From Sydney With Love. Kelly Hunter

brand, by all accounts. The Greenstones were to archaeology what the Kennedys had been to government. Dazzling, immensely successful and supremely ill-fated. And the only one left was Charlotte.

      Who hadn’t called.

      Or texted.

      Or emailed.

      Not that he was obsessing. Not that it would do him much good if he were.

      He placed the call. Confidence was key. That, and knowing exactly what he wanted from this woman. Right now, he wanted her on his turf and he wanted it with an intensity he usually reserved for his work.

      ‘I’m moored at the marina at Hawkesbury River,’ he said without preamble when she answered. ‘I can offer fresh seafood, cold beer, and a berth on my boat if you’ve a mind to stay over.’

      ‘Hello, Greyson,’ she said, and there was rich amusement in that whisky voice. ‘I’d almost given up on hearing from you.’

      ‘I said I’d call.’

      ‘So you did,’ she murmured. ‘I was hoping you might have managed it a little earlier.’

      ‘You have my number,’ he reminded her. ‘You could have called me.’

      ‘Ah, but a lady wouldn’t,’ she murmured. ‘Not before you renewed contact and initiated another meeting. Now I can.’

      ‘What particular book of etiquette are you working from?’ he said.

      ‘Mine.’

      ‘Don’t suppose you have a spare?’

      ‘It’s all in my head.’

      ‘That’s what I was afraid of. If it’s any consolation, I wanted to call you on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, and I almost caved and called you yesterday. There was the small matter of proving to myself that I could wait and work in the interim, not to mention letting you get your own work done.’

      ‘You’re very kind.’

      ‘I know. And now it’s Friday and the work is done and I’m done with waiting. I want to see you again.’

      ‘Have you heard from Sarah lately?’

      ‘Yes, we’ve spoken on the phone.’ Not a topic he felt inclined to discuss with a woman he wanted in his bed tonight. Even if Charlotte had been part of his efforts to deter his former fiancée. ‘I’ve made it brutally clear to both Sarah and my mother that I can’t give Sarah what she wants. I’ve also made it clear to my mother that I was disappointed in her treatment of you.’

      ‘I bet that went down well.’

      ‘It needed to be said. Even with you attending that barbecue with no emotional attachment to me whatsoever, they managed to hurt you. Imagine how much damage they could have done if you had had feelings for me.’

      ‘Hence our discussion afterwards about introducing a new partner to Sarah and your family,’ said Charlotte. ‘I’m glad you took those thoughts on board, Greyson,’ she said softly. ‘To be honest, I didn’t expect you to take them on board on my account. They were intended for the women who came after me.’

      ‘What? You don’t think you deserve to be treated with respect or given a fair go?’

      Grey waited for some wry and clever comeback but Charlotte stayed strangely silent.

      ‘My mother wants to know my intentions towards you.’

      ‘What did you tell her?’ Wariness in Charlotte’s beautiful velvet voice now. A reserve he didn’t want to hear.

      ‘I told her I’d never met a more fascinating woman.’ Truth. Bare and unvarnished and Charlotte could make of it what she would. ‘I wasn’t lying, Charlotte. I want to see you again. Have dinner with me tonight. Stay over if you like or head home afterwards but come. Come spend some time with me.’

      ‘Okay.’ Nothing cool about Charlotte now. Her voice had gone husky, bringing with it memories of whispered entreaties and outrageous sexual pleasure. ‘I figure I can be there around seven. And Greyson?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Thank you for championing me, and, yes. I’m of a mind to stay over.’

      Charlotte’s commute home from work took time. The drive down to the Hawkesbury involved getting across the bridge and through the city during Friday night rush hour, and took considerably longer. She’d called Greyson to inform him of her delay in case it affected the dinner plans. He’d assured her it wouldn’t. He’d told her to take her time. She’d told him he’d better be worth it. Not his decision to make, he’d told her, and hung up.

      One slow and crooked smile of welcome from Greyson as he took her overnight bag from her and held out his hand to help her up the stairs of his gleaming catamaran went some way towards making Charlotte glad she’d said yes to his plans. The way he filled out his grey canvas long shorts and had left his white shirt unbuttoned went further.

      ‘In my defence, I’d forgotten all about the traffic,’ he said, and mollified her some more.

      ‘So had I,’ she said as she slipped off her shoes to go barefoot on his deck. A very high deck, she decided as she straightened and glanced over the side of the catamaran. ‘Nice boat. I should have realised you’d be a sailor, what with your folks’ holiday house on the water and your water-weed work.’

      ‘I was five when I got my first catamaran,’ he said affably as he guided her along the craft towards an enclosed area that spanned the twin hulls. ‘It was love at first sight. I wanted to sleep on it. My mother said I could when I got a bit older.’

      ‘How old were you before you got your way?’

      ‘Eight.’ No sign of the formidable Dr Greyson Tyler in the grin he shot her; he was all boy and finally living his dream. ‘Longest three years of my life.’

      Greyson opened a sliding glass door into a spacious living area, compact galley with plenty of bench space and sitting areas to one side, a lounge area to the other and more seats and a table to the fore. ‘I usually eat in here,’ he said. ‘Sleeping quarters are down in the hulls.’ He set Charlotte’s bag at her feet and his smile turned wry. ‘Guest hull is to your left, mine’s to your right, and I’ve no idea what etiquette demands. You choose.’

      ‘Where do your women friends usually sleep?’

      ‘Not here,’ he said gruffly and continued with the tour. ‘Bridge is above us and there’s a little cove where we can anchor for the night about fifteen minutes away. Your call which comes first, food or more travel. There’s a plate of seafood starters in the fridge. We can take it up to the bridge if you’re inclined to multitask.’

      ‘You eat on the bridge?’

      ‘I do when it’s past dinner time and I want to appease a beautiful woman,’ he murmured. ‘I can be flexible.’

      ‘And I can be grateful,’ she said. ‘I’m for getting under way and I’ll bring the feast to you.’

      Greyson nodded and headed back along the cat, casting off and heading for the bridge. They weren’t under sail and moments later an engine purred to life. Charlotte made herself at home in the little galley, opening the fridge and pulling out a high-lipped flat-bottomed bowl crammed with shelled king prawns, oysters, and various types of dipping sauce.

      Not a dish that required hours of fiddly preparation, but effort had been made nonetheless. Point for Greyson.

      Dish in hand, Charlotte headed out of the cabin and climbed the stairs to the bridge as Greyson eased the craft slowly away from the dock. Once clear of the marina and other craft, he throttled up and the cat responded with surprising alacrity. Plenty of horsepower at Greyson’s fingertips, and as for the catamaran itself, a great deal more luxury than Charlotte had expected. This wasn’t just a pleasure craft; it was a home, and one that reflected