The From Paris With Love And Regency Season Of Secrets Ultimate Collection. Кэрол Мортимер

told him. ‘There are many principles of equality that I adhere to.’

      ‘Wonderful,’ he said dryly. ‘Power-based selective feminism. Can’t wait to experience that.’

      ‘Oh, I dare say you already have,’ she murmured. ‘How long were you engaged?’

      ‘One year. And Sarah opens her own doors.’

      ‘As is her choice,’ said Charlotte magnanimously. ‘Did you live with her?’

      ‘No. I spent most of that time in PNG. In my defence, Sarah knew I’d committed to a three year project there before we became engaged.’

      ‘Perhaps she thought she could tolerate the wait,’ said Charlotte. ‘And discovered otherwise.’

      ‘Yes,’ he said heavily, and won several points for honesty. ‘That’s pretty much what happened.’

      Not a comfortable topic of conversation for Greyson Tyler, decided Charlotte. Plenty of skeletons in that cupboard.

      ‘Sarah’s a smart woman,’ he continued. ‘Capable. Loyal. Lovely. I want her to be happy. I want her to realise that calling off our engagement was a good decision and that one day she’ll meet someone who can fulfil all her needs, not just some of them.’

      ‘Idealistic,’ murmured Charlotte.

      ‘Practical,’ he countered.

      ‘If you say so. You know what’s interesting when you speak of your Sarah?’ said Charlotte. ‘You never speak of passion. Or longing. Or needing to wake up beside her. Did you never feel that? Not even in the beginning?’

      Grey stayed stubbornly silent.

      ‘I see,’ she said gently. ‘Then I guess she is better off without you.’

      They drove the next twenty kilometres in silence.

      ‘So when did we meet?’ asked Charlotte, determinedly breaking the silence.

      ‘Three months ago when I was in Brisbane for a conference. I stayed a fortnight longer than planned because of you. We kept in touch. How does that sound?’

      ‘Plausible. I’m liking the implied passion. Let’s face it; you’re not offering commitment, progeny, or fiscal support. There’s got to be something in it for me.’

      ‘There is. A back-from-the-dead fiancé who suffered the ignominy of almost being eaten by cannibals.’

      ‘Something else,’ she said, not above a little needling of her own. ‘I’m thinking that if I really was the free-spirited type, I’d probably only want you for the sex. Outrageously intimate sex of the most delectable kind. The kind of passionate tour de force a woman would go out of her way to encounter.’ Charlotte lifted her sunglasses and favoured him with a sultry glance. ‘How does that sound?’

      ‘I’ve no complaints,’ he said gruffly.

      ‘Excellent,’ she murmured. ‘I do hope you can keep your end of the pretence up.’

      ‘It’s up.’ God, what was it about this woman’s voice that had him reacting like an oversexed schoolboy? Grey suffered that knowing gaze of hers drifting down his body in silence. He suffered the lift of her elegant eyebrow and the tiny tilt of generously curved lips.

      ‘Stop it,’ he muttered.

      ‘Practice makes perfect,’ she said airily. ‘I’m a method actor.’

      He put the radio on, a man in need of a diversion. ‘Tell me about your work,’ he said, and then just as quickly decided against hearing it. Given the effect of her voice on his body, it was probably best if she didn’t speak at all. ‘No. I’ve changed my mind. Don’t speak. Take a nap or something. Pretend you had a tiring night.’

      ‘I did have a tiring night,’ she said. ‘I dreamed of you.’

      Greyson Tyler quite unknowingly brought out the worst in her, decided Charlotte as they drove up a steep and winding track to his parents’ weekender on the river. Tall gums and rocky undergrowth stretched before them and a vast river flowed behind them, placid and serene. None of it could stop the butterflies from starting up in her stomach. None of it could match the man beside her when it came to arresting views. He’d dressed casually in old jeans and a white linen shirt with a round neck. The shirt could have looked effeminate, but not on those shoulders, and not with that face.

      No, with those shoulders and that face and that lean and tight rear end of his, the metro shirt served only to emphasise the blatant masculinity of the body beneath.

      ‘Ready?’ he asked gruffly.

      ‘Ready,’ she said with far more confidence than the situation warranted. ‘Just as soon as you open the car door.’

      He got out and came round to her side of the car and opened the door. He put his hand out to assist her graceful exit. He even managed to hide his impatience with the whole antiquated process.

      Almost.

      ‘Thank you, Greyson,’ she said magnanimously as she flowed out of the car and into his arms, one hand still in his and one hand covering his heart as she pressed her lips to that strong square jaw. ‘You’ll figure out this game yet.’

      ‘I already have,’ he murmured. ‘It’s about torture, and touch, and it’s dangerous.’ His mouth hovered over hers. His eyes promised retribution. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

      ‘And a gentleman is born.’ Charlotte smiled in slow challenge, but peripheral movement made her glance beyond Greyson. A trim, well-preserved older woman had come out onto the deck of the house and stood watching. ‘I think your mother’s watching us.’

      ‘Good,’ he murmured, and kissed her. Not swiftly or perfunctorily, but with a sensual abandon that a mother probably didn’t need to see.

      ‘How am I doing so far on the led-astray-by-passion front?’ he murmured when he’d finished with her.

      ‘Quite well,’ she offered, her words little more than a strangled squeak. ‘Mind you, Gilbert would never have subjected me to such kisses in front of his mother. Gil had more sense.’

      ‘Pity he wasn’t real,’ said Greyson silkily.

      Cheap shot. So was the hand she deliberately let brush across the well-packed front of his jeans as she sailed past him and summoned up what she hoped was a meet-the-parents smile. Charlotte wasn’t all that familiar with parents, hers or anyone else’s, but mentioning this tiny snippet to Greyson now would only alarm him.

      ‘You must be Charlotte,’ said the older woman with a smile. Not entirely friendly, not exactly brimming with antagonism either. Greyson’s mother was reserving judgement. ‘We’ve heard a lot about you of late.’

      ‘She’s lying,’ said Greyson, coming up the deck stairs behind Charlotte and putting his hand to the small of her back as he leaned in and pressed a light kiss to his mother’s perfectly powdered cheek. ‘I told her you lectured at the university and that she’d be meeting you on Sunday. That’s all I told her.’

      ‘Thus ensuring a week’s worth of rampant speculation,’ Greyson’s mother said dryly before turning her attention back to Charlotte. ‘Call me Olivia,’ she said. ‘And I promise to limit my curiosity to the basics. Age. Weight. Intentions …’

      Charlotte twirled on the ball of her ballet slippers and ran smack bang into Greyson’s chest.

      ‘The door’s that way,’ he rumbled.

      ‘I know.’ She stared up at him, more than a little panicked. ‘I really don’t think I can do this.’

      ‘Coward,’ he said next. ‘Think of your reputation.’

      ‘I’m thinking it’s shattered beyond repair anyway,’ she