Summer Beach Reads. Natalie Anderson

with in the shallows. Yet she’d taken care not to identify the beach location or the animals, protecting them, too.

      She knew her boundaries. And her power.

      So he’d followed her blogs these past weeks to get a feel for the woman he’d only ever known as a child. She didn’t disappoint. Astute. Acerbic. Fearless.

      ‘The symphony’s not really the sort of place you’d expect to encounter intriguing story leads.’

      ‘You might be surprised at what people will talk about under cover of a crowd.’

      She didn’t even blink that he knew who she was. She tossed her hair and a waft of amberwood hit him, provocative and sensual. His breath thinned.

      ‘Are you a regular at the Concert Hall?’

      Not really the place he’d bring most of the women he’d dated. ‘I’ve been a few times, but I usually sit up the back.’ Right up the back, in the control box with Luc, generally. ‘This will be my first front row.’

      Her carefully shaped brows folded.

      He stepped closer as someone squeezed past them, then looked down on her. ‘That surprises you?’

      She did her best to step back. ‘You don’t really strike me as an up the back kind of guy. I thought you’d want to be seen.’

      ‘But you don’t know me at all.’ Despite what she thought. ‘Come on, this way …’

      He set off in the direction of the bar, not waiting for her to follow. Ordinarily he’d have found some way by now to touch a woman he’d invited on a date, multiple times if possible while shepherding her through the assembling crowd. But not only was this very much not ordinary, and not a date and not leading to anything further after the instruments were all back in their cases, but he thought Shirley might bite his hand off if he touched her. And he knew for sure she’d object to being corralled like some fragile thing.

      She was anything but.

      They passed the handful of patrons who’d turned up earlier than they had and crossed to the back area of the bar that served the exclusive members’ lounge, past the shelves of expensive drinks. All his old friends lifted their hands in salute, trying to catch his eye. Johnny. Jack. Remy. MacCallan.

      He pressed on past them all.

      ‘Luc?’

      It took a moment before anyone responded, but then his oldest friend appeared from a pair of doors behind the bar, carrying a sheaf of papers. He clapped forearms with Hayden and did a credible job of not looking at Shirley for more than the time it took to smile politely. Though he knew he’d get hammered for details later.

      ‘Mate, good to see you,’ Luc said.

      ‘Is it all arranged?’ Hayden asked. Keeping things businesslike.

      ‘Good to go.’ Luc reached into his pocket and produced two tickets. He held them aloft. ‘These weren’t easy to come by. There’ll be no reneging?’

      Please … ‘When have you ever known me not to be as good as my word?’

      ‘I’ve never asked something like this of you, though.’

      Shirley and Shiloh both grew interested in that.

      He handed over the tickets and Hayden pumped his hand. ‘Cheers, mate. I owe you one.’

      Luc laughed. ‘You know what you owe me.’ Then he disappeared back into the bowels of the Concert Hall. Hayden could feel Shirley’s gaze branding the back of his head, so he took his time turning around. When he did, her immaculately made-up eyes were narrowed.

      ‘What did you trade?’

      He let a cautious nothing wash over his face. ‘Oh, just a favour for a mutual friend.’

      ‘What kind of favour? If I’m going to be party to a fraud, I’d like to know exactly what I’m buying into.’

      ‘You’re not buying into anything. This was my trade.’

      ‘What was?’ Her hands balled on her hips. ‘I’m not moving until you tell me the truth.’

      Air hissed from between his drawn lips. ‘I’m helping out with a party Luc’s sister is throwing in a few weeks.’

      Her eyes narrowed. ‘You mean you’re paying for it?’

      ‘No. I told you this wasn’t a financial transaction.’

      ‘I didn’t realise event coordination was your bag.’

      ‘I’m not organising it, either.’

      ‘Catering?’

      He glared at her.

      ‘Not the alcohol, I hope?’

      The glare intensified. ‘It’s not that kind of party. It’s for Luc’s nephew. He’s …’ God damn her snooping. ‘He’s nine.’

      She blinked at him. A child’s party …? Then the tiniest of smiles crept onto her lips. ‘Please tell me you’re dressing as a clown.’

      He threw his arms up and walked across the room from her. ‘Do you seriously think that a garden-variety clown would be the best I can do?’

      ‘No, I expect you’d be a miserable, creepy clown.’

      He paused, uncertain whether he’d just been insulted. ‘Right. Exactly. Thankfully, Tim’s not into clowns.’

      ‘What is he into? And why are you trying so very hard not to say?’

      He huffed a long breath. ‘Warriors.’

      Those expressive brows folded again. ‘Soldiers?’

      He guided her from the bar again without touching her. ‘Old school. Swords and shields type of warriors.’

      Out of the corner of his vision he saw her press her lips together to stymie the smile he was sure was wanting to burst forth. ‘A boy after your own heart, then?’

      ‘That’s what Luc said.’

      She walked beside him. ‘Okay, so for the princely sum of one child’s birthday party we now have front row access to the Berlin Philharmonic?’

      He shrugged. ‘That should give you an idea of how not a big deal this trade is for Luc.’

      Her eyes narrowed. ‘Or how very big a deal a kid’s birthday party is for you.’

      He grunted and pushed through the doors back into the foyer, holding it open for her. The noise from the mounting audience surged and washed over them.

      ‘Are you coming or staying?’

      It wasn’t too late to scalp the tickets out front for a profit.

      She let the smile loose, finally. Smug and a little bit too appealing. ‘And forgo the chance to make you have to get your Spartacus on?’ She pushed past him and spoke into the crowd. ‘Not on your life.’

      Shirley shuffled in her seat as the applause for the conductor finally died down. She had no idea who he was but every other person there clearly did, judging by the adulation. The white-haired man turned his back on the audience and sorted his music in the descended hush. The perfect acoustics of the venue meant that everyone heard it. Even the shuffling of music sheets sounded good.

      Of course, her mother would have chided. Beethoven wrote it.

      It was hard, as it always was, not to regret her mother’s absence. How she would have appreciated this special moment. Then again, if she’d been alive, would any of them have thought of doing it? She’d barely gone to the movies in all of Shirley’s childhood, let alone anywhere this special.

      That was the awful irony about bucket lists.

      ‘Ready?’