The Tycoon's Stowaway

Since her divorce her other acquaintances had been mysteriously absent. Perhaps being friends with Derek the talent agent was of more value to them than being friends with Chantal the out-of-work dancer.

She frowned at herself in the mirror, taking in the fake lashes and dark, sultry make-up. What a fraud. Sighing, she stripped out of her outfit and threw on her denim shorts, white tank top and sneakers from earlier. She didn’t have time to remove all of her make-up—that tedious task would have to wait for later.

Swinging her overnight bag over one shoulder, she decided against dumping it in her room first. If she found the comfort of a private room it would be unlikely she’d come back out. Suck it up, Chantal. You’ve made your bed, now lie in it!

Outside the crowd heaved, and she had to dodge the patrons who thought their ticket to the show meant they had a right to paw at her. This was not the dream she’d had in mind when she’d first stepped into a dance studio at the age of seven.

Her skin crawled. She wanted out of this damn filthy bar. Perhaps a potential lawsuit was worth the risk if it meant she never had to come back.

She was midthought when she spotted Brodie, standing alone by the stairs. Where had everyone else gone? Her blood pumped harder, fuelling her limbs with nervous energy.

As always, his presence unnerved her. His broad shoulders and muscular arms were barely contained in a fitted white T-shirt; his tanned skin beckoned to be touched. His shaggy blond hair sat slightly shorter than it had used to, though the ends were still sun-bleached and he wore it as though he’d spent the day windsurfing. Messy. Touchable.

But it was his eyes that always got her. Crystal green, like the colour of polished jade, they managed to seem scorching hot and ice-cold at the same time. When he looked at her it was easy to pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist.

‘The others have gone to the boat,’ he said, motioning for her to join him. ‘I didn’t want you to walk on your own.’

She followed him, watching the way his butt moved beneath a pair of well-worn jeans. He’d filled out since she’d seen him last—traded his boy’s body for one which was undeniably adult. She licked her lips, hating the attraction that flared in her and threatened to burn wild, like a fire out of control.

It was strange to be attracted to someone again. She hadn’t felt that way in a long time… possibly not since Weeping Reef. Her marriage hadn’t been about attraction—it had been about safety, security… Until that security had started to feel like walls crushing in on her.

They made their way out of the bar and into the cool night air. The breeze caught her sweat-dampened skin and caused goosebumps to ripple across her arms. She folded them tight, feeling vulnerable and exposed in the sudden quiet of the outdoors.

‘You didn’t have to wait,’ she said, falling into step with him.

Their steps echoed in the quiet night air, their strides perfectly matched.

He turned to her and shook his head. ‘Of course I did. I was worried you wouldn’t make it out of the bar on your own, let alone down the street.’

The disapproving tone in his voice made her stomach twist. The last thing she needed was another over-protective man in her life.

‘I can take care of myself.’

‘Your bravado is admirable, but pointless. Even the smallest guy in there would have at least a head on you.’

His face softened into a smile—he never had been the kind of guy who could stay in a bad mood for long.

‘Not to mention those skinny little chicken legs of yours.’

‘I do not have chicken legs.’ She gave him a shove and he barely broke stride, instead throwing his head back and laughing.

The bubble of anxiety in her chest dissolved. Brodie always had that effect on her. He was an irritating, lazy charmer, who talked his way through life, but he was fun. She often found herself smiling at him even when she wanted to be annoyed—much to her chagrin.

‘No, you don’t have chicken legs… not any more.’ He grinned, his perfect teeth flashing in the night. ‘You grew up.’

‘So did you,’ she said, but the words were lost as a motorcycle raced down the road.

They had eight years and a lot of issues between them. Issues, of course, was a code word for attraction. But issues sounded a little more benign and a little less like a prelude to something she would regret.

‘I thought your husband would be here to watch out for you.’ He was back to being stern again. ‘He should be keeping you safe.’

‘I think he’s keeping someone else safe these days.’ She sighed. Why did all guys think it was their job to be the protector? She’d been happy to see the back of her ex-husband and his stifling, control-freak ways.

‘So that means you’re single?’

She nodded. ‘Free as a bird and loving it.’

‘All the more reason to have someone look out for you.’

Chantal bit her down on her lip and kept her mouth shut. No sense in firing him up by debating her ability to look out for herself. She wasn’t stupid, her mother had made her take self-defence classes in high school, and she was quite sure she could hit a guy where it hurt most should the need arise.

They walked in silence for a moment, the thumping bass from the bar fading as they moved farther away. The yacht club glowed up ahead, with one large boat sticking out amongst a row of much smaller ones. She didn’t have to ask. Of course he had the biggest boat there.

‘Are you over-compensating?’ Chantal asked, using sarcasm to hide her nervousness at being so close to him… at being alone with him.

‘Huh?’

‘The boat.’ She pointed. ‘It’s rather… large.’

‘You know what they say about men with large boats.’ He grinned, his perfect teeth gleaming against the inky darkness.

She stifled a wicked smile. ‘They have large steering wheels?’

He threw his head back and laughed again, slinging an arm around her shoulder.

The sudden closeness of him unsettled her, but his presence was wonderfully intoxicating when he wasn’t waxing lyrical about her need for protection. He smelled exactly the same as she remembered: ocean spray and coconut. That scent had haunted her for months after she’d left Weeping Reef, and any time she smelled a hint of coconut it would thrust her right back onto that dance floor with him.

Her hip bumped against his with each step. The hard muscles of his arm pressed around her shoulder, making her insides curl and jump.

‘It’s not my personal boat. My company owns it.’

‘Your company?’ Chantal looked up, surprised.

Brodie was not the kind of guy to start a company; he’d never had an entrepreneurial bone in his body. In fact she distinctly remembered the time Scott had threatened to fire him for going over time on his windsurfing lessons because his students had been having so much fun. He had a generosity of spirit that didn’t exactly match bottom-line profits.

‘After I left Weeping Reef I bummed around for a while until I got work with a yacht charter company off the Sunshine Coast. It was a lot of fun. I got promoted, and eventually the owners offered me a stake in the company. I bought the controlling share about a year ago, when they were ready to retire.’

‘And now you run a yacht tour company?’

He nodded as their conversation was interrupted by a loud shriek as they strolled onto the marina. The girls had clearly got into the champagne and were dancing on deck, with an amused Scott watching from the sidelines. Willa waved down to her and motioned for them to join the party.

Chantal’s old doubts and fears crept back, their dark claws hooking into the parts of her not yet healed. She was not the person she claimed to be, and they would all know that now. They would know what a fraud she was.

Her breath caught in her throat, the familiar shallow breathing returning and forcing her heart rate up. She had a sudden desire to flee, to return to the dingy bar where she probably looked as if she belonged.

She didn’t fit in here. Not with these classy girls and their beautiful hair. Not with Brodie, who’d made a success of himself, and not with Scott, whom she’d betrayed.

She sucked in a deep breath, her feet rooted to the ground. Panic clutched at her chest, clawing up her neck and closing its cold hands around her windpipe. She couldn’t do it.

‘Chantal?’ Brodie looked down at her, his hand at the small of her back, pushing gently.

She bit down on her lip, shame seeping through her every limb until they were so heavy she couldn’t move. Why did you come? You’re only setting yourself up to be laughed at. You’re a failure.

‘Come on.’ Brodie grabbed her hand and tugged her forward. ‘We don’t want to get left behind.’

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