LITMIR.BIZ

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thought Richard was the type of guy to never let her down, the type of guy to keep her safe, to give her what she’d always wanted: stability, security—something she’d never had since her dad had died when she was ten.

      But Richard hadn’t been that guy and, from the accolades of his adoring public and coworkers, she was the only one who knew the truth.

      That Richard Downey, Australia’s premier celebrity chef, had been an out-and-out bastard. And it was times like this, when she had to pretend in front of one of his mates, that an all-consuming latent fury swept through her.

      If he hadn’t upped and died of a heart attack, she would’ve been tempted to kill him herself for what he’d put her through, and what she’d discovered after his death.

      ‘This has nothing to do with Richard. I’m doing it for me.’

      Her bitterness spilled out in a torrent and she clamped her lips shut. He didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of her resentment towards Richard. She’d wasted enough time analysing and selfflagellating and fuelling her anger. That was all she’d been doing for the last year since he’d died—speculating, brooding over a whole lot of pointless ‘what-ifs’.

      What if she’d known about the affair?

      What if she’d stood up to him and for herself, rather than keeping up appearances for the sake of his business?

      What if she’d travelled to India with her mum when Khushi had first asked her years ago? Would any of that have changed her life for the better?

      ‘I didn’t mean to rehash any painful stuff for you.’

      Shaking her head, she wished the simple action could wipe away her awful memories.

      ‘Not your fault. It’s not like I don’t think about it every day anyway.’

      He searched her face for—what? Confirmation she wasn’t still grieving, wasn’t so heartbroken she couldn’t return to the workforce after wasting the last few years playing society hostess to a man who hadn’t given a damn about her?

      What he saw in her expression had his eyes narrowing in speculation.

      ‘You should get away. A break, before you get sucked back into the full-time rat race. Take it from me, a certified workaholic, once you hit the ground running you won’t have a minute to yourself.’

      She opened her mouth to protest, to tell him that as a virtual stranger he could stick his advice, but he held a finger to her lips to silence her, the impact of his simple action slugging her all the way to her toes. It had to be the impulse to tell him to shut up rather than the brush of his finger against her lips causing her belly to twist like a pretzel.

      ‘A piece of advice. Seeing you six months ago, seeing you now, you’ve held together remarkably well considering what you’ve been through, but it’s time.’

      He dropped his finger, thank goodness.

      ‘For what?’

      ‘Time for you. Time to put aside your grief. Move on.’

      He gestured to the stack of folders on the table between them. ‘From what I’ve heard, you’re a damn good food critic, one of Melbourne’s best. But honestly? The way you are right now, the tears I saw when I made a simple flyaway comment about an oven, what you just said about thinking about Rich every day, holding down a regular job would be tough. You’d end up not being able to tell the difference between steak tartare and well-done Wagyu beef, let alone write about it.’

      She should hate him for what he’d just said. It hurt, all of it. But then, the truth often did.

      ‘You finished?’

      She knew it was the wrong thing to say to a guy like him the instant the words left her mouth, for it sounded like a challenge, something he would never back away from.

      ‘Not by a long shot.’

      Before she could blink, his mouth swooped, capturing hers in a heartbeat—a soul-reviving, soul-destroying, terrifying kiss that stirred her dormant body to life, setting it alight in a way she’d never dreamed possible.

      She burned, swayed, as he changed the pressure, his lips coaxing a response—a response she couldn’t give in her right mind.

      But she wasn’t in her right mind, hadn’t been from the second his lips touched hers and, before she could think, rationalise, overanalyse, she kissed him back, an outpouring of pent-up passion from a shattered ego starving for an ounce of attention.

      Her heart sang with the joy of it, before stalling as the implication of what she’d just done crashed over her in a sickening wave.

      Ethan, the practised playboy, Richard’s friend, a guy she barely knew, had kissed her.

      And she’d let him.

      Slivers of ice chilled her to the bone as she tore her mouth from his, staring at him in wideeyed horror.

      She couldn’t speak, couldn’t form the words to express how furious she was with him.

      Though her anger was misplaced and she knew it. She was furious with herself for responding; worse, for enjoying it.

      ‘Don’t expect me to apologise for that.’

      His eyes glittered with desire and she shivered, petrified yet exhilarated to be the focus of all that passion for a passing moment in time.

      ‘That should show you you’re a vibrant woman who needs to start living again. You should start by doing one thing you’ve always wanted to do before you return to work.’

      He made sense, damn him, prove-a-point kiss and all. And while her body still trembled from the impact of that alarming kiss and her astounding response, at least it had served a purpose. If she’d been prevaricating about taking a trip before, he’d blasted her doubts sky-high now.

      She had to go, had to leave Ambrosia, for facing him in the future would be beyond mortifying.

      Mustering a haughty glare that only served to make his eyes gleam more, she shook her head.

      ‘I can’t believe you just did that.’

      Shrugging, he sat back and crossed his ankles, the supremely confident male and proud of it. ‘Many people can’t believe a lot of the stuff I do, so don’t sweat it. Let’s talk about this trip of yours.’

      ‘Let’s not,’ she snapped, annoyed by his persistence, more annoyed by the glimmer of anticipation racing through her.

      She’d already been thinking about a trip herself. Specifically, the trip she’d booked with her mum. The itinerary they’d planned was tucked away in her old music box at home, the one her dad had given her when she’d been three, the one with the haunting tune that never failed to make her cry when she thought of all she’d lost.

      She’d contemplated taking the trip on her own for all of two seconds before slamming the idea. The trip would’ve been emotional enough with her mum by her side but without her?

      Her eyelids prickled just thinking about it and she blinked, wishing Ethan would put that devilish smile to good use elsewhere and butt out of her business.

      ‘Think sun, sand and surf. Somewhere hot, tropical, the opposite of blustery Melbourne at the moment.’

      Considering her toes were icy within her boots and she couldn’t feel her fingers, the thought of all that heat was tempting.

      India would be perfect, would fit the bill in every way. Buoyed by an urge to escape, she rummaged through the top folder, wondering if a brochure was still there. She’d had hundreds of the things when they’d been planning the trip, immersing herself in India, from the stone-walled city of Jodhpur—home of the Mehrangarh Fort and the grand palaces of Moti Mahal, Sheesh Mahal, Phool Mahal, Sileh Khana and Daulat Khana—to Ranthambhore National Park, India’s best wildlife sanctuary, to see the majestic tigers, eager to see as much of the

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