Date with a Single Dad: Millionaire Dad's SOS / Proud Rancher, Precious Bundle / Millionaire Dad: Wife Needed

CHAPTER TWO

MEG jogged for almost five minutes before pulling up to a walk. By then she was already wishing she’d brought a better bra, a hairband and a scooter.

The rest of the stragglers passed her by, including the wellness facilitator who had been bringing up the rear.

All bar one.

She could feel a male presence tucked in behind her. She could hear the heavy pad of his large feet on the compacted dirt path. Dragging in deep, unfit breaths, she caught his scent on the hot summer breeze—expensive, subtle, and wholly masculine.

All this from a man who’d managed to get under her skin in half a second flat. A man who’d rejected her come-hither smile in even less time. Sheesh. The sooner she found out what he was after and got rid of him, the better.

She said, ‘Are we there yet?’ just loud enough he could have no doubt she was talking to him.

‘Do a U-turn and ask me again,’ a deep voice rumbled beside her. A voice that matched the rest of him so perfectly that if she wasn’t gleaming with perspiration from the effect of it she deserved some kind of medal in self-control.

Meg pinched her side with the hopes of fending off an oncoming stitch and the slow burn of attraction that was infusing her in one fell swoop, and turned.

At a distance Zach Jones was something. Up close and personal he was too beautiful for words. Her breath shot from her in a discombobulated whoomph.

She concentrated on the slight bump of a once-broken nose, the different angles each of his dark brows took above his hooded eyes, the stray sun-kissed flecks within his dark hair, lest she be overwhelmed by the whole.

‘Please don’t hang back on my account,’ she said, oft-practised casual smile firmly entrenched. ‘My pace is purposeful. Those chumps up ahead don’t realise how much more one can appreciate the scenery by walking.’

He said, ‘I’m fine right here.’

If she didn’t know better she could have taken those words a whole other way. As it was she had to give her heart a mental slap for the unwarranted little dance it was currently enjoying.

‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘We’ll walk together. Scenery is always more enjoyable when you have someone to share it with.’

And then neither of them said another word for a whole minute. The unmistakable tension was almost enough for Meg to start jogging again, despite the fact that she’d barely caught her breath.

‘Would I be right in thinking you’re not a big runner?’ he finally said.

After Meg’s laughter died down she waved her hands in the direction of her well-tended curves. ‘Do I look like a runner?’

Given the invitation to do so, the man’s eyes travelled down one side of her body—over her borrowed hot-pink short shorts and black T-shirt with sparkly designer name splashed across her chest—and up the other. Given the chance, she looked into his distracted eyes.

Deep, dark, soulful brown they were, with the kinds of creases at the edge that she just knew would make a girl’s heart melt at ten paces when he smiled. If he smiled, which she realised he still was yet to do. In fact, he carried with him the distinct impression of a frown.

Finally, and none too soon, Meg managed to duck out of the heady cloud of attraction to hear cymbals crashing inside her head. They warned of impending doom.

There was no doubt he was intentionally at her side. He’d had to have waved the wellness facilitator on to get her alone. But it was becoming increasingly clear he wasn’t exactly over the moon to be there. On both counts she was clueless as to why.

She worried the tiny chip in her front right tooth with her tongue, an old habit that re-emerged only when she felt as if things were slipping out of her exacting control. An old habit she worked hard at keeping at bay.

She curled her tongue back where it belonged and answered her question herself. ‘Between us, running’s not my forte. I’m more of a yoga girl.’

Sometimes. Every now and then. Okay, so she’d taken a couple of lessons with Rylie once.

‘Yoga,’ he repeated, his eyes finally, thankfully, leaving the contours of her body and returning to hers.

She shouldn’t have been so thankful so soon. For in those dark, deep, delicious brown eyes she saw that he had seen the equivocation in hers.

She dropped her gaze to the fraying collar of his T-shirt lest he see the surprise in her eyes as well. She’d had a lifetime in which to perfect the art of being Meg Kelly, public figure. Her front had been demonstrably shatter-proof. Two minutes after meeting her, Zach Jones had seen right through it.

Who was this guy and what did he want with her?

‘Downward dog? Upward … tree?’ she shot back, arms swinging in what she knew was a terrible impression of something she’d seen on TV once. ‘Okay, so I’m not a yoga fanatic or a runner. I’m more an eat-chocolate-for-breakfast dance-it-off-in-your-living-room kind of girl. Either way there is no way on God’s green earth I’ll be catching up to the others any time soon. So please go ahead. Jog. Be free.’

‘Between us,’ he said, leaning in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone that sent her blood pressure soaring, ‘I’ve already run five K today.’

‘Oh.’ Oh, indeed. ‘So what brings you out here again?’

All she got for her blunt question was an out-held hand. ‘I’m Zach Jones.’

Meg twisted her body to slide her smaller hand into his. Even the coolest of customers usually gave themselves away when shaking her hand. A nervous vibration here, a sweaty palm there. She was extremely adept at ignoring their nerves.

With Zach Jones they never eventuated. His grip was warm, dry, strong, masculine and wholly unmoved.

Remarkable, she thought. More than remarkable. The man was perspiration-inducing, utterly gorgeous and wholly unsmiling even though he had the kind of warm, open, likable face purpose built for the function.

And don’t forget, she reminded herself, beneath the casual curls, the sexily shabby clothes, and the body of an Olympic god, Zach Jones is an alpha in beta camouflage. So not worth worrying about.

So why was she still holding his hand?

Because it really is so very warm, dry and blissfully enveloping, that’s why.

‘I’m Meg,’ she said, pumping once more, then letting go.

At the last second she held back her surname. As if there was a slim chance she’d been reading too much into every cheek flicker, or lack thereof, from the very beginning. Maybe he was just some cute guy too shy to chat her up even though he had a thing for girls with impossibly curly hair and a glaringly obvious lack of sporting prowess.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Meg,’ he said, his mouth quirking at her omission.

Argh! What was she thinking? He knew. Of course he knew. She’d have to go further than the Gold Coast to find a man who didn’t know who she was. A man whose mind wasn’t already made up about her before they even met.

She squeezed her eyes shut a moment. Using a technique they’d encouraged in internal reflection class the day before, she searched for her centre. Patience thin, she failed miserably. Instead she went with what worked in the real world: she summoned her inner Kelly and looked the guy dead in the eye.

‘So, Zach Jones, from what I hear around the traps you own this joint.’

The full-frontal approach brought out a combative glint in his darker than dark eyes. If possible it only made the guy more tempting. Warmth curled through her empty stomach.

But rather than doing the polite thing and answering her charge, he ignored it and asked, ‘How long are you planning on staying?’

Frustration began to war convincingly well with attraction. In response, her practised smile only grew wider.

‘A survey?’ she said, lobbing it right back in his corner. ‘Aren’t you the hands-on boss?’

The most sensuous mouth she’d ever laid eyes on kicked into a sexy almost-smile, creating an arc in his cheek that hinted at so much more, but still it never quite reached his eyes. He didn’t believe her devil-may-care performance for a second.

‘How long?’ he repeated.

‘We’re here the week.’

His eyes skimmed the empty path ahead. ‘We being?’

Something in his tone gave her the sense the impending doom wouldn’t be impending that much longer.

She casually lifted a foot and stretched her … whatever the muscle that ran down the front of your thigh was called. ‘Two of my closest mates gave me this holiday as a present. Rylie Madigan and Tabitha Cooper.’

At the last second she threw out their full names on a gamble, for Tabitha, with her ex-Prime Minister dad, and Rylie, with her job on TV, were almost as recognisable as she was.

Her fishing paid off. He breathed deep, his fists bunched at his sides, and the sexy hollows in his cheeks grew their own hollows.

‘So you go home …?’ he said.

‘In a few days.’

He nodded, breathed out deeply, apparently most satisfied that she’d be out of his sight as soon as that.

Whoa. That was harsh.

Even though beneath the bright smiles and fancy clothes she was a tough cookie—she had to be in order to survive being a Kelly—it turned out she was still just a girl whose pride could be hurt like anyone else.

Okay, so there had been a time before she’d toughened up. A time when she’d been in danger of imploding under the relentless pressure. A long time ago, a lifetime really, in some perverse effort to get her father’s attention she’d let things go far too far. It had scared her enough to buck up and take control over her image, her life. To figure out how to use the process that used her.

Any naivety she might have had was lost for ever, making a certain amount of cynicism unavoidable. On the upside she was no longer easily fazed. By anything.

Yet somehow this guy was getting to her.

Frustration finally won out, bringing with it a desire to share the pain. She lifted her chin and breathed deep of the tropical air. ‘I have to say you picked a gorgeous spot here. I could really get used to it. Who knows? We may stay longer yet.’

His eyes slid back to hers; dark, gleaming, shrewd.

She raised both eyebrows. Now what are you going to do about that?

What he did was smile.

Naturally it was everything she’d imagined it might be and so much more. The latent vitality his physique hinted at shone from his eyes when he smiled. It made him appear playful, warm, engaging. Her knees turned to jelly. Her resolve turned to mush.

She opened her mouth, ready to ask him outright what the hell was going on when he placed his bare hand in the small of her back and gave her a light shove. She was so surprised she gave a little yelp.

Through the thin cotton of her T-shirt his fingers were hot. Insistent. Touching her without fear or favour.

Only when she looked up to see a small tree in the middle of the path did she realise he was merely stopping her from thwacking into the thing.

And even after his hand moved all too easily away, and even while he was making her feel more and more out of step with every step in his presence, she could still feel the hot, hard press of Zach Jones’s hand against her skin.

Now why did he have to go and touch her?

A simple, ‘Watch out for the tree,’ would have sufficed. Instead, constant glimpses of that tattoo peeking out from the rise of her shorts had been like a magnet.

Now he had to do this thing with the sensation of that soft warm skin imprinted on the tips of his fingers.

Zach curled said fingers into his palm and took a small step to the left to add a little more physical distance between himself and the woman at his side. The woman whose very proximity could expose everything he’d worked so hard to keep preserved. Protected. Pure.

He stretched out his shoulders and shot her a sideways glance. He had to concede that for a woman who appeared to bloom under the spotlight like an orchid in a hothouse, in person she was smaller, more low-key, and more approachable than he’d expected her to be. Funny, mischievous, switched on …

He actually had to remind himself her father was Quinn Kelly, one of the most patronising men he’d ever had the displeasure of dealing with in the early stages of his business career. No doubt there would be a good dash of spice beneath the sweet. That kind of bite had to be genetic.

As for the rest of her?

His gaze lingered on her mouth before skimming over her pale bare shoulder, down her slim arm, over her Betty Boop hip, before being drawn back to that mouth.

Surely lips that lush could not be the real deal. Soft, pink, curving up at the corners even when she frowned as she was doing right then. Those lips alone were enough to make sure half the men of Brisbane thought themselves in lust with her. The other half simply didn’t read the right papers. And as it turned out his body didn’t give a hoot if they were genuine. Saliva gathered beneath his tongue. He swallowed it with such force his throat ached in protest.

His gaze moved north only to be reminded of those infamous blue eyes. The colour was mentioned every time her name was spoken aloud. The second she’d turned them his way he’d known why. They were startling—glinting, bright, sapphire blue. The kind of blue that looked as if it could cut glass. The kind of blue that could make even the most disinterested man dive right in and not care if he drowned.

Luckily for him the fact that his hormones had so spectacularly tuned into Meg Kelly’s siren song was not going to be a problem to add to the reasons why he needed her as far away from there as possible. He’d long since been wise to the barb of wanting someone that would never be his to have. He had the relentless dislocation of his childhood to thank for that vital life lesson if for nothing else.

There was no getting away from the fact that she was trouble. Add friends who were of all people a TV reporter and an ex-Prime Minister’s wild child to the mix and his day had just got a whole lot worse.

It was time to turn things around.

‘Ms Kelly,’ he said, making sure she knew without a doubt he knew who she was, ‘I need you to tell me what you and your friends are really doing here.’

Her hands clenched so tight at her sides her knuckles turned white. Whatever else she was, Meg Kelly was smart. She had clued onto the fact that he wasn’t about to roll out the red carpet.

‘Whatever do you mean?’ she asked, her spicy core all too evident in her tone.

‘Wouldn’t you all prefer somewhere more … rousing in which to spend your vacation?’

She afforded him a glance. There was nothing he could pinpoint to say it wasn’t a perfectly amiable glance. Yet he felt the smack of it like an arrow between the eyes.

‘I’d say a five-thirty wake-up call is about as rousing as I like things to get when on holidays,’ she said.

His cheek twitched. He corralled it back into line. ‘Perhaps. Yet neither you nor your friends fit into our usual demographic of guests looking to shed a few pounds, get back to nature or affect a mid-life change of life.’

He turned to find she had come to a halt. Hands on hips. She said, ‘Now why would you think that we aren’t here to replenish our emotional wells just as it suggests on the brochure? Is my jogging prowess really that atrocious?’

Her answer was entirely reasonable, her tone playful even. But in the end it was those most famous of eyes that gave her away. Inside she was readying for battle. A battle he had no intention of letting her win.

He took a slow step inside her personal space, forcing her to tilt her head to look up at him. He could feel the breath from those sweet lips brushing over his chin. His blood accelerated with the kind of urgency it hadn’t felt in a good many months.

‘A private island off the Bahamas,’ he said. ‘A yacht on the Mediterranean. Las Vegas. You could be in any of those places within twenty-four hours and no jogging would be required.’

‘Well, now, Mr Jones,’ she said, her voice low and deliciously smooth. ‘I’d think twice before making that your new resort motto.’

Again his cheek twitched, and again he caught it just in time. He leaned in as close as he might without risk of contact. Her chin shot up, her jaw clenched, her stunning blue eyes flashed fiercely.

His skin warmed, not like a man with a serious purpose, but like a man in heat. He pulled hard at a hunk of leg hairs through his shorts.

‘Then what do you think of this one? My resorts are places of private contemplation and rejuvenation, not celebrity hunting grounds. If I see one film camera, one news van, anything that looks like a long lens glinting through the underbrush—’

‘Then what?’ she said, sitting on enough steam to cut him off. ‘You’ll assume it’s somehow our fault and kick us out?’

God, how he would have loved to have done just that. But negative publicity would bring as much attention to the place, and to him, if not more.

‘Of course not,’ he said, turning down the heat. ‘I’m only concerned that your privacy remains upheld as much as I am concerned for the privacy of all of us staying on the resort grounds.’

She watched him for a few moments, her eyes flickering between his as if she was trying desperately to figure out his angle. She could try all she liked. She would never know. Her jaw clenched tighter again when she realised as much.

Then with what appeared to be an enormous amount of effort she breathed in, breathed out and smiled so sweetly his whole body clenched in anticipation.

‘So no drunken nudie runs across the golf course. No demanding that everything we eat is first washed in Evian. No insisting a documentary crew follow our every move for a new reality TV show. Then we can stay?’

He lifted his eyebrows infinitesimally in the affirmative. ‘That works for me.’

She lifted hers right on back. ‘Truly, Mr Jones, the further away you stay from the marketing side of your businesses, the better.’

Then she took a step closer, this time purposely invading his personal space. He dug his toes into his shoes to stop himself from pulling away from the rush of her body heat colliding with his.

‘This is your lucky day,’ she said. ‘Because I am here for a holiday, not to be caught out in my bikini for next month’s Chic magazine gossip pages. This is my first real vacation in a little over two years, and I need it. I really do. So for the next few days I have every intention of having a fun time with my friends. Right here.’

She pointed at the dirt and looked up at him, daring him not to believe her. But even though she appeared to be the very picture of candour, he had too much at stake to care.

‘And your friends—?’

‘Exist entirely independently of me.’

It was not an ideal answer, but he’d done all he could do without holding her down and forcing her to give him her oath in blood. He said, ‘Then I bid you have a wonderful stay for the remainder of the week.’

She nodded. And when she finally took a slow step back he felt as though a set of claws was unwinding from his shirtfront. The waft of hot summer air that slid into the new space between them felt cool. Cooler at least than the remnant reminder of her body heat.

She started to walk away, talking back to him as though expecting him to follow. ‘You know, there is something you could do to make sure my stay is wonderful.’

Negotiation? This he could do with far more panache than stand-over tactics. In three long strides he was back at her side. ‘What’s that?’

‘The mini-fridge in my room is stocked with nothing but bottled water. I’d re-e-eally like you to add some chocolate to the menu. And coffee. I’m not fussy. Instant’s fine. Not you personally, of course. You still have to catch up to the group ahead to survey them as to why they’re here and to wish them all a nice stay too. They are already about a kilometre ahead of you so you’ll have to run your little heart out to catch them up.’

And then Zach laughed, the sound echoing down the unoccupied tunnel ahead. Well, that was the very last thing he’d expected he might do after he’d first answered his phone that morning.

While her forehead frowned, her mouth curved into a smile. A smile with no artifice or strategy. A smile that reminded him of one she had aimed at him while he’d been standing in the shade of the gum trees awaiting his moment to strike. A smile that even from that distance he’d recognised as being loaded with pure, feminine summons.

He swallowed the last of his laughter and cleared his throat before saying, ‘If you had read the brochure you might have discovered that this here’s a health resort.’

‘So that’s a no?’ she asked.

‘Unfortunately, that’s an absolute no.’

‘Oh, well. I guess it never hurts to just ask nicely. Right?’

The hint in her tone—that he might have caught more flies with honey—was as subtle as a sledgehammer, but by the time he realised it she’d lifted her feet and jogged off along the trail, her dark curls swinging, the small muscles of her thighs and calves contracting with each charmingly wonky step. If she made it back to the main house before lunch he’d be very much surprised.

Zach slid his mobile phone from his pocket, called the resort’s manager and asked him to contact the wellness facilitators to send someone to escort her back to the resort.

He flicked to his inbox. No new messages. No more missed calls. His frown lines deepened so severely he wasn’t sure they’d ever fully recover.

Then he turned tail and ran in the opposite direction.

He concentrated hard on the whump whump whump of his feet slapping against the compacted dirt. Better that than let himself get caught up in that earlier moment of unmistakable invitation. Or the lingering spark.

He pushed himself harder. Faster. Till sweat dripped into his eyes. It didn’t help.

Maybe if she’d lived down to his expectations and been the ditzy powder puff he’d fully assumed she’d be, that’d be the end of that. Instead he couldn’t let go of the fact that despite her reputation she’d been out there at six in the morning with no entourage, no make-up, no airs and graces, no expectation of special treatment.

A woman who hid a sharp tongue behind her soft lips. A woman whose wickedly intelligent eyes could make lesser men forget themselves.

Zach pushed till his muscles burned.

Forgetting himself was not an option. It would mean forgetting a little girl who had no one else left in the world to protect her bar him.

His daughter. A daughter only a handful of trusted people even knew about.

No one else could know. Not yet. Not now.

She was so very young. Her life so recently upheaved. It was all he could do to keep her safe.

To do that he had to keep her from those in the media who would carelessly make bold, loud assumptions about her future before she ever had the chance to find her footing in the present.

He knew full well how even the most innocent of comments at that age could influence how one thought about oneself. He’d met more than one person in a position of power who’d taken some kind of sick pleasure in telling a lonely orphan kid that he was nobody and would grow up to be even less. Decades on he still remembered each and every one.

He’d never forgive himself if that happened to her because of her relationship to him. And that meant keeping her identity concealed from those for whom Meg Kelly was their most prolific source of sustenance.

Eyes on the horizon, he ran until his shins ached, his heels felt like rock, and his body was drenched in thirty-five-degree sweat.

He ran until the ugly faces from his past became a blur.

He ran until it no longer mattered how long he’d now been in lock-down in this middle-of-nowhere place trying to make his round life fit into a square hole.