talons at length.
‘I entered your details for the female applicant.’ She gestured to the flyer, pointed at the fine print. ‘You’ve been chosen. Just you and some hot stud on a deserted island for seven days and seven long, hot, glorious nights. Cool, huh?’
There were plenty of words to describe what her boss had done.
Cool wasn’t one of them.
Kristi dropped the entry form as if it were radioactive waste, tentatively poked it with her toe, before inhaling deep, calming breaths. Rosanna might be tolerant but there was no point getting wound up to the point she could happily strangle her boss.
‘I want you to turn Survivor for a week.’
This had to be a joke, one of Rosanna’s bizarre tests she spontaneously sprang on employees at random to test their company loyalty.
Clenching her fist so hard the documents crinkled, she placed them on the desk, desperately trying to subdue the buzzing in her head to form a coherent argument to convince her boss there wasn’t a chance she’d do this.
Only one way Rosanna would listen to reason: appeal to her business side.
‘Sound’s interesting, but I’m snowed under with jobs at the moment. I can’t just up and leave for a week.’
Rosanna sprang off her desk as if she hadn’t spoken, snapped her fingers.
‘You know Elliott J. Barnaby, the hottest producer in town?’
Kristi nodded warily as Rosanna picked up a flyer, waved it under her nose. ‘He’s making a documentary, based on the reality-show phenomenon sweeping the world. Two people, placed on an island, with limited resources, for a week.’
‘Sounds like a blast.’
Rosanna ignored her sarcasm. ‘Prize money is a hundred grand.’
‘What?’
Kristi tried to read over Rosanna’s shoulder. ‘You never told me that part.’
‘Didn’t I? Perhaps I didn’t get around to mentioning it, what with your overwhelming excitement and all.’
Kristi stuck out her tongue as she speed-read the prize details.
A hundred big ones. A heck of a lot of money. And if she was crazy enough to go along with her boss’s ludicrous scheme, she knew exactly what she’d do with it.
For an instant, the memory of dinner with her sister Meg last night flashed into her head.
Meg’s shabby, cubbyhole apartment in outer Sydney, the sounds of ear-splitting verbal abuse from the quarrelling couple next door interspersed with the ranting of rival street gangs outside her window. The threadbare furniture, the stack of unpaid bills on the kitchen counter, the lack of groceries in the fridge.
And Prue, her adorable seven-year-old niece, the only person who managed to draw a smile from her weary mum these days.
After what she’d been through, Meg was doing it tough yet wouldn’t accept a cent. What if the money wasn’t part of her savings that Meg refused to touch? Would that make a difference to her sister’s pride?
‘Healthy prize, huh?’
Kristi didn’t like the maniacal gleam in Rosanna’s astute gaze. She’d seen that look before. Ros lived for Endorse This; the company wasn’t Sydney’s best PR firm for nothing. While a fun and fair boss, she was a corporate dynamo who expected nothing short of brilliance from her employees.
And every time she got that gleam, it meant a new client was up for grabs, someone whose promotion would add another feather to Endorse This’s ever-expanding cap.
Deliberately trying to blot out the memory of Meg’s apartment and the unnatural hollows in her niece’s cheeks, Kristi handed the flyer back.
‘Sure, the money’s impressive, but not worth shacking up with some stranger for a week, and having the whole disastrous experience filmed.’
Rosanna’s injected lips thinned, her determined stare brooking no argument.
‘You’re doing this.’
Kristi’s mouth dropped open and her boss promptly placed a finger under her chin and shut it for her.
‘I had a call from Channel Nine last week. They’re checking out PR firms for a new island reality show, Survivor with a twist, they said. That’s why I entered you. If you do this, we’re set!’
Oh, no. No, no, no!
If the gleam in Rosanna’s eyes had raised her hackles, it had nothing on the sickly sweet smile reminiscent of a witch offering Hansel and Gretel a huge chunk of gingerbread.
‘And, of course, you’ll be in charge of that whole account.’
‘That’s not fair,’ she blurted, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut when Rosanna’s smile waned.
‘Which part? The part where you help Endorse This score the biggest client this year? Or the part where you’re virtually assured a promotion because of it? Discounting the chance to win a hundred grand, of course.’
Kristi shot Rosanna a death glare that had little effect, Ros’s smugness adding to the churning in the pit of her stomach.
She had no choice.
She had to do this.
If the promotion wasn’t incentive enough, the chance to win a hundred grand was. Meg deserved better, much better. Her sweet, naïve, resilient sister deserved to have all her dreams come true after what she’d been through.
Forcing an enthusiastic smile that must’ve appeared half grimace, she shrugged.
‘Fine, I’ll do it.’
‘Great. You’ve got a meeting with the producer in a few hours. Fill me in on the details later.’
Rosanna thrust the flyer into her hands, glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll get back to Channel Nine, let them know the latest.’
As Rosanna strutted towards the door Kristi knew she’d made the right decision, despite being shanghaied into it.
She’d worked her butt off the last six months, desperate for a promotion, and landing Channel Nine as a client would shoot her career to the stars.
As for the prize money, she’d do whatever it took to win it. No way would she accept anything less than Meg using every last brass razoo of it.
The promotion and the prize money; sane, logical reasons to go through with this. But a week on an island with a stranger? Could it be any worse?
As she rifled through the paperwork, Rosanna paused at the door, raised a finger.
‘Did I mention you’ll be stranded on the island with Jared Malone?’
CHAPTER TWO
Stranded Survival Tip #2
Be sure to schedule your mini-meltdown for off-camera.
JARED strode into North Bondi’s Icebergs and headed for Elliott’s usual table, front and centre to the glass overlooking Sydney’s most famous beach.
His mango smoothie was waiting alongside Elliott’s double-shot espresso, his mate nothing if not predictable.
When he neared the table, Elliott glanced up from a stack of paperwork, folded his iron-rimmed glasses, placed them next to his coffee and glanced at his watch.
‘Glad you could eventually make it.’
Jared shrugged, pointed at his gammy knee. ‘Rehab session went longer than anticipated.’
Elliott’s eyes narrowed. ‘Hot physio?’
‘Hot cruciate ligament, more like it.’
The