Australian Escape. Amy Andrews

Luke, Avery couldn’t be sure.

      “What about you? Seeing anyone? Since Raoul?”

      “Too busy,” Claude said with a wistful sigh. “No time. No energy. Especially for the likes of Raoul.”

      “Stuff Raoul. Stuff Luke. You should have a fling with some hot blond surfie type, who has big brown muscles and never wears shoes and says dude a lot.”

      “Not leaving much room for movement there.”

      “It’s a beach. In Australia. Walk outside right now and you’ll trip over half a dozen of them.”

      Claudia checked her phone as if checking the time to see if she could squeeze in a quick fling, then saw she’d missed a message. And her whole demeanour changed: back stiffening, her eyebrows flying high. “It’s Luke,” she said. “He’s gone.”

      “What? Where?”

      “London.”

      “When?”

      “Some time between when he dropped me back at the resort last night and now. Dammit. We had the best conversation we’ve had all summer last night. About the old days, the mischief we used to get up to behind the scenes in this place, and the crazy plans we made for when we got to take over the resort, and how we used to watch The Love Boat.... And then he ditches me...us faster than a speeding bullet?” Frowning, Claudia pressed a thumb to her temple. “Jerk.”

      “Why?”

      “Why is he a jerk? Let me count the ways—”

      “No, why did he leave?”

      Claudia waved her phone at Avery, too fast for her to catch a word. “‘Important Work.’ More important than here? His birthright? This place is the entire reason he’s as successful as he is!” Claudia nibbled at a fingernail, her right knee shaking so hard it creaked, and stared over at the desk. “I’d better get back.”

      Avery’s eyes glanced off her friend’s less than perfect chignon, the dark smudges under her sunny blue eyes. The curve of her shoulders since Luke’s message. It was obvious things weren’t as peachy as Claude was making out; even Avery could see the resort wasn’t as busy as it ought to have been at the height of summer. But she knew her stubborn little friend well enough to know that Claude would come to her in her own time.

      Till then, Avery worked her magic the way she best knew how. She took Claude’s stressed little face in her hands, removed a bobby pin, smoothed the errant hair into place, and slid the pin back in. “There, there. All better. Now, my clever, inventive, wonderful friend, go get ’em.”

      Claude sighed out a smile, and then tottered off, her hips swinging in her shiny navy capris, the yellow and blue Hawaiian-print shirt somehow working for her.

      Good deed for the day done, Avery lay back on the couch. Unfortunately the second she closed her eyes the night she’d been holding at bay came swarming back to her.

      Jonah’s mouth on hers, tasting her as if she were precious, delicious, a delicacy he couldn’t get enough of. His calloused touch making paths all over her body.

      She snapped her eyes open, early morning light reflecting off the white columns and walls.

      At least Luke had had the good grace to let Claudia know when he’d done a runner. Avery had dressed in the dark, called a cab and split. Even if none of her expensive schools had given classes on Mornings After, she was well aware that it was just bad form.

      She pulled herself up and padded back to her room. She needed a shower. She needed a coffee. Then, as usual, it was up to her to put the world back to rights.

       EIGHT

      Avery really got the hang of the right-hand drive in Claudia’s car—a bright yellow hatchback named Mabel with Tropicana Nights’s logo emblazoned over every possible surface—about the time she hit Port Douglas.

      The GPS on her phone led her to Charter North’s operations, down a long straight road past a bright green golf course, million-dollar homes, and ten-million-dollar views.

      She eased through the high gate and pulled to a halt by a security guard in a booth.

      To her left was a car park big enough to fit fifty-odd cars, with a dozen gleaming sky-blue Charter North charter buses lined up beside a neat glass and brick building. Oceanside was a perfect row of crisp white sheds, as big as light airplane hangars, the Charter North logo on each catching glints of sunshine.

      She knew the guy owned a few boats. And a helicopter. And a shack. Now nautical empire didn’t seem such a stretch.

      “Ma’am?” the security guard said, bringing her back to earth.

      “Sorry. Ah, Avery Shaw to see Jonah North.”

      He took down her licence plate and let her through with a smile. She pulled into a car park in time for a super-friendly man in chinos and a navy polo shirt—who introduced himself as Tim the office manager—to point the way to a big white building hovering over the water. To Jonah. She would have known anyway, as right in a patch of sun outside lay Hull.

      The sun beat down on her flowy shirt, and her bare legs beneath her short shorts. Her silver sandals slapped against the wood of the jetty and Hull lifted his speckled head at her approach.

      “Hey, Hull,” she whispered. His tail gave three solid thumps—meaning he at least wasn’t about to eat her alive for dissing his master—then he went back to guarding the door. Her heart took up the rhythm; whumping so loud she feared it might echo.

      The door was open a crack so she snuck inside—and understood instantly why Hull was stationed outside. Jonah had said the dog hated water, and inside huge jetties criss-crossed the floor and a ways below the ocean bobbed and swished against the pylons holding the building suspended above the waves.

      A few boats were hooked to the walls by high-tech electrical arms, one in the process of being fixed. Yet another was getting a wash, and spray flew over the top and onto the jetty.

      Not seeing any other movement, Avery eased that way, taking care where she stepped as the wood beneath her feet grew wet.

      Until against one wall she saw a familiar surfboard. Silvery-grey, like its owner’s eyes, with the shadow of a great palm tree right down the middle, and her heart beat so hard it filled her throat.

      Because she knew why she’d fled in the middle of the night. Somehow in the odd sequence of meetings that had led her to Jonah’s bed, she’d got to know the guy. And despite his ornery moods she even liked him.

      She’d woken up terrified that those feelings would unleash her Pollyanna side upon him—Like me! Love me!— like some rabid pixie hell-bent on smothering the world with fairy dust. Not quite so terrified, though, as what it might mean if Pollyanna still didn’t show up at all.

      Her feet felt numb as she came upon a curled-up hose, water trickling from its mouth. Then around the bow of the boat she found suds. And at the end of a great big sponge was Jonah. Feet bare, sopping wet jean shorts clinging to his strong thighs, T-shirt clinging wet to the dips and planes of his gorgeous chest.

      As Avery’s gaze swept over him, over his roguish dark hair, over the curve of his backside, his athletic legs, she didn’t realise how dry her mouth had become until she opened it to talk. “You could hire people to do that, you know.”

      Jonah stilled. Then his deep grey eyes lifted and caught on her. She felt the look like a hook through the belly—yet he gave nothing away.

      A moment later, he turned off the hose, threw the sponge into a bucket at his feet, wiped his forearm across his forehead, and slowly headed her way.

      And when he spoke his deep Australian drawl twisted the hook so deep inside she was sure it would leave a scar. “I have hired people to do this.” A beat, then, “But today I find being around water a damn fine