Millionaire Dad's SOS. Ally Blake

shot back, arms swinging in what she knew was a terrible impression of something she’d seen on TV once. ‘Okay, so I’m not a yoga fanatic or a runner. I’m more an eat-chocolate-for-breakfast dance-it-off-in-your-living-room kind of girl. Either way there is no way on God’s green earth I’ll be catching up to the others any time soon. So please go ahead. Jog. Be free.’

      ‘Between us,’ he said, leaning in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone that sent her blood pressure soaring, ‘I’ve already run five K today.’

      ‘Oh.’ Oh, indeed. ‘So what brings you out here again?’

      All she got for her blunt question was an out-held hand. ‘I’m Zach Jones.’

      Meg twisted her body to slide her smaller hand into his. Even the coolest of customers usually gave themselves away when shaking her hand. A nervous vibration here, a sweaty palm there. She was extremely adept at ignoring their nerves.

      With Zach Jones they never eventuated. His grip was warm, dry, strong, masculine and wholly unmoved.

      Remarkable, she thought. More than remarkable. The man was perspiration-inducing, utterly gorgeous and wholly unsmiling even though he had the kind of warm, open, likable face purpose built for the function.

      And don’t forget, she reminded herself, beneath the casual curls, the sexily shabby clothes, and the body of an Olympic god, Zach Jones is an alpha in beta camouflage. So not worth worrying about.

      So why was she still holding his hand?

       Because it really is so very warm, dry and blissfully enveloping, that’s why.

      ‘I’m Meg,’ she said, pumping once more, then letting go.

      At the last second she held back her surname. As if there was a slim chance she’d been reading too much into every cheek flicker, or lack thereof, from the very beginning. Maybe he was just some cute guy too shy to chat her up even though he had a thing for girls with impossibly curly hair and a glaringly obvious lack of sporting prowess.

      ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Meg,’ he said, his mouth quirking at her omission.

      Argh! What was she thinking? He knew. Of course he knew. She’d have to go further than the Gold Coast to find a man who didn’t know who she was. A man whose mind wasn’t already made up about her before they even met.

      She squeezed her eyes shut a moment. Using a technique they’d encouraged in internal reflection class the day before, she searched for her centre. Patience thin, she failed miserably. Instead she went with what worked in the real world: she summoned her inner Kelly and looked the guy dead in the eye.

      ‘So, Zach Jones, from what I hear around the traps you own this joint.’

      The full-frontal approach brought out a combative glint in his darker than dark eyes. If possible it only made the guy more tempting. Warmth curled through her empty stomach.

      But rather than doing the polite thing and answering her charge, he ignored it and asked, ‘How long are you planning on staying?’

      Frustration began to war convincingly well with attraction. In response, her practised smile only grew wider.

      ‘A survey?’ she said, lobbing it right back in his corner. ‘Aren’t you the hands-on boss?’

      The most sensuous mouth she’d ever laid eyes on kicked into a sexy almost-smile, creating an arc in his cheek that hinted at so much more, but still it never quite reached his eyes. He didn’t believe her devil-may-care performance for a second.

      ‘How long?’ he repeated.

      ‘We’re here the week.’

      His eyes skimmed the empty path ahead. ‘We being?’

      Something in his tone gave her the sense the impending doom wouldn’t be impending that much longer.

      She casually lifted a foot and stretched her…whatever the muscle that ran down the front of your thigh was called. ‘Two of my closest mates gave me this holiday as a present. Rylie Madigan and Tabitha Cooper.’

      At the last second she threw out their full names on a gamble, for Tabitha, with her ex-Prime Minister dad, and Rylie, with her job on TV, were almost as recognisable as she was.

      Her fishing paid off. He breathed deep, his fists bunched at his sides, and the sexy hollows in his cheeks grew their own hollows.

      ‘So you go home…?’ he said.

      ‘In a few days.’

      He nodded, breathed out deeply, apparently most satisfied that she’d be out of his sight as soon as that.

      Whoa. That was harsh.

      Even though beneath the bright smiles and fancy clothes she was a tough cookie—she had to be in order to survive being a Kelly—it turned out she was still just a girl whose pride could be hurt like anyone else.

      Okay, so there had been a time before she’d toughened up. A time when she’d been in danger of imploding under the relentless pressure. A long time ago, a lifetime really, in some perverse effort to get her father’s attention she’d let things go far too far. It had scared her enough to buck up and take control over her image, her life. To figure out how to use the process that used her.

      Any naivety she might have had was lost for ever, making a certain amount of cynicism unavoidable. On the upside she was no longer easily fazed. By anything.

       Yet somehow this guy was getting to her.

      Frustration finally won out, bringing with it a desire to share the pain. She lifted her chin and breathed deep of the tropical air. ‘I have to say you picked a gorgeous spot here. I could really get used to it. Who knows? We may stay longer yet.’

      His eyes slid back to hers; dark, gleaming, shrewd.

      She raised both eyebrows. Now what are you going to do about that?

      What he did was smile.

      Naturally it was everything she’d imagined it might be and so much more. The latent vitality his physique hinted at shone from his eyes when he smiled. It made him appear playful, warm, engaging. Her knees turned to jelly. Her resolve turned to mush.

      She opened her mouth, ready to ask him outright what the hell was going on when he placed his bare hand in the small of her back and gave her a light shove. She was so surprised she gave a little yelp.

      Through the thin cotton of her T-shirt his fingers were hot. Insistent. Touching her without fear or favour.

      Only when she looked up to see a small tree in the middle of the path did she realise he was merely stopping her from thwacking into the thing.

      And even after his hand moved all too easily away, and even while he was making her feel more and more out of step with every step in his presence, she could still feel the hot, hard press of Zach Jones’s hand against her skin.

      Now why did he have to go and touch her?

      A simple, ‘Watch out for the tree,’ would have sufficed. Instead, constant glimpses of that tattoo peeking out from the rise of her shorts had been like a magnet.

      Now he had to do this thing with the sensation of that soft warm skin imprinted on the tips of his fingers.

      Zach curled said fingers into his palm and took a small step to the left to add a little more physical distance between himself and the woman at his side. The woman whose very proximity could expose everything he’d worked so hard to keep preserved. Protected. Pure.

      He stretched out his shoulders and shot her a sideways glance. He had to concede that for a woman who appeared to bloom under the spotlight like an orchid in a hothouse, in person she was smaller, more low-key, and more approachable than he’d expected her to be. Funny, mischievous, switched on…

      He actually had to remind himself her father was Quinn