she’d attended.
Then her father had been elected Prime Minister and a starry-eyed fifteen year old with dreams of being a journalist-cum-fiction-writer had been indoctrinated into the expectations of a PM’s daughter, sending her dreams along with the many vivid plots dancing in her mind straight down the toilet.
She’d followed a career path deemed more suitable, giving up her ‘impulsive, flaky writing’ to enter economics.
Oh, she’d done well, both at university and the merchant bank she’d worked for—not that she ever had an option for failure—but getting creative with figures wasn’t a patch on getting creative with words and as her resentment had steadily built so had her frustration.
It had spilled over into all areas of her life, including her marriage, and while Leon had been amicable to the split she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been the major cause of the inevitable breakdown of their relationship.
‘Yeah, writing for a living would be great.’
‘What kind?’
‘Probably freelance for a start.’
Give her a chance to free the muse and get the words flowing again, then see if anyone would truly employ her with zilch experience in the field.
‘You should do it.’
Buoyed by his enthusiasm, she squared her shoulders. ‘Maybe I will.’
‘Good for you.’
He winked and her heart stuttered and stalled. ‘Go ahead, paint a picture in words for me.’
‘Now?’
‘Yeah, no time like the present to get you started on your new career path.’
He leaned closer and she sucked in a breath of heady male tinged with chlorine. ‘Describe your favourite holiday destination.’
‘Lizard Island,’ she blurted, needing to deflect those hypnotic dark eyes before she did something foolish, such as kiss him again. Though if her two-word answer was all she could come up with description-wise, she’d better ditch the writing idea now.
‘Whitsunday Islands?’
She nodded. ‘Not as well known as Hayman or Hamilton. Coastline’s more rugged, beaches more isolated. Off the beaten track.’
‘Unspoilt beauty can be more appealing than commercialised tourist traps.’
She silently chalked up another brownie point to him, in total agreement. She’d spent enough time traipsing around the world’s hot spots with Leon: from Monte Carlo to New York, London to Tokyo, playing a diplomat’s wife to perfection. Dining at Michelin-starred establishments, staying at exclusive spa resorts, mingling with the upper echelons of society, living the high life.
She would’ve rather camped in the Pyrenees and eaten hawker food and gone without pedicures than have her every move watched and scrutinised by people who almost wanted her to slip up so they could spread gossip or leak it to the press. Just as they had during her divorce.
She’d grown oblivious to the constant watching after a while, had pretended it hadn’t bothered her, but it had taken its toll.
She’d spent the bulk of her life under a microscope and the fact that she was here, staying in a funky hotel under a pseudonym, flirting with an adventurous guy so far removed from the men in her social circle, was so freaking fantastic she wanted to shout it to the world.
Or do something crazy, something impulsive, something so far removed from her past to render her a new woman.
Grabbing his hand before she had second thoughts, she looked him straight in the eye.
‘You know something? I’m pretty sure this concussion is worsening. Maybe you should walk me to my room after all?’
If he was surprised by her forwardness he didn’t show it. A consummate performer. Then again, a guy who looked like him probably had women throwing themselves at him every day of the week. What was one more?
‘Sure, no worries.’
He stood and held out a hand and as she stared at it she had a moment to change her mind.
Would she really go through with this? Invite a guy she barely knew back to her room? Have sex with him? Her first one-night stand?
‘I’ll just leave you at your door …’
His hand wavered but before he could lower it hers shot out and grabbed it as she surged to her feet, wobbly, off balance for a second before he steadied her.
She wanted to explain why she was doing this, wanted to give him a clue as to what this meant for her, but how to do it without sounding like a naïve moron?
‘Ava, don’t worry about it. If it’s easier I’ll leave you here—’
‘I’m a prime minister’s daughter and I’m four weeks out of a lacklustre marriage to a politician and I’ve spent my life doing the right thing and saying the right thing and I’m sick of it and I want a little adventure of my own and—’
‘Shh …’
He placed a finger against her lips and she exhaled, embarrassed by her blurted admission.
Taking a deep breath to quell her mortification, she risked a quick glance at his face. If she saw pity, she was out of here.
Instead, his understanding had her swaying unconsciously towards him, her body recognising on some subconscious level what her mind only just realised.
This guy was special.
‘You don’t owe me any explanations.’
He lowered his finger, traced a path along her jaw, under her ear, across her collarbone, lingering in the hollow there.
‘I think you’re amazing and if you want me to spend the night with you, the pleasure is all mine.’
Ava would’ve melted into a puddle of lust there and then if not for his strong arm sliding around her waist, supporting her as they strolled towards the lifts.
She didn’t speak. She couldn’t, not with her throat constricting and her diaphragm heaving and her pulse pounding so hard she could barely hear herself think.
When they reached the lifts he squeezed her gently and she automatically snuggled into his side.
‘You sure about this?’
She hadn’t been sure about taking an economics major, she hadn’t been sure about marrying Leon and she sure as hell wasn’t sure what she’d do next career-wise but if there was one thing she was sure of tonight this was it.
‘Does room 1620 answer your question?’
She held her breath as he guided her into the elevator, hit the sixteen button and brushed a soft kiss across her lips.
‘Perfectly,’ he said as they stood like silent sentinels, watching the panel counting down the numbers from twenty-seven to sixteen, and when the elevator pinged and the doors slid open on the sixteenth floor she could’ve sworn she experienced an adrenalin rush no jump off a bridge could ever hope to reproduce.
CHAPTER THREE
ROMAN had exactly sixty seconds to extricate himself from this situation and make a run for it.
How many times had he aborted a jump due to risky conditions? Or rescheduled a climb for another day due to changeable, unfavourable winds?
Too many to count and right now he had that same churning in his gut telling him something wasn’t right.
He knew what it was. Despite her forwardness Ava had vulnerable written all over her. And he’d had a gutful of susceptible females, considering the major reason he’d fled to Australia was to get as far away from one as possible.
Not