Deserted Island, Dreamy Ex. Nicola Marsh

resented being dumped at the local tennis club by his narcissistic parents, he’d soon found a solitude there he rarely found elsewhere.

      He’d been good, damn good, and soon the attention of the coaches, the talent scouts, had made him want to work harder, longer, honing his skill with relentless drive.

      He’d had a goal in mind. Get out of Melbourne, away from his parents and their bickering, drinking and unhealthy self-absorption.

      It had worked. Tennis had saved him.

      And, while resigned to leaving it behind, a small part of him was scared, petrified in fact, of letting go of the only thing that had brought normality to his life.

      ‘You’re retiring?’

      ‘That’s the plan.’

      He glanced at his watch, wishing Elliott would reappear. Trading banter with Kristi was one thing, fielding her curiosity about his retirement another.

      ‘Why?’

      Her gaze, pinpoint sharp, bored into him the same way it always did when she knew he was being evasive.

      He shrugged, leaned back, shoved his hands in his pockets to stop them from rearranging cutlery and giving away his forced casual posture.

      ‘My knee’s blown.’

      Her eyes narrowed; she wasn’t buying his excuse. ‘Reconstructed, I heard. Happens to athletes all the time. So what’s the real reason?’

      He needed to give her something or she’d never let up. He’d seen her like this before: harassing him to reveal a surprise present, pestering him to divulge the whereabouts of their surprise weekend away. She was relentless when piqued and there was no way he’d sit here and discuss his real reasons with her.

      ‘The hunger’s gone. I’m too old to match it with the up-and-coming youngsters.’

      ‘What are you, all of thirty?’

      ‘Thirty-one.’

      ‘But surely some tennis champions played ‘til they were—?’

      ‘Leave it!’

      He regretted his outburst the instant the words left his mouth, her curiosity now rampant rather than appeased.

      Rubbing his chin, he said, ‘I’m going to miss it but I’ve got other things I want to do with my life so don’t go feeling sorry for me.’

      ‘Who said anything about feeling sorry for you?’

      The relaxing of her thinned lips belied her response. ‘You’d be the last guy to pity, what with your jet-set lifestyle, your homes in Florida, Monte Carlo and Sydney. Your luxury car collection. Your—’

      ‘You read too many tabloids,’ he muttered, recognising the irony with him ready to capitalise on the paparazzi’s annoying scrutiny of his life to boost the rec centre’s profile into the stratosphere.

      ‘Part of my job.’

      He laughed. ‘Bull. You used to love poring over those gossip rags for the hell of it.’

      ‘Research, I tell you.’

      She managed a tight smile and it struck him how good this felt: the shared memories, the familiarity. He knew her faults, she knew his and where that closeness had once sent him bolting, he now found it strangely intriguing.

      ‘We need to get together before we leave for Lorikeet Island.’

      Her smile faded, replaced by wariness.

      ‘Why?’

      ‘For old times’ sake.’

      He leaned closer, crooked his finger at her. ‘Surely you don’t want to rehash our history in front of the cameras?’

      With a toss of her hair, she sipped at her mineral water, glancing at him over the rim.

      ‘The only thing happening in front of the cameras is me pretending to like you.’

      Laying a hand on her forearm, pleased when she stiffened in awareness, he murmured, ‘Sure you need to pretend? Because I remember a time when—’

      ‘Okay, okay, I liked you.’

      She snatched her arm away, but not before he’d seen the responsive glimmer darkening her eyes to sapphire. ‘It was a phase in my early twenties that passed along with my passion for leg warmers and spiral perms.’

      Not backing off an inch, he shifted his chair closer to hers.

      ‘Didn’t you hear? Leg warmers are making a comeback.’

      ‘You aren’t.’

      Her stricken expression showed him exactly how much she still cared despite protestations to the contrary. ‘With me, I meant. Not your career. Sorry. Damn …’

      ‘It’s okay.’

      Her discomfort, while rare, was refreshing. ‘So, about our pre-island catch up?’

      She sighed. ‘I guess it makes sense.’

      ‘Eight, tonight?’

      ‘Fine. Where?’

      Not ready to divulge all his secrets just yet, he said, ‘You’ll find out.’

      CHAPTER THREE

      Stranded Survival Tip #3

       Pack all your troubles in your old kit bag; but don’t forget protection … just in case.

      ‘YOU owe me an ice cream for making me wait in the car.’

      Kristi grabbed Meg’s arm and dragged her away from the all-seeing front window of Icebergs. ‘You weren’t in the car, you were strolling on the beach.’

      ‘How do you know?’

      ‘Because I saw you craning your neck to get a squiz at Jared and me through the window.’

      ‘I wasn’t craning. I was trying to stand on tiptoe.’ Meg shook her head, disgusted. ‘Still couldn’t see a darn thing.’

      Perking up as they neared the ice-cream stand, Meg grinned. ‘So, is he still as gorgeous in real life as all those dishy pictures in the papers?’

      ‘Better,’ Kristi admitted reluctantly, her head still reeling with the impact of twenty minutes in Jared’s intoxicating company, her body buzzing with recognition.

      She hadn’t expected such an instantaneous, in-your-face, overwhelming awareness of what they’d once shared, the memories bombarding her as fast as his quips.

      Every time he looked at her, she remembered staring into each other’s eyes over fish and chips on Manly beach.

      Every time he laughed, she remembered their constant teasing and the resultant chuckles.

      Every time he’d touched her, she remembered, in slow, exquisite detail, how he’d played her body with skill and expertise, heat flowing strong and swiftly to every inch of her.

      ‘I could strangle Ros for putting me in this position.’

      ‘And which position would that be? Stranded on an island with Jared? Or maybe back in his arms or—’

      Kristi gave her sister a narrowed look.

      ‘If Ros hadn’t dangled the promotion, I never would’ve gone through with this.’

      ‘Even for a chance to win a hundred grand?’

      ‘Even for that.’

      A lie, but she didn’t want to tip Meg off to her plans for the prize money. Her little sister hated pity, hated charity worse.

      When her no-good son-of-a-gun fiancé fled upon hearing news of her pregnancy, it wasn’t enough he took her self-respect,