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       Praise for Anne Oliver

      ‘This attraction-at-first-sight story has just the right blend of adventure, passion and heartfelt emotion to make you want to spend time with this terrific twosome.’

      —RT Book Reviews on

      Hot Boss, Wicked Nights

      ‘A tantalisingly wicked read … Oliver gives the reader a tale of a man who knows how to be so good at being bad …’

      —www.cataromance.com on

      Hot Boss, Wicked Nights

      ‘A terrific story. Anne Oliver has created a winner in Ben, the hot and sexy but equally complex hero.’

      —RT Book Reviews on

      Marriage at the Millionaire’s Command

      ‘… filled with idiosyncratic characters who endeared themselves to this reader and made their lives and careers what they wanted them to be without losing the love and passion they discovered between them.’

      —www.cataromance.com on

      Memoirs of a Millionaire’s Mistress

       Also by Anne Oliver

      Her Not-So-Secret Diary

      When He Was Bad …

      Mistress: At What Price?

       Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

      About the Author

       About Anne Oliver

      ANNE OLIVER was born in Adelaide, South Australia, and with its beautiful hills, beaches and easy lifestyle, she’s never left.

      An avid reader of romance, Anne began creating her own paranormal and time travel adventures in 1998 before turning to contemporary romance. Then it happened—she was accepted by Harlequin Mills and Boon for their Modern Heat series in December 2005. Almost as exciting; her first two published novels won the Romance Writers of Australia’s Romantic Book of the Year for 2007 and 2008. So after nearly thirty years of yard duties and staff meetings, she gave up teaching to do what she loves most—writing full time.

      Other interests include animal welfare and conservation, quilting, astronomy, all things Scottish, and eating anything she doesn’t have to cook. She’s traveled to Papua/New Guinea, the west coast of America, Hong Kong, Malaysia, the UK and Holland.

      Sharing her characters’ journeys with readers all over the world is a privilege and a dream come true.

      You can visit her website at www.anne-oliver.com

       There’s Something About a Rebel …

      Anne Oliver

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To everyday heroes

      CHAPTER ONE

      IT WASN’T the rumble of approaching thunder that woke Lissa Sanderson some time after midnight. Nor was it Mooloolaba’s tropical heat that had prompted her to leave the houseboat’s windows open to catch whatever breeze was coming off the river. It wasn’t even her seriously serious financial situation that had kept her tossing and turning for the past few weeks.

      It was the sound of footsteps on her little jetty.

      Unfamiliar footsteps. Not her brother’s—Jared was overseas, and no one she knew would be calling in at this ridiculously unsociable hour. A shiver scuttled down her spine.

      Lifting her head off the pillow, she heard the leafy palm fronds around the nearby pool clack together and the delicate tinkle of her wind chimes over the back door as the sound of approaching footsteps drew closer. Heavy and slow but with a sense of purpose.

      Her thoughts flashed back nine months to Todd and ice slid through her veins. The Toad wouldn’t be game to show his face in this part of the world again. Would he? No. He. Would. Not.

      Swinging her legs over the side of her bed, she scanned the familiar gloom for her heavy-duty marine torch then remembered she’d used it to check the new leak in the ceiling and left it in the galley. Damn it.

      The jetty belonged to the owners of the luxury riverside home that was rented to wealthy holiday-makers, but her lease on the private dock wasn’t up for another two years. February was low season and the house had been vacant for the past couple of weeks. Maybe new tenants had arrived and were unaware that the jetty was off-limits?

      That had to be it. ‘Please let that be it,’ she murmured.

      The carport she used to gain access through the back yard and from there to her boat was security coded—who else could it be? She told herself not to overreact. Not to give in to the unease that had stalked her these past months. Both doors were secure, windows open but locked. Mobile phone beside her bed, both Jared and her sister, Crystal, on speed dial.

      The footsteps stopped. A weighted thump vibrated through the floor, tilting it ever so slightly beneath her feet for a second or two. The resulting ripple of water lapped against the hull and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

       Someone was on her deck. Right outside her door.

      Okay, now she could be officially scared. She pushed up, grabbing her mobile and punching in numbers, then stared at the black screen. No charge. Great. Just great. Heart galloping, she darted to the bedroom doorway. From here she had a clear view down the length of the boat to the glass door where a light drizzle sheened the deck—and the stranger.

      Tall. Male. His outline glistening with moisture.

      Too broad-shouldered for Todd, thank God, but it could have been the hunchback of Notre Dame, his silhouette sharpening as silvery sheet lightning edged in bronze flickered behind him.

      In the clammy air her skin chilled.

      Then the hunch lifted away from his shoulders and she realised it was some kind of duffle bag. She pressed a fist to her mouth to stifle the hysteria rising up her throat. The bag or whatever-it-was hit the deck with a scuffed thud, then he straightened to a height and breadth rivalling her brother’s and she drew back instinctively. The sound in her throat turned to a choked gasp.

      She swallowed it down. Even as she told herself that it was probably a new arrival checking out the grounds, she was pulling on her dressing gown, yanking the sash tight. She pocketed the useless phone.

      She could exit via the rear door near her bed, but to leave the boat she’d have to pass within a close couple of steps of him on the narrow jetty then make it past the pool to the carport, wait for the roller door to rise … Safer to remain where she was.

      And if he wasn’t a new arrival … How had he managed to get past the security-coded roller door?

      Because he knew the code, right? Right. The thought was reassuring. Still, she had to force one foot in front of the other, her bare feet soundless over the linoleum as she skirted boxes and crates until she slipped on a pool of moisture that hadn’t been there a couple of hours earlier. Arms flailing and swearing to herself, she came to a slippery stop in her tiny galley, gripped the edge of her equally tiny table and looked outside.

      His sheer size swamped her deck. A flash of lightning revealed black clothing, bare forearms and uncompromising features. Alarmingly good-looking for a potential burglar. Vaguely

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