LITMIR.BIZ

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and wombats top the list?’

      Hearing the hint of condescension in his voice, she clenched her teeth and felt her spine stiffen. She tightened her grip on the stem of her glass and held back the retort his words deserved.

      ‘They’re up there. Mother animals with babies are my bestsellers, along with bright native flowers.’

      ‘And where’s home?’

      Firing questions seemed to be his idea of becoming acquainted. She obliged, giving him only the information she wished to reveal.

      ‘The Adelaide Hills.’

      ‘South Australian bushfire territory? I was there in 2015. The risks don’t worry you?’

      * * *

      Nate saw the flicker of pain in her eyes and the slight convulsion in her throat—heard the hitch in her voice when, after gazing out of the window for a moment, she answered.

      ‘That year was my first summer as a resident there. A close friend lost property, some sheep and their pets—a cat and two dogs. Meg and her family were devastated, yet they stayed, rebuilt and adopted from the animal shelter. They taught me how to minimise risks, and although the worry is there every year, it’s balanced by living with fresh air in a friendly, small-town atmosphere. Big cities are for holidays and shopping sprees. How about you?’

      Sprung. He’d kept his questions basic, complying with the intent of Brian’s words if not the spirit. He hadn’t expected to hear a familiar story—one he’d heard a few times since he’d moved to the mountains. Given her parents’ profession, he’d pictured her living in Adelaide or one of its suburbs.

      Bracing himself for her reaction, he answered.

      ‘The Blue Mountains.’

      He was treated to a sharp intake of breath between parted lips, a delightful indignant expression and flashing eyes. Against his will, his gut tightened in response.

      ‘That’s the New South Wales equivalent. You have flare-ups every year.’

      Stalled by the arrival of their entrées, Nate waited until they were alone before replying, surprising himself with an admission he didn’t normally disclose to strangers.

      ‘I know. I help fight them.’

      She tilted her head as she scrutinised him, as if memorising every feature and nuance. He’d already achieved that in the office. He might not have her reputed eloquent descriptive powers, but her face was indelibly imprinted on his mind. Again, not intentionally.

      ‘You’re a volunteer firefighter?’

      Her apparent admiration was gratifying, if not truly merited. He shrugged it off. Living in the country meant embracing its culture and values.

      ‘You live in the area—you should do your bit. The training keeps me fit, along with exercising at home.’

      He scooped up an oyster and let it slide down his throat, savouring the spice and tang as he watched Jemma arrange salmon and capers on a cracker, and take a delicate bite. Her glossed lips fascinated him, conjuring up thoughts better left unsaid, and his sudden surge of desire was totally unexpected.

      He knew the myth that oysters were an aphrodisiac, so maybe they’d been the wrong choice.

      Risky selection or not, he ate another before asking, ‘How much writing have you done?’

      It came out more curt than he’d intended—caused by his inability to curb her effect on his mind and body. If he was attracted to a woman his rules were not negotiable. Keep it simple, keep it unemotional and don’t get too involved. Strictly adhering to those rules since his short disastrous affair—never discussed with anyone, not even family—ensured mutually satisfying relationships with women of similar views.

      Jemma wrote romance. She’d be a sentimental believer in happy-ever-after who deserved flowers—hell, she even painted them—and love tokens. She’d want commitment, and would no doubt one day be a devoted wife and mother.

      He might fantasise about her, might desire her, but the pitfalls of sexual entanglement had taught him to maintain control. Whatever feelings she aroused now, they would pass once they’d parted company.

      She sipped her wine and made a lingering survey of the room, before facing him with enigmatic features. Not one to open up willingly to someone she didn’t know. He waited patiently. As things stood now, his literary career wouldn’t be taking off any time soon.

      ‘Poems and short stories since childhood—most of the earlier ones consigned to the recycling bin. A computer file of thirty thousand-word partial manuscripts with varying degrees of potential, plus this finished one.’

      ‘Which Brian deems in need of drastic revision?’

      ‘Ditto, Mr Thornton. Is this your first effort, or are there others waiting for your help too?’

      She gave a sudden stunning smile that tripped his pulse, shaking his composure.

      She rattled it even more when she added, with unerring accuracy, ‘No, you’d see any project through to the bitter end before starting another.’ Leaving him speechless.

      He scooped out the last oyster, trying to fathom why a woman so dissimilar from those who usually attracted him was pressing his buttons with such ease. Down to earth rather than sophisticated, she had that indefinable something he couldn’t identify.

      Shelving it to the back of his mind, he pushed the tray of empty shells aside. ‘Point conceded. And the name’s Nate. Unless you’re trying to maintain a barrier between us?’

      The soft flush of colour over her cheeks proved he was right. His own rush of guilt proved that his conscience knew his curtness was partly to blame.

      He drained his wine glass, set it down, and thanked the waitress who cleared away the dishes. A new topic seemed appropriate.

      ‘How well do you know Brian?’

      * * *

      Jemma blinked as he switched topic again. This was almost like speed-dating—which she’d never tried, but she knew women who’d described it. Except she and Nate weren’t changing partners, and she definitely wasn’t in the market for one.

      ‘Mostly by email, but I trust him. He read my novel, then when I came to Sydney in December we met in his office. Not my happiest encounter ever, as he gave me an honest, concise appraisal of my writing proficiency. Unlike you, my inept storyline passages way outnumber the good scenes. You?’

      ‘Similar scenario. You’re not bothered that agreeing to his proposal means putting your novel on hold while you work on someone else’s?’

      ‘No, I’m dumbfounded by the offer, terrified of the implications if I fail, and thrilled that he believes I’m worthy of being part of something he seems keen to see published. If you’re as good as he’s implied, adapting those scenes yet keeping them true to your characters and story will be beneficial for my career too.’

      ‘Hmm.’

      He appeared to be considering her declaration as their mains were served, pepper offered and accepted by Nate, and their wine glasses refilled. She waited for him to continue, but instead he began to eat.

      The fish was delicious, and her mmm of pleasure slipped out. Glancing up, she found Nate watching her with a sombre expression.

      ‘How does this chef’s barramundi compare to your mother’s?’

      ‘As good as—though I’d never tell her. It’s different, and I can’t pick why. I prefer the natural taste of food, so I don’t use many herbs and spices and I can’t always identify their flavour. How’s your salmon?’

      She hoped her answer would satisfy him, and save her from having to admit that her limited cooking knowledge came from her aunt and recipe books, because her parents claimed they didn’t have time to teach her.

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