The Complete Red-Hot And Historical Collection. Kelly HunterЧитать онлайн книгу.
would never feel the same again.
‘I never had any doubts.’
‘You were the only one.’ She shot him a rueful smile.
‘Not true.’ He cupped her face with his hands and pressed another exploratory kiss to her lips. ‘But you do need a little help with the constant doubt.’
‘Are you testing me?’
‘Maybe.’ A sly smile pulled at his lips.
‘Well, I accept your help.’ She jabbed a finger into the centre of his chest, unable to conceal a grin. ‘So there.’
‘Chantal, I need to be able to help you. I need to be part of your life in a way that no one else can. I’ll give you everything you deserve. I’ll do everything I can to give you the life you want.’
The thumping of his heart reverberated against her ear.
‘I’m going to run the business from Sydney.’
‘Can you do that?’ Her head jerked up.
‘That’s the best bit about being the boss.’ He grinned. ‘I can do whatever I like.’
‘But what about your family?’
‘I put a call in to my father. He’s going to start sharing the load with me.’ A flash of vulnerability streaked across Brodie’s eyes. ‘‘Bout time.’
‘Really? That’s wonderful.’
‘Besides, Queensland is only a state away, and I’m sure you’ll need a break at some point. I’ll have to split my time across the two states but I know I can manage it.’ He chuckled. ‘Besides, the girls will be desperate to meet you.’
‘I’d love to meet them. I never had what you had growing up. I know your family isn’t perfect, but I’ve never been part of a family like that before.’
The idea was frightening—what if his sisters hated her?
‘They’ll love you. I know it.’ He stroked her hair, pressing his lips to her forehead. ‘But you were right to point out that I hide behind my family responsibilities. I have been hiding.’
She smiled against his chest. ‘You can’t hide any more.’
‘I don’t want to. I love you, Chantal.’
He spoke into her hair, his arms tight around her shoulders, his hand caressing her back.
Music wafted over the night air from the boat next to them.
Brodie wrapped his arms around her waist, moving her to the music. ‘And I always said pretty girls shouldn’t have to dance on their own.’
‘I won’t dance on my own ever again.’
Kelly Hunter
For my wonderful editor, Joanne Grant.
Thanks for your patience.
ROWAN FARRINGDON DREADED Sunday dinners with her parents. The tradition was a new one, instated exactly one month after her parents had retired and bought themselves a gleaming glory of a house that has all the showiness of a museum and no warmth whatsoever. Even the floral arrangements were formal.
She’d made a mistake two months ago, when she’d turned up with an armful of scented overblown cream- and butter-coloured roses and had had them relegated to the laundry sink—doubtless to be tossed out at her mother’s earliest convenience.
She hadn’t made that mistake again.
For some reason her mother loved this house, and insisted that Rowan—as her only child and heir—love the house as well.
Never going to happen.
Rowan’s hurried ‘I’m well set up already, Mum. Sell the house. Spend every last penny you have before you go, I really won’t mind …’ probably hadn’t been the most politically sensible thought ever voiced, but Rowan had meant every word of it.
To say that Rowan and her mother neither knew nor understood each other was something of an understatement.
Four people graced the enormous round table at this particular evening’s formal dinner. Rowan’s mother, father, grandfather, and herself. Presumably the round table gave the impression that everyone sitting at it was of equal importance, but the actual conversation around the table told a different story.
Rowan shared a glance with her grandfather as her father launched into yet another monologue that revolved around dining with dignitaries and very important people she’d never heard of. Both her parents had been Army in her younger years, and had made the switch to foreign ambassador postings later on. They’d led the expat life for most of their lives, while Rowan had been largely left behind with her grandfather. His job hadn’t exactly been geared towards the raising of children either—he’d been an Army general—but he’d never once left her behind and she loved him all the more for it.
Rowan’s phone buzzed once from its pocket in her handbag, sitting on the side table where she’d put it when she arrived, and Rowan winced. She knew what was coming.
‘I thought I asked you to turn that off?’ her mother told her coolly, her almond-brown eyes hard with displeasure.
People often thought brown eyes were soft, liquid and lovely.
Not all of them.
‘You know I can’t.’ Rowan rose. ‘Excuse me. I have to take that.’
She took her phone and the information on it out into the hall and returned a minute or so later. She crossed to her bag and slung it over her shoulder.
‘You’re leaving?’ Her mother’s voice was flat with accusation rather than disappointment.
Rowan nodded.
‘Trouble?’ asked her grandfather.
‘I’m covering for one of the other directors this week, while he’s out of the country. One of his agents has just emerged from deep cover. We’re bringing him in.’
‘We barely see you any more,’ her mother offered next—never mind that before they’d retired they’d barely seen her at all.
‘You barely saw her during her childhood,’ her grandfather told his daughter bluntly. ‘At least when Rowan leaves at a moment’s notice she gives us an explanation.’
There was enough truth in those words to make her mother’s lips draw tight. Enough of a sting in them to make Rowan’s memories clamour for attention.
‘But it’s my birthday,’ Rowan had once said to her mother as her parents had headed out through the door, their travel bags rolling behind them like obedient pets. ‘Grandfather made cake. He made it for us.’
‘I’m sorry, dear,’ her mother had said. ‘Needs must.’
‘But you’ve only been here one day,’ she’d said to her father once, and had received a stern lecture on tolerance and duty for her efforts.
‘Where are you going?’
She’d stopped asking that one. To this day she didn’t think she’d ever received a truthful answer. The take-home message had always been that they were going somewhere important and that Rowan wasn’t welcome.
‘You need to toughen up,’ her parents had told her over and over—and toughen up she had.