. ‘I have no idea what work you do,’ he said. ‘I have my own accountancy and taxation advice company.’ She paused. ‘Yeah. I know. Boring.’ ‘I didn’t say that,’ he said. She pulled a face. ‘I can see the thought bubbles wafting around your head.’ She made a series of little quote marks in the air as she sang the words in a clear contralto. ‘“Boring. Boring. Boring.”’ He laughed. ‘Wrong. My thought bubbles are “Clever Zoe” and “Intelligent” and “Entrepreneurial”.’ ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘They...they’re great thought bubbles.’ ‘But don’t ask me to sing them as I’m totally tone deaf.’ She laughed. ‘I’m grateful—both for the thought bubbles and for sparing me the singing.’ ‘You couldn’t call it singing. There isn’t a musical bone in my body.’ ‘Not a singer and not a poet?’ She smiled. ‘Seriously, though, my clients are anything but boring—’ ‘And neither are you boring,’ he said. She flushed pink, high on her cheekbones. He would have liked to trace the path of colour with his fingers, then move down to her mouth. Her lovely mouth, with the top lip slightly narrower than the bottom lip, giving it an enticing sensuality. ‘That’s nice,’ she said simply. ‘Tell me about your clients,’ he said. ‘I’m intrigued.’ ‘I specialise in working with creative people.’ Her face softened. ‘People like my parents, who were hopeless money-managers. Charming. Talented. My father played guitar. My mother’s instrument was her voice. But they were feckless with money.’ Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/kandy-shepherd/from-paradise-to-pregnant/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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