LITMIR.BIZ

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      He reached the bottom step and the full-frontal, full impact hit with a wow. It was as if a flashbulb went off and Olivia blinked. There he was. A fully formed, three-dimensional, reach-out-with-both-hands-and-touch example of prime masculinity.

      The stranger she’d not promised Brie she’d stay away from.

      A mouth-watering stranger with bronzed olive skin that tempted any woman with a pulse to lick her way across that shadowed chin and linger awhile at the perfectly sculpted mouth.

      His gaze met hers as if she’d summoned him to look her way. And he didn’t look pleased about that. His eyebrows lowered, his mouth firmed and a muscle clenched in his jaw.

      He looked kind of familiar but she’d totally have remembered a guy like him. She’d revelled in that initial instant of feminine power but now somehow he’d reversed the situation and that cool control she could always count on, and was so proud of, was disappearing like ice on a barbecue grill.

      Steely black eyes with the power to tempt. To persuade. A shiver rippled down her spine. The power to take her will and flex it between his long slender fingers like so much overcooked spaghetti.

      And Olivia felt hot, as she did when standing on the steaming deck of her yacht on a midsummer’s day in Barbados. In the eye of a tropical storm even, because her usually strong sea legs were wobbly.

      She was still looking at him and he was still looking at her and she swore she saw him mouth, ‘Trouble’.

      Oh yeah, absolutely. Double trouble in flashing neon lights. She’d never met a man who’d affected her this way—this hot, itchy, melty way. Not that they’d met... Had they?

      Her pulse took off and her heart raced to catch up. He’d moved so subtly she hadn’t noticed that he stood between her and the only route to the lower levels via the marble staircase. Intentional or not—she couldn’t be sure and the anticipation hummed through her body like a build-up of static electricity.

      Fight or flight? In yachting there was only one option. Unexpected and dangerous situations were dealt with in a calm, rational manner. Dealing with men was no different. Whatever happened, she would not run away.

      With feigned indifference, she tossed her bedraggled twist of feathers over one shoulder, a silky strand catching on her lip as she drew in a wheezy breath to say, ‘Hi.’

      * * *

      Jett knew it was time to leave when Trouble with the most eye-catching, reddest hair he’d ever seen spoke to him in that husky, breathless voice. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the feather stuck to her pouty lower lip as she made little puh-puh noises to try and blow it off. He had the weirdest image of her blowing those little noises on his belly while her fingernails raked over his nipples and her hands swirled over his chest, his hips. Lower.

      Damn.

      Just say hi back and walk away. Fast. But his feet obeyed only that rapidly hardening part of his anatomy, and before he knew it he’d crossed the space between them, reached out and plucked the feather from what was a very pretty mouth. He felt a sensation of warm static before he snatched his fingers back.

      ‘Thanks.’ Eyes the colour of his signature Blue Mint Lagoon cocktail sparkled.

      He curled tingling fingers into a fist. Another damn. Trouble with a sense of humour.

      He saw...something...behind the fun and she looked away quickly, as if she hadn’t meant to share. Her gaze flicked upwards and behind him. ‘Anything interesting up there?’

      There could be—if you want. ‘Nope.’

      ‘There has to be something, or why the staircase?’

      He shrugged at her logic, stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘Just a couple of telescopes.’

      ‘Really? I love stargazing.’

      Even in the dimness he could see the fairy lines fanning out from the corners of her eyes and a splash of freckles over her nose. She enjoyed the outdoors whereas he rarely had the time for such indulgence. No doubt another spoiled socialite with plenty of time to waste. ‘Too much light pollution in the city,’ he told her, rocking back on his heels. ‘I’d say they’re for watching the harbour.’

      ‘Oh, yes, why didn’t I think of that?’

      She walked to the bottom of the spiral stairs and peered up, one slender hand on the rail. Sun-kissed skin. Neat unvarnished nails. A nice flash of abundant cleavage. Man, he had to stop staring like some pre-pubescent teenager—

      ‘Did you sneak a peek?’

      ‘What?’ His guilty gaze shot somewhere over her shoulder, then he realised she was talking about telescopes. ‘Ah...no.’

      She cast him an unreadable look then started up. ‘Why not?’

      ‘Because— Hey, you won’t want to go up like that.’ In one stride he was there, his fingers closing firmly over hers. The contact sent a zing up his forearm. All that static build-up discharged in one hit.

      She must have felt it too because her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. ‘Like...what?’

      He yanked his hand away. ‘Those heels—you’ll break your neck.’

      ‘Only if I—’ On cue, one stiletto slipped and caught in the iron lace doyley tread. She yanked it free. ‘Cripes. I see your point.’

      He shook his head. ‘Why don’t you—?’

      ‘Okay...’ On the third tread, she toed off her shoes. And groaned lustily—a sound that did dangerous things to his already wide-awake libido. ‘Relief at last. Why didn’t I think of that earlier?’ She handed them to him over the rail, avoiding skin contact. ‘Hold these till I get back.’

      ‘I...’ Siren-red patent, they were warm from her feet and smelled of new leather. Dangling them from one hand, he watched her climb, toenails painted to match, strong toned calves. Smooth, golden thighs disappeared beneath the shadows of her dress’s short hemline. She moved fast and without effort, as if she worked out a lot. A yachtie’s woman?

      If Jett were the skipper, he’d keep her below decks and all to himself for the entire journey. Yep, naked and barefoot—he could get creative with feet, a little warm brandy and sweet ripe apricots—

      Hell. He shook his head to clear it. Now was not the time to be coming up with new recipes.

      He wasn’t looking for a woman, dammit. He had to remind himself again because his mind seemed to have forgotten. He was waiting for Breanna, half-sister, who was doing whatever, with whomever. Everything, it seemed, except checking in with him. He should go back to the hotel, catch up on some sleep. Away from trouble in a red dress.

      But he had her shoes. He could hardly just abandon them here. And he didn’t want to leave without one more glimpse of her. Which wasn’t quite true because he wanted more than a glimpse. A lot more.

      He placed one foot on the bottom step and made an instant decision. Forget Breanna; she hadn’t answered his call. Instead, a little up-close and personal might just be on the menu for tonight. No trouble, he assured himself; he didn’t want or need to know who she was. A hot lick of anticipation stroked down his body and his steps quickened while his stomach tightened and his mouth watered. One sweet taste. The perfect dessert to end the evening.

      * * *

      Olivia hoped the sound of her heart pounding its way out of her chest wasn’t audible. Hearing his footsteps on the metal treads, she turned as the guy appeared on the platform behind her. And was blown away again by the sight of all that blatant masculinity. Which was unsettling because she’d relegated men to the bottom of her list of priorities a long time ago.

      Determined not to let him see how much he was affecting her, she moved to the larger telescope and adjusted it for a view of the party-goers milling around Circular Quay to distract herself and give her time to think what to

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