ex-boyfriend and her over-polite and social-climbing brother-in-law.
But unlike those two Nate also had an aura of macho strength and detachment. The latter was a plus for her—especially with her unexpected response when facing him eye to eye and having her hand clasped in his. Throughout the meeting she’d become increasingly aware of his musky aroma with its hint of vanilla and citrus. Alluring and different from anything she’d ever smelt, it had had her imagining a cosy setting in front of a wood fire.
Other pedestrians flowed around them, eager to reach their destinations. Nate came to a sudden stop, caught her arm and drew her across to a shop window. Dropping his hand, he regarded her for a moment with sombre eyes, his body language telling her he’d rather be anywhere else, with anyone else.
‘Any particular restaurant you fancy?’ Reluctance resonated in his voice.
‘I haven’t a clue.’ She arched her head to stare beyond him. An impish impulse to razz him for his hostile attitude overrode her normal discretion and she grinned. ‘How about that one?’
He followed her gaze to the isolated round glass floor on the communications tower soaring above the nearby buildings. His eyebrows arched, the corner of his mouth quirked, and something akin to amusement flashed like lightning in his storm-grey eyes.
‘The Sydney Tower? Probably booked out weeks ahead, but we can try.’
‘I was joking—it’s obviously a tourist draw. If we’d been a few steps to the right I wouldn’t even have seen it. You decide.’
‘You’re not familiar with Sydney, are you?’
His voice was gentler, as if her living a distance away was acceptable.
‘Basic facts from television and limited visits over many years—more since some of my friends moved here.’
‘Darling Harbour’s not too far, and there’s a variety of restaurants there. We’ll take a cab.’
‘Sounds good.’ She’d have been content to walk—she loved the hustle and bustle of the crowds, the rich accents of different languages and the variety of personal and food aromas wafting through the air. Tantalising mixtures only found in busy cities.
She followed him to the kerb, trying to memorise every detail while he watched for a ride. Once they were on their way her fingers itched to write it all down in the notepad tucked in the side pocket of her shoulder bag—an essential any time she left home.
As a writer, he might understand. As a man who’d been coerced into having lunch with her, who knew how he’d react?
Erring on the side of caution, she clasped her hands together and fixed the images in her mind.
THE FORMAL ESTABLISHMENT Nate steered her towards was a pleasant surprise. She’d been expecting something similar to the casual restaurants she’d passed on her way to Brian’s office from the station. White and red linen, crystal glassware and elegant decor gave it a classy atmosphere, and made it look similar to her parents’ current venture in Adelaide. The difference was in the plush red cushioning on the seats and the backs of the mahogany chairs.
They received a warm welcome, and at Nate’s request were led to a corner table by the window. The view of moored yachts and the cityscape behind them was postcard-picturesque, and would be more so at night with the boats and buildings lit up. She made a mental note to return to the area after dark with Cloe, the friend she was staying with in North Ryde.
Occasionally taking a sip of the chilled water in her glass, she perused the menu options carefully. Having grown up experiencing different flavours and cuisines, she loved comparing the many ways different chefs varied tastes.
‘What would you like to drink, Jemma?’
Looking up, she encountered a seemingly genuine smile from Nate. Pity it didn’t reach his eyes. But at least he was giving her a choice—something her ex had rarely granted. She placed her menu down, food decision made, and flicked back the hair from her right cheek.
‘White wine, please. I’m having fish for both entrée and main courses.’
‘Any special kind?’
That impulsive urge to rattle his staid demeanour rose again: so not her usual behaviour.
‘I guess I should pick a local label—though our South Australian ones are superior.’ She raised her chin and curled her lips, daring him to dispute her statement.
She achieved her aim and then some.
His eyes narrowed, drawing his thick dark brows obliquely down, and his mouth quirked as he spoke in a mild tone. ‘We’ll save that war until later. For that quip, I’ll select.’
His flippant remark left her breathless, lips parted and with tingles scooting up and down her spine. She drained her water glass, incapable of forming a retort. He was smart—a fast thinker. A man not to be toyed with.
Her mind inexplicably recalled the adage Make love not war, and a hot flush spread up from her neck. Lucky for her, a young waiter arrived for their orders, and she ducked her head to read from the menu.
I’ll start with the smoked salmon with capers,’ she told him, ‘and have the barramundi with a fresh garden salad for my main.’
Nate chose oysters with chilli, coconut and lime as an entrée, followed by grilled salmon and steamed vegetables.
The wine he ordered was unknown to Jemma, and the hours she’d spent stacking refrigerators and racks had given her an extensive knowledge of labels. She’d also filled and emptied many a dishwasher, so figured she’d earned any offer to dine out for years to come.
‘You obviously enjoy seafood.’
Nate’s upper body leant forward over his crossed arms on the table, his intent to follow their agent’s suggestion of becoming acquainted evident in his posture. Pity there was little affability in his tone, and a suspicion there was more to his manner than giving her access to his writing began to form.
‘Barramundi is my mother’s specialty. I like to compare other offerings with hers.’
‘She’s a good cook, huh?’
Jemma laughed. ‘Don’t ever call her that if she has a knife in her hand—which, by the way, will always be sharp. Both she and Dad are qualified chefs, and live for their profession.’
A speculative gleam appeared in his smoky eyes, holding her spellbound, feeling as if he were seeking her innermost thoughts. His features remained impassive, his voice with its intriguing hint of roughness calm. The only sign of emotion was the steady tapping of two left-hand fingers on his right elbow, an action he seemed unaware of.
‘I’m guessing that didn’t leave much time for child-rearing.’
‘I didn’t mean—’
The waiter appeared with their wine, sending the next words back into her throat. She’d have to set him straight—hadn’t meant to give that impression. Yet as Nate sampled the small amount of wine poured into his glass she couldn’t deny the facts. There had been little time for any of the usual parent/child activities, though they’d encouraged and financed Vanessa’s modelling courses. They’d gained publicity, of course, when she’d won an international contract.
On Nate’s approval, her glass was filled. As she savoured the crisp, dry flavour he raised his glass to her without speaking, drank, then set it down.
‘This is good. I approve of your choice, Nate.’ She took another sip and let it linger on her tongue, waiting for him to continue the conversation about family. He didn’t.
I presume you don’t write full-time? Do you have another career?’
‘I paint pictures