The Tycoon's Stowaway. Stefanie London

here.’ Amy held up her hands. ‘You have to come for a drink with us, though. We’ve got everyone together… well, almost everyone.’

      ‘Oh, I would love to, but…’ Chantal’s smile wavered. ‘It’s been a long day and I’ve got an audition tomorrow.’

      She scrambled for an excuse—something that Amy wouldn’t question. There was no way she could go out there and face them—no way she could keep her head held high after what they’d seen. Heat crawled up her neck, squeezing the air from her throat. Not now, please don’t fall apart now.

      ‘Is your audition in Newcastle?’

      ‘No, Sydney. So I’ve got quite a long drive.’

      Amy grinned and grabbed her hand, tugging her towards the door. ‘I’ve got the perfect solution then. Brodie got us here on his yacht, but he’s supposed to be docking at The Rocks. If your rehearsal is in the city it would be perfect. You won’t have to drive there, and Brodie can sail you back here after your audition.’

      ‘I really am tired.’ She shook her head and pulled her hand from Amy’s grasp.

      ‘You just need a drink or five.’ Amy winked. ‘Come on—it’ll be like old times.’

      Chantal stole a glance at her reflection. She’d have to change. There was no way she’d go out there and stand in front of Brodie wearing mere scraps of Lycra. It’s not like he didn’t notice you dancing half-naked on that stage.

      ‘Just one drink,’ she said, sighing. ‘I need to be on good form tomorrow.’

      ‘Great.’ Amy bounced on the spot. ‘I’ll let you get changed. Meet us out the front in a few minutes?’

      ‘Sure.’

      With Amy gone, Chantal could let the fake smile slide from her lips. Why the hell had she agreed to a drink with the old gang? She was supposed to be keeping her distance—at least until her life had started to match the image she’d presented online. No doubt they’d ask about her marriage: fail number one. They’d want to know about her career: fail number two. And she’d have to act as if it wasn’t awkward at all being around Scott and Brodie: fail number three.

      Willa had told her that they’d recently repaired the rift she’d caused, but that didn’t make her any less squeamish about having the two of them in the same room as her.

      She contemplated looking for a back exit to slip out of. Maybe if she disappeared they might get the hint that she wasn’t feeling social right now.

      You can’t do that. These people are your friends… possibly your only friends.

      Since her divorce her other acquaintances had been mysteriously absent. Perhaps being friends with Derek the talent agent was of more value to them than being friends with Chantal the out-of-work dancer.

      She frowned at herself in the mirror, taking in the fake lashes and dark, sultry make-up. What a fraud. Sighing, she stripped out of her outfit and threw on her denim shorts, white tank top and sneakers from earlier. She didn’t have time to remove all of her make-up—that tedious task would have to wait for later.

      Swinging her overnight bag over one shoulder, she decided against dumping it in her room first. If she found the comfort of a private room it would be unlikely she’d come back out. Suck it up, Chantal. You’ve made your bed, now lie in it!

      Outside the crowd heaved, and she had to dodge the patrons who thought their ticket to the show meant they had a right to paw at her. This was not the dream she’d had in mind when she’d first stepped into a dance studio at the age of seven.

      Her skin crawled. She wanted out of this damn filthy bar. Perhaps a potential lawsuit was worth the risk if it meant she never had to come back.

      She was midthought when she spotted Brodie, standing alone by the stairs. Where had everyone else gone? Her blood pumped harder, fuelling her limbs with nervous energy.

      As always, his presence unnerved her. His broad shoulders and muscular arms were barely contained in a fitted white T-shirt; his tanned skin beckoned to be touched. His shaggy blond hair sat slightly shorter than it had used to, though the ends were still sun-bleached and he wore it as though he’d spent the day windsurfing. Messy. Touchable.

      But it was his eyes that always got her. Crystal green, like the colour of polished jade, they managed to seem scorching hot and ice-cold at the same time. When he looked at her it was easy to pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist.

      ‘The others have gone to the boat,’ he said, motioning for her to join him. ‘I didn’t want you to walk on your own.’

      She followed him, watching the way his butt moved beneath a pair of well-worn jeans. He’d filled out since she’d seen him last—traded his boy’s body for one which was undeniably adult. She licked her lips, hating the attraction that flared in her and threatened to burn wild, like a fire out of control.

      It was strange to be attracted to someone again. She hadn’t felt that way in a long time… possibly not since Weeping Reef. Her marriage hadn’t been about attraction—it had been about safety, security… Until that security had started to feel like walls crushing in on her.

      They made their way out of the bar and into the cool night air. The breeze caught her sweat-dampened skin and caused goosebumps to ripple across her arms. She folded them tight, feeling vulnerable and exposed in the sudden quiet of the outdoors.

      ‘You didn’t have to wait,’ she said, falling into step with him.

      Their steps echoed in the quiet night air, their strides perfectly matched.

      He turned to her and shook his head. ‘Of course I did. I was worried you wouldn’t make it out of the bar on your own, let alone down the street.’

      The disapproving tone in his voice made her stomach twist. The last thing she needed was another over-protective man in her life.

      ‘I can take care of myself.’

      ‘Your bravado is admirable, but pointless. Even the smallest guy in there would have at least a head on you.’

      His face softened into a smile—he never had been the kind of guy who could stay in a bad mood for long.

      ‘Not to mention those skinny little chicken legs of yours.’

      ‘I do not have chicken legs.’ She gave him a shove and he barely broke stride, instead throwing his head back and laughing.

      The bubble of anxiety in her chest dissolved. Brodie always had that effect on her. He was an irritating, lazy charmer, who talked his way through life, but he was fun. She often found herself smiling at him even when she wanted to be annoyed—much to her chagrin.

      ‘No, you don’t have chicken legs… not any more.’ He grinned, his perfect teeth flashing in the night. ‘You grew up.’

      ‘So did you,’ she said, but the words were lost as a motorcycle raced down the road.

      They had eight years and a lot of issues between them. Issues, of course, was a code word for attraction. But issues sounded a little more benign and a little less like a prelude to something she would regret.

      ‘I thought your husband would be here to watch out for you.’ He was back to being stern again. ‘He should be keeping you safe.’

      ‘I think he’s keeping someone else safe these days.’ She sighed. Why did all guys think it was their job to be the protector? She’d been happy to see the back of her ex-husband and his stifling, control-freak ways.

      ‘So that means you’re single?’

      She nodded. ‘Free as a bird and loving it.’

      ‘All the more reason to have someone look out for you.’

      Chantal bit her down on her lip and kept her mouth shut.