From Sydney With Love. Kelly Hunter

feelings about the role he’d asked her to play and the hits she would take on his behalf.

      ‘You should know that a research scientist never misses an opportunity to expound on his work,’ he offered gravely. ‘You don’t even have to be an appreciative audience. You just have to be awake. And, yes, I’ll join you for coffee.’

      They stepped into a lift and went up a few floors and came out onto a landing with only two doors leading from it, one of which was labelled ‘Fire Escape.’

      Charlotte’s penthouse apartment boasted a million-dollar close-up view of Sydney Harbour Bridge, framed by enormous, double—or triple—glazed tinted windows. White was the predominant colour in the apartment; white walls and ceilings, white marble floors, white kitchen fixtures and benches and a snow-white leather lounge. And then, as if someone had taken exception to the designer palate and vowed to melt it down, an eclectic array of paintings, sculptures, books, tapestries and floor rugs in every imaginable colour and from every imaginable historical period had been added to the mix.

      He stopped in front of a painting formed entirely of various coloured oil paints dripped onto a canvas in no particular order.

      ‘Do you like it?’ she said.

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘Abstract art. Jackson Pollock’s finest. It’s whatever you want it to be.’

      ‘Handy,’ he murmured. ‘You own this?’

      Charlotte nodded. ‘It was my grandmother’s.

      Lots of rumours about how she came to own it. My favourite one is that she and Pollock were friends and that she won it from him in a card game. Rumour has it they were initially playing with coins from the Roman Empire. As the stakes got higher, the currency of the realm went twentieth century.’

      ‘What exactly does a person throw in the pot to match a Jackson Pollock painting?’ he asked.

      ‘Could have been the Dali,’ she said.

      Of course. The Dali. ‘Family wealth, you said. Just how much family wealth is there?’

      ‘Plenty,’ she said dryly. ‘My great grandfather was in shipping. My grandmother added luxury liners to the mix and then divested herself of the lot when she hit her fifties. Said it had sapped the life out of her. She turned philanthropist, gave a lot of her possessions away, but she still left my mother extremely well provided for. She urged my mother to follow her heart. My mother took her advice, chose my father and archaeology, and by all accounts was ecstatically happy with both. My parents died in a light aircraft crash in Peru when I was five.’

      ‘Long time ago,’ he murmured.

      ‘So it was. I usually went everywhere with them but that day they decided to leave me at the hotel with Aurora.’

      ‘This is the Aurora who died recently? Your godmother? The one you invented a fiancé for?’

      Charlotte nodded. ‘Aurora was an archaeologist like my parents. Fortunately for me, they’d also named her as my guardian in their wills. From then on, I went where Aurora went and that was everywhere. You take milk in your coffee?’

      ‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘How long have you worked at Sydney Uni?’

      ‘Five years.’

      ‘And this associate professorship, it allows for the kind of travel you’re used to?’

      ‘No, it’s a desk job.’

      ‘And you’re not fed up with that?’

      ‘Not yet.’ She set spoons and a bowl of sugar on the counter. A pewter sugar bowl with dragonfly handles. ‘I like the stability. I like the people I work closely with. I even like the routine, and I can usually tolerate the politics. And what with communications these days, field teams can get photos and data to me and I can make comment within minutes if required.’

      ‘You wouldn’t rather be there?’

      ‘I’ve been there,’ she murmured. ‘I travelled that road for twenty-three years. When Aurora retired, I lost enthusiasm for it. It just wasn’t the same without her and I didn’t want to continue on alone. I hate being alone.’ Charlotte absent-mindedly brushed dark curls from her face. ‘I can play your free-spirited bohemian friend to perfection, Greyson. I have many role models I can look to for inspiration. Heaven knows, my boss would be ecstatic if I went back out into the field for a while. Problem is, I’m very fond of my settled existence. Of being among familiar faces. I think that in the absence of family I look to the community for a sense of belonging. Of place. I need to feel connected to something, whereas you … you need to be free. It’s why we’d never gel in real life. It’s why, deep down inside, I’m no better suited to you than Sarah is.’

      ‘Thanks for the warning.’

      ‘My pleasure,’ she said gravely. ‘Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy your company. Doesn’t mean that when it comes to a short-term liaison I couldn’t be tempted to take my fill of you. You are a spectacularly beautiful specimen and you have some very fine qualities.’

      Charlotte murmured something else but Grey’s brain had ceased functioning the moment she’d mentioned the words short-term liaison and tempted.

      He tracked Charlotte’s every move as she set the coffee machine to working. Moments later a steaming cup of fragrant coffee-beaned joy sat on the gleaming granite-topped kitchen counter in front of him. Too hot for drinking, so he added sugar and stirred and Charlotte did the same to hers. The porcelain teaspoons had porcelain ladybirds on them.

      ‘So, Borneo next,’ she said eventually.

      ‘Maybe. There’s write-up work to do on the PNG project first. Reports. Papers. Probably some presentation work.’

      ‘Ah, yes. The Glory,’ she murmured. ‘A scientist’s pleasure.’

      There were other types of pleasure.

      ‘About your thoughts on short-term liaisons,’ he muttered, and suffered her knowing gaze and her delicately raised eyebrow with dogged determination. ‘What are they?’

      ‘Would you like an in-depth analysis or just the summary?’ she enquired sweetly.

      ‘Just the summary.’

      ‘Okay. Assuming that both participants are free from all other romantic entanglements, I’m reasonably in favour of flings as a legitimate means of providing temporary companionship and sexual satisfaction.’

      ‘That’s a very bohemian outlook for a woman who eschews a carefree life.’

      ‘If you say so. Of course, even a temporary partner has to fit certain criteria. A different set of criteria from that expected of a life partner.’

      ‘Of course,’ murmured Grey. ‘Do you have a list?’

      ‘Of course.’ She didn’t elaborate, just smiled. Charlotte Greenstone knew how to make a man work for what he wanted.

      ‘Let me guess,’ he murmured as he set his coffee aside and leaned over the counter towards her, his mouth mere inches from her own. ‘You need to be attracted to him.’

      ‘Well, naturally.’

      ‘He needs to satisfy you sexually.’

      ‘Goes without saying.’ Her gaze had settled on his lips. ‘I’m thinking we’d be good to go in that respect.’

      ‘Does he need to be wealthier than you?’

      ‘No, but he does need to feel secure enough in his circumstances for my wealth not to intimidate him. I don’t need to dine at the most expensive restaurant in the city. I don’t need to be lavished with expensive gifts. What I do expect, when a temporary liaison invites me out to dinner or drinks or a show, is that he pays for it. When I do the inviting, payment will naturally fall to me.’

      ‘Sounds