From Sydney With Love. Kelly Hunter

He took his time, worked his way calmly and methodically through the red tape associated with such endeavours, and eventually he got his way. He always got his way, eventually, and he always got results.

      He’d known he was tempting fate when he’d boxed his office effects up, ready to ship back to Australia, and hadn’t personally delivered the box into the hands of the freight carrier. He’d thought twice before leaving that task up to Mariah, the latest in a long line of temporary secretaries. Mariah had potential. She might even make a halfway decent administrative assistant one day. Presuming, of course, that she mastered the art of punctuality.

      He’d left her a note with the name of the freight company he wanted to use. He’d left ‘Please Send To’ details right there on her desk. He’d set his misgivings aside and departed on his final field trip up-river without talking Mariah through the process.

      Bad move.

      She had used the freight company he’d recommended, that was something.

      But she swore blue that she’d never seen the mailing address Grey had left for her, so when the email from his fiancée had come in—asking for a photo of him—and said fiancée had also been agreeable to Mariah sending the rest of his things her way, well … Problem solved.

      A chain of events that showed initiative and even sounded halfway reasonable, except for one small anomaly.

      He didn’t have a fiancée.

      He did, however, have a shipping address, and a phone call to the University of Sydney’s information line gave him a work phone number for his beloved intended.

      Charlotte Greenstone was her name, and she was an Associate Professor of Archaeology, no less.

      He’d never heard of her.

      He was prepared to be considerate, given that there had clearly been a mistake, and that she presumably did have a fiancé in these parts with a similar name to his. He was prepared to give her some leeway when it came to the return of his possessions. And if she didn’t have his office effects already in her possession, he could warn her that they’d be arriving soon and that he’d be by to collect them.

      He’d just completed his final set of measurements. Three years’ worth of research all done, which meant he could be out of here.

      Not a moment too soon in the opinion of some.

      He could be back in Sydney by tomorrow. He could collect his office contents, head for his catamaran moored on the Hawkesbury River just north of Sydney, find a suitably secluded cove to anchor in, and analyse his data from there. His cat was ocean-going and had all the amenities he would need. He’d lived on her before.

      He could kiss goodbye lawlessness and brutality and live for a time in a place where one’s possessions had a halfway chance of staying in one’s possession.

      Tempting.

      He put a call through to Charlotte Greenstone’s number and got her answering machine. A warm and surprisingly youthful voice told him to leave a message and she’d get back to him.

      It was six-thirty on a Friday afternoon, Sydney time. Chances were that Associate Professor Charlotte had skipped for the weekend already, which meant the soonest he could reasonably expect a call back was Monday morning, her time. By which time he could be at her office collecting his office. He could be on the catamaran, set up and working, by Monday afternoon.

      Aspro Charlotte had left a mobile phone number on her answering machine for urgent requests. Probably a good idea to check with her before he left PNG that she hadn’t turned his belongings around already.

      This time when he called he got her in person. Same smooth velvety voice. The kind of voice that slid down a man’s spine and reminded him that he hadn’t had a woman in a while. He cleared his throat, nonplussed by the notion that he’d responded to the voice of a woman his mother’s age. Associate professorship took time.

      ‘Hello?’ she said again, and damned if his body didn’t respond again and to hell with her advancing years.

      ‘Professor Greenstone, my name’s Grey Tyler,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Dr Grey Tyler, botanist. I’m calling from PNG.’

      Silence at that.

      ‘We’re not acquainted but I’m hoping you can help me.’ There. He was politeness itself. His mother would be proud. Charlotte Greenstone would be impressed. ‘I’m based in Port Moresby, although I spend a lot of time travelling between research sites in the country’s interior. I’ve just returned from such a trip to find that the contents of my office have been shipped to you by mistake.’

      ‘Yes,’ she said faintly. ‘Yes, Dr Tyler, your belongings arrived today. Did you get my email?’

      ‘Email?’ he echoed.

      ‘The one I sent you from your computer in the hope that you were still accessing your emails,’ she said. ‘Although judging by the several hundred emails that subsequently popped in to your inbox, I wasn’t all that hopeful.’

      ‘You accessed my computer?’ What about his password protection? The supposedly unassailable drive he kept his research files on? ‘How?’

      ‘Actually, it was the IT guy who did the accessing,’ she confessed. ‘He’s very good. And we only accessed your emails and we only did that to get your contact details. I tried calling the number in your signature line but you no longer seem to have a functioning phone.’

      ‘Forget the phone, you accessed my computer?’

      ‘Dr Tyler, why don’t you just tell me where you want your box sent?’ Not so mellow now, that gorgeous voice. Impatience had crept in, firing up his own.

      ‘Nowhere. Don’t send it anywhere. I’ll pick it up on Monday.’

      ‘What?’ For some reason, Charlotte Greenstone didn’t sound overly enamoured of the notion.

      ‘Monday,’ he repeated. ‘Preferably Monday morning.’

      ‘No!’ she said. ‘That plan’s really not going to work for me.’

      ‘Then outline a course of action that will,’ he countered. ‘I need my office back, Professor. I’ve work to do.’

      ‘Will you be in Sydney on Sunday?’ she asked.

      ‘I hope to be.’ Plane ticket willing.

      ‘I’ll go and get your box from work tomorrow, Dr Tyler. You can pick it up from my private address on Sunday or I will drop it in to wherever you’re staying. Does that suit?’

      Decisive woman. And yes, it suited him just fine. She gave him her address. They arranged a collection time.

      And when he got off the phone, the memory of her voice stayed with him and refused to go away.

      ‘Keep it simple,’ Charlotte said to herself for the umpteenth time that morning. Sunday morning, to be exact. Sunday morning at Aurora’s, no less, for that was the pickup address she’d given Grey Tyler.

      Dr Greyson Tyler was a water weed control specialist. She’d discerned this from the research papers he’d authored and co-authored. Lots of them, and he didn’t bother submitting to the smaller journals either. Quality work, all the way.

      Maybe she’d read one of his papers years ago and filed his name and that larger than life persona of his somewhere in the dim recesses of her mind. Maybe that was why, when she’d needed an absent fictional fiancé, she’d picked the name Tyler, only she’d used Gil for a first name instead of Greyson. Greyson being far too formidable a name for any fiancé, fictional or otherwise.

      Not that it mattered, for within an hour his box would be gone and so would he, and after that there would be no more fictional fiancés ever and certainly no doing away with them. ‘This I pledge,’ she said fervently.

      By