reached out, twisted a stray strand around his finger.
‘They obviously don’t know you as well as I do.’
She pulled away quickly before she did something stupid, such as stand there and let him twist her around his finger and not just by the hair. ‘You don’t know me at all.’
Ignoring the glint in his eyes, which seemed a richer, deeper toffee than she remembered, she glanced at her watch, hoping he’d get the hint.
‘Is your father here? I need to discuss this with him.’
His eyes clouded, darkened, as pain twisted his mouth. ‘Papa died. Guess the news didn’t make it all the way to London.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, suddenly ashamed she hadn’t kept in touch with news from home.
Not that the thought hadn’t crossed her mind on occasion but then, he hadn’t been the reason she’d fled Jacaranda.
‘Are you really?’
She noticed the angry lines fanning from the corner of his mouth, the indentation between his brows, aging him beyond his twenty-eight years.
He’d never looked at her like this back then. Uh-uh. He might have been a rebel but he’d never been brooding or angry, far from it.
A decade earlier he’d only ever looked at her with adoration and desire, and for a brief moment she wished she could turn back time.
‘Of course I’m sorry. Everyone around here loved Papa.’
‘You’re right.’
Swiping a hand across his face, he erased the tenseness. ‘Though I’m surprised your old man didn’t say something. You can’t ride a Harley in this town without people lining the roads for a parade.’
His gaze flicked over her and she clenched her hands to stop from smoothing her Dolce and Gabbana suit. His eyes glowed with appreciation but she didn’t miss the slight compression of his lips, as if her favourite designer suit didn’t impress him one bit.
‘Despite your fancy new clothes, surely you remember how it is around here?’
He was trying to bait her, just as he always did and, damn him, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing exactly how much she remembered, most of her memories centred on him.
‘I’ve been busy the last ten years so forgive me if taking a stroll down memory lane hasn’t been high on my list of priorities.’
‘Busy, huh?’
She expected him to ask about her career, wanted to show him how far she’d come, how far they could’ve made it as a couple if he’d accompanied her.
Instead, he stood there, a semi-naked god totally at ease with his surroundings, the sheen of sweat and dust adding to his rugged appeal rather than diminishing it.
Clamping down on the mental image to run her hands over that glorious bare chest, she cleared her throat.
‘I work twenty-four-seven. Being a senior exec at London’s top advertising company takes up most of my time.’
‘What, no time for play?’
His teasing smile slammed into her, the familiarity of it making her gasp.
She didn’t play, not any more. Her play days had stopped when she’d hightailed it out of this town and never looked back.
Work helped her forget…everything.
Work proved how far she’d come.
Work gave her the hard-fought independence she’d clawed her way to the top for, an independence that guaranteed she’d never have to look back.
Biting back a pithy retort, she ducked into the car and grabbed the Manila folder from the passenger seat.
‘What I do in my spare time isn’t your concern. I’m here on business.’
‘Whatever this business proposition of yours is about, you’ll be dealing with me.’
He fixed her with a probing stare, a potent stare that sent a ripple of unease through her.
‘And just so you know, I’m nothing like my father. I drive a hard bargain.’
She almost banged her head on the door jamb as his silky voice slid over her. So much for a quick, clean presentation to Papa Mancini. The thought of doing business with Nick, let alone considering whatever bargain he might demand, had her flustered.
And she never got flustered, not any more. Some of the gang at work called her the Ice Princess behind her back and she liked it. Emotions got her nowhere and she’d learned to control her fiery temper along with the rest of her wayward emotions during the long, hard graft in the big city.
As she handed him the folder their fingertips touched and despite the length of time they’d been apart, her heart jackknifed. Wretched organ. She shouldn’t feel anything where Nick was concerned, especially not this strange déjà vu that had her dreaming of stepping closer and running a palm down his bare chest to see if it felt half as good as she remembered.
She took a steadying breath, ignoring the host of unwelcome feelings this man resurrected.
‘There’s a lot we need to discuss. Why don’t we head inside so you can put on some clothes and we can do business?’
She’d made a fatal error in judgement, knew it the second his lips kicked up into a sexy, familiar grin that never failed to take her breath away.
She shouldn’t have mentioned his state of undress, shouldn’t have drawn attention to it, and as if of their own volition her eyes drifted south, riveted to that muscular expanse of temptation less than two feet away.
He was so bronze, so broad, so breathtaking and when she finally dragged her gaze away her knees shook.
‘You sure you want me to get dressed?’
Damn him, he’d called her on her faux pas. A gentleman would’ve ignored her slip-up. Then again, since when had Nick been a gentleman?
Jacaranda’s answer to James Dean had had girls swooning and fathers reaching for shotguns since he’d hit puberty and she was a fool for expecting anything other than bluntness from the guy who’d once rocked her world.
‘Nick, don’t.’
She held up a hand, about as effective as a cockatoo trying to ward off a charging emu.
‘Don’t what?’
He stared at her hand as if he wanted to grab it and she quickly let it drop.
‘Don’t remember the past? Don’t admire the gorgeous woman you’ve become?’
The heat in his eyes scorched her, captivated her, held her spellbound.
‘Or don’t do something as crazy as this?’
Before she could blink, he hauled her into his arms and kissed her.
The kisses they’d shared as teenagers had been exploratory, tender and achingly poignant. Yet there was nothing remotely sweet or gentle about his mouth crushing hers now.
Their lips clashed in a frantic, hungry union, a fusion of tongues, a meshing of desire that left her reeling.
She should’ve been immune to him by now. She should’ve pushed him away and laughed it off as a quick reacquainting peck between friends for old times’ sake.
Should’ve, should’ve, should’ve, as she stood on tiptoes, leaned into him and wrapped her arms around his neck, hanging on as if her life depended on it.
As he softened the kiss, plying her with a skilled precision he’d never had as a young man, her resolve to push him away melted, just as it had ten years earlier when she’d acted on all the bottled-up feelings she’d harboured for him for years.