A Groom For The Taking. Rebecca Winters

I am about to encounter when I step across the Gatehouse threshold.’

      ‘The Gatehouse?’

      ‘The hotel.’

      ‘Regretting your choice?’

      That earned him a glance from pale green eyes that could cut glass. ‘You truly think I would organise for my only sister to get married in some dive?’

      ‘I guess it depends if you like your only sister. How long did you say it’s been since you’ve seen her?’

      Her cheeks turned pinker still: a bright, warm, enchanting pink as blood rushed to her face. But she chose to ignore his insinuation. ‘The Gatehouse, I’ll have you know, is a slice of pure heaven. Like a Swiss chalet, tucked into a forest of snow-dappled gumtrees. A mere short hike to the stunning Cradle Mountain. A hundred beautiful rooms, six gloriously decadent restaurants, a fabulous nightclub, a cinema, a state-of-the-art gym. And don’t even get me started on the suites.’

      Her eyes drifted shut and she shuddered. No, it was more like a tremble. It started at her shoulders and shimmied down her form, finishing up at her boot-clad feet, one of which had lifted to tuck in tight behind her opposite calf.

      Sensation prickled down his arms, across his abdomen, between his thighs. He could do nothing but stand there, grit his teeth, and hope to high heaven she’d soon be done and he could get away from this crazy pink boudoir before it fried any more of his brain cells.

      Hell. Who was this woman, and where had she put his trusty assistant?

      If it were not for those wide, wide, frank pale green eyes that looked right into his, not the tiniest bit intimidated by his infamy, bullheadedness or insularity, he’d be wondering if he was in the right apartment.

      That would teach him to try and do something nice for somebody else. Another lesson learnt.

      Her foot slid down her calf, and as though nothing had happened she went back to the pile of papers.

      ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I think we can safely assume Sonja will survive till Tuesday.’ She ruffled a hand through her hair, and it ended up looking even more loose and carefree and sexy as hell. ‘I’m ready.’

      She ruffled a hand through her hair, and it ended up looking even more loose and carefree, and sexy as hell.

      His hands grew restless, as if he wasn’t quite sure where to put them. As if they wanted to go somewhere his brain knew they ought not.

      So he gave them a job and grabbed the handle of her suitcase. One yank and his stomach muscles clenched. ‘What did you pack in here? Bricks?’

      A hand slunk to her hip, buried somewhere deep beneath acres of grey wool, temptingly hiding more than they revealed.

      ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I have filled the bag with bricks—not, as one might assume, a long weekend’s worth of clothes, shoes and under-things that will take me from day to night, PJs to wedding formal. Have you never been to a wedding before?’

      ‘Never.’

      ‘Wow. I’m not sure if you’ve missed out or if you’re truly the luckiest man alive. While you’re trekking through some of the most beautiful scenery in the world—bar Tasmania’s, of course—I’ll be changing outfits more times than a pop singer in a film clip.’

      Bradley closed his eyes to stop the vision that throwaway comment brought forth before it could fully manifest itself inside his head.

      ‘Car’s downstairs,’ he growled, hefting the bag out through her front door. ‘Be there in five minutes or your—’

       Underthings that will take you from day to night.

      ‘Your gear and I will be gone without you.’

      ‘Okey-dokey.’

      With a dismissive wave over her shoulder she went looking for Sonja to say her goodbyes.

      Feeling oddly as if a small pair of hands had just unclenched themselves from the front of his shirt, Bradley was out of that door and away from all that soft velvet, stifling frills and froufrou pink that had clearly been chosen specifically in order to scramble a man’s brains.

      To the airport, up in the plane, drop her off, thanks gifted—and then to New Zealand he and his research crew would go. He, his research crew, and a juvenile intern who could spend half the day discussing ‘underthings’ and not affect his blood pressure in the slightest.

       CHAPTER THREE

      HANNAH stood in the doorway of the Gulf-stream jet.

      Place? Launceston, Tasmania.

      Time of arrival? Mid-morning.

      Temperature? Freezing.

      She breathed in the crisp wintry air though her nose. Boy, did it smell amazing. Soft, green, untainted. She could actually hear birds singing. And the sky was so clear and blue it hurt her eyes. A small smile crept into the corners of her mouth.

      She hadn’t been sure how she’d feel, stepping foot back on Tassie soil after such a long time in Melbourne. How parochial the place would feel in comparison with her bustling cosmopolitan base.

      It felt like home.

      A deep voice behind her said, ‘What? No “welcome home” banner? No marching band?’

      ‘Oh, Lord,’ she said as she jumped. Then, ‘I’m going, I’m going! You can get on your way. Go back inside. It’s freezing.’

      ‘I’m a big boy. I can handle the cold.’ Bradley threw the last of a bag of macadamia nuts into his mouth as he looked over her shoulder. ‘So this is Tasmania.’

      She looked out over Launceston International Airport. One simple flat-roofed building sat on the edge of acres of pocked grey Tarmac. A light drizzle thickened the cold air. Patches of old snow lay scattered in pockets of shade, while the rest of the ground was covered in little melted puddles.

      As far as first impressions went it was hardly going to ring Bradley’s adventure-savvy bell.

      ‘No,’ she said, ‘this is an airport. Tasmania is the hidden wonder beyond.’

      ‘Get a move on, then. I don’t have all day.’

      She shook her head. ‘Sorry. Of course. Thanks. For the lift. But, please, I don’t need one back. I’ll see you Tuesday.’

      With that she gave him a short wave, before jogging down the stairs—only to see the pilot had her bags plonked on the Tarmac next to another set of luggage that looked distinctly like Bradley’s.

      ‘What’s he doing?’ she asked. Then turned to find Bradley was right behind her.

      Instinct had her slamming her hands against his chest so as not to topple onto her backside. Her hips against his thighs. Her right knee wedged hard between his.

      Hard muscles clenched instantly beneath her touch. Hot, hard, Bradley-shaped muscles.

      All she could think was that, God, he felt good. Big. Strong. Solid. Warm. All too real. She blinked up into his eyes to find glinting circles of deepest grey staring down at her.

      ‘You’re shaking,’ he said, glowering as though she had somehow offended his sensibilities.

      She curled her fingers into her palms and hid them beneath her poncho as she took a distinct step back, her body arching towards him even while she dragged herself away. ‘Of course I’m shaking. It’s barely above zero.’

      He looked out across the Tarmac, as though for a moment he’d forgotten where they were. Then his hand hovered to where her hands had been against his chest. He scratched the spot absent-mindedly. ‘Really?’ he rumbled. ‘I hadn’t