LITMIR.BIZ

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know who’d grabbed whose hand first, but she was grateful for the comfort. The room shuddered around them for what seemed like for ever but was probably seconds, stopped, then shuddered again.

      Finally everything went still. Cautiously, Zoe inched out from under the table. She nearly gagged on the combined scent of spilled aromatherapy oils. When the masseuse told her they had to head to an emergency meeting point she nodded, too choked with anxiety to actually reply.

      She wanted to get out into the open ASAP. But she was naked—save for the flimsy paper panties she’d donned for the massage to protect her modesty—and her clothes and sandals were in an inaccessible closet. She snatched up the white towel that had covered her on the massage table and with clumsy, trembling fingers wrapped it around her, tucking it in as securely as she could. In bare feet, she picked her way around the shards of broken bottles on the floor, grabbed her handbag and followed the masseuse outside.

      Still reeling with shock, Zoe hurried along the tropical plant-lined pathway that led from the spa to the main building and pool area of the hotel. To her intense relief there didn’t appear to be a lot of damage. But her fear didn’t dissipate. Once before disaster had struck from nowhere, changing her life for ever. Who knew what she could expect here?

      During her stay she hadn’t taken much notice of the other guests. Each villa was completely private, with high walls around it and its own lap pool. Now she was surprised at the number of people gathered for an emergency briefing in the open courtyard outside the reception area. She was the only one in the crowd to be clad in just a towel, but other people were in swimwear or wearing assorted hastily donned garments.

      Could she get to her room? If she was going to die she didn’t want it to be in a white standard-issue hotel towel.

      The other guests were terrified too. She could see it in their grim faces, hear their concern in the murmur of conversation in several different languages.

      The hotel manager took the floor to reassure them that the tremor was low on the Richter Scale of seismic activity. He told his guests that electricity had been knocked out but that the hotel emergency generators would soon kick in and it would be business as usual. There was no need to panic.

       But what if there were aftershocks?

      The manager’s reassuring words did little to make Zoe’s rapid heartbeat subside or her hands less clammy. It was time to get out of here, before any other disaster might strike. She’d seen the sights. She’d wound down. She’d been pampered from head to toe. Now she was anxious to get home.

      She was just about to ask the manager if the airport was open when a man spoke from several rows of people behind her.

      ‘Is there a tsunami warning?’ he asked.

      The word ‘tsunami’ was enough to strike renewed fear into Zoe’s heart. But it wasn’t the thought of an imminent tidal wave that kick-started her heartbeat into overdrive, it was the man’s voice. Deep, confident, immediately familiar.

       Mitch Bailey.

      But it couldn’t be. There must be lots of Australian-accented male voices in Seminyak. The west coast town was a popular vacation playground for Australians. Besides, it was ten years since she’d last heard that voice. She must be mistaken.

      ‘No tsunami warning,’ the manager replied to the man. ‘There’s no danger.’

      ‘What about aftershocks?’ The man asked the question she was too paralysed by fear to ask herself.

       It sounded so like him.

      ‘Not likely now,’ said the manager. ‘It was a small tremor.’

      Zoe risked a quick glance behind her to identify the owner of the voice.

      And froze.

      It was Mitch Bailey, all right—right up at the back of the room. He was instantly recognisable: green eyes, dark blond hair, wearing a pair of blue checked board shorts and nothing else. His tanned, well-honed chest was bare. The blood drained from her face and her mouth went dry.

      He was as handsome as he’d been at seventeen. More handsome. His face was more chiselled, more lived in, and his dark blond hair was cut spikily short—much shorter than when she had known him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, but lean, with well defined muscles. Then he’d been a suburban high school heart-throb. Now he was an international soccer star, who regularly topped magazine lists of ‘The Sexiest Men Alive’.

      She quickly turned back and ducked her head. Dear heaven, don’t let him recognise her. He was part of a past she had chosen to put well behind her. She couldn’t let him see her.

      Zoe thought back to the first day she’d met him. Grieving over the death of her parents, in an accident that had also injured her, she’d been removed from her inner city home and her laid-back, no-uniform high school and dumped mid-term by her disapproving grandmother—her father’s mother—into an outer suburbs school where she’d known no one and no one had seemed to want to know her. The uniform had been scratchy, uncomfortable and hideous—which was just how she’d felt during her time at Northside High.

      Her first sight of Mitch Bailey had been of him surrounded by girls, with his girlfriend Lara—blonde and beautiful, of course—hanging possessively onto his arm. Zoe had kept her head down and walked past. But a burst of chatter had made her lift her head and she’d caught his eye. He’d smiled. A friendly, open smile born of his place as kingpin of his social group. He’d been a jock, a sports star—the most popular of the popular boys.

      He hadn’t needed to smile at nerdy her. But he had, and it had warmed the chill of her frozen heart even though she’d been unable to manage more than a polite stretching of her lips in return.

      Later they’d become sort of friends, when he’d had a problem she’d been able to help him with. But the last time she’d seen him he’d been so unforgivably hurtful she’d shrivelled back into her shell and stayed there until she’d got out of that school. Now she had no desire to make contact again with anyone from that place—least of all with him.

      She tensed, her eyes darting around for an escape route, then realised her panic was for nothing. No way would he recognise her. She looked completely different from the unhappy seventeen-year-old he’d befriended all those years ago. But she kept her eyes to the ground anyway.

      She wanted to ask the manager about the airport as she was due to fly back to Sydney the next morning. But she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. If she’d recognised his voice, Mitch might recognise hers. It was unlikely, but possible. She kept her mouth shut just in case.

      The manager had said it was okay for the guests to return to their villas. That was where she was headed—pronto.

      As other people started to ask more questions Zoe inched to the edge of the group. Not meeting anyone’s gaze, and as unobtrusively as she could, she edged away towards the pathway that led to her private villa. Once there she could order room service for the rest of her stay, to make sure she didn’t bump into Mitch Bailey.

       Please, please don’t let him be anywhere around when she checked out.

      She quickened her pace as she got near the pathway.

      ‘Zoe?’

      His voice came from behind her and she started. She denied the reflex that would have had her turning around. Instead she kept her head down and kept walking, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t call her name again. Let him think he’d been mistaken.

      * * *

      Mitch had noticed the dark-haired girl wrapped in a white towel as soon as she’d come into the courtyard. What red-blooded male wouldn’t? The skimpy towel barely covered a sensational body.

      It was knotted between high, round breasts and fell just to the top of slender, tanned thighs. Might it fall off at any moment? And, if so, was she wearing anything underneath? He’d been lying by his

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