Читать книгу Interview with the Daredevil - Nicola Marsh - Страница 8

THE moment Ava’s lips touched the sexy stranger’s she deliberately blotted out every sane reason why she shouldn’t be doing this and simply allowed herself to feel.

His warmth was the first thing she noticed, the heat from his lips moulding hers, melting, mesmerising, as she moved her mouth experimentally against his.

In response his hand slid into her hair, cradling the back of her head but this time there was nothing remotely gentle or therapeutic in his touch.

Uh-uh, this time his fingers splayed and pulled her towards him while his skilled mouth coaxed hers into opening.

As his tongue touched hers starbursts exploded in her head as she belatedly wondered if she had sustained a concussion.

Surely that could be the only explanation for this dazed, stunned confusion clouding her usually immaculate rationale and making her want to kiss a guy she barely knew for ever.

Yeah, he was that good and when the pressure of his lips eased she wanted to scream ‘no-o-o!’

For this was when her reliable logic would kick in, the logic that had helped her breeze through tense seating arrangements at foreign embassies, the logic that had prompted her to give up her writing dream and undertake a sensible economics degree, the logic that had insisted marrying a family friend would be a solid basis for a sound marriage.

Screw logic.

‘Can I blame that on concussion?’

The lips she’d just ravaged kicked up at the corners. ‘That depends.’

‘On?’

‘How bad it is.’

With a fake wince, she pointed to her head and pretended to swoon. ‘It’s beyond bad.’

‘In that case, I insist I walk you to your room.’

His gaze dropped to her mouth for a moment. ‘Just in case you impulsively kiss every stranger you come into contact with.’

Just like that, her bubble of illusion popped. For that was what she’d done. Kissed a stranger, some random guy, she’d met in a hotel.

Sheesh. What had she been thinking? It was one thing to abandon boring logic, another to lose sight of the facts completely.

‘Hey, I was kidding.’

He touched her arm and a spark of something zapped her, reminding her of the reason she’d ignored logic in the first place.

‘Though introducing ourselves should take care of the stranger problem?’

He smiled and her chest constricted. Smooth, sweet-talking charmers shouldn’t have a lethal smile too.

‘Roman. Extreme sports fanatic.’

He held out his hand. ‘And part-time poolside paramedic.’

She laughed, the carefree cadence foreign to her ears. When was the last time she’d laughed, really laughed, just for the heck of it?

Not while living in Canberra under Daddy’s watchful eye while he’d stood at Australia’s helm, not during her sedate two-year marriage and certainly not during her divorce last month, a divorce that had been publicly scrutinised while her name had been dragged through the mud for no other reason than she was Ava Beckett, reported society royalty, who’d supposedly got what was coming to her.

It felt good, great in fact, and by those attractive crinkles at the corners of his eyes Roman had spent a hell of a lot more time than she had laughing.

She placed her hand in his. ‘Ava. Recent quitter of boring financier job. Clumsy oaf and danger to others poolside.’

His fingers closed over hers, his grip firm and solid, and another little shiver of awareness slithered through her.

‘Well, then, with your clumsiness and my paramedic skills, we’re a match made in heaven.’

He squeezed her hand and released it when she grimaced.

‘Tell me those lines don’t usually work for you.’

He leaned closer and she bit her lip at the sudden onslaught of masculinity temptingly within reach. ‘You tell me?’

Sotto voce, combined with a wink, had her laughing again.

‘So when you’re not rescuing clumsy damsels in distress and jumping off bridges with an elastic rope tied to your ankles, where do you live?’

For the first time since she’d met him a shadow shifted in the rich depths of his eyes before he blinked and the resident twinkle was back.

‘I’m based in London at the moment.’

She caught a hint of hesitancy, a slight stiffening in his shoulders before his smile caught her off guard again, dazzling in its sexiness.

‘Boring financier job, huh? Lucky you quit.’

‘Yeah, real lucky.’

She wanted to act blasé, as if she could walk out on a solid job and live a carefree life traipsing around the planet. Instead, she did what had been ingrained from a young age: told the truth.

‘Actually, I have no idea what I’m going to do next.’

‘Easy. What’s your dream job?’

His eyes crinkled in amusement, making her want to smile along with him. Nothing fazed him. Then again, the guy jumped off tall buildings for a living—losing a job would be small fry.

‘Dream job?’

She’d given up on dreams a long time ago, around the time her life fell under the control of others.

‘Yeah, what are you passionate about? Number crunching in another capacity?’

‘Hell no!’

He laughed at her vehemence. ‘If not numbers, maybe words? What about using your numbers experience and using words to get your expertise across, maybe something like statistics lecturer or maths teacher?’

‘Couldn’t think of anything worse.’

Standing up in a room full of strangers watching her every move? No way. Too reminiscent of her past.

He tapped his bottom lip, thinking, while she focused on that lip. ‘Words … hey, what about writing?’

Her heart skipped a beat at his suggestion. Writing had once been a dream, a dream ripped asunder by the practicalities and expectations of being the prime minister’s daughter. She hadn’t written a word since Year Twelve English Lit, had turned her back on scrawling in her daily journals around the same time.

Ironically, when she’d been the brunt of the media’s smear campaign recently she’d wish she could report the facts and not the drivel printed. It had sparked a vague idea about writing again, perhaps using her experience to freelance, to be an interviewer famed for her integrity rather than headline grabbing.

Maybe it’d be fun to try again, but could she make a living from it? And who would hire her, an ex-financier who’d been publicly flayed for no other crime than bearing the Beckett name?

‘Take here, for instance, you’d have loads to write about.’

He snapped his fingers. ‘Let’s see. Melbourne’s newest hip hotel has a resident poolside attendant that incapacitates guests then resuscitates them with a little mouth-to-mouth—’

‘I kissed you,’ she blurted, mortified when his gaze flicked to her lips before meeting hers again, filled with heat and longing that took her breath away.

‘Yes, you did, and I can’t tell you how impressed I am.’

Enjoying his lighthearted flirtation more than she could’ve imagined, she screwed up her eyes, pretending to think.

‘With my technique? My impulsiveness? My—’

‘All of it.’

This time his gaze started at her lips and swept over her and, while he couldn’t see much beneath the voluminous grey robe, the smoulder told her he remembered every curve.

‘You know I don’t usually go around kissing strangers, right?’

‘We’re not strangers any more.’

He caressed her cheek, his finger starting at her temple and slowly stroking downwards towards her jaw, lingering under her chin to tip it up and when she looked into his eyes her temperature spiked.

Raw passion, the type of passion she’d read about in romance novels she’d hidden beneath her mattress as a teenager, a passion she secretly craved yet had never experienced, a passion she didn’t believe in.

Until now.

For Roman didn’t have to touch her to make her weak-kneed and hot. He didn’t have to sweet-talk her or use lines or do anything other than look at her.

When those darker-than-chocolate eyes looked at her, really looked at her, every female cell in her body snapped to attention, a subliminal reaction she had no hope of controlling. Totally, irrationally crazy.

Increasingly flustered under his burning stare, she aimed for flippant.

‘You should be safe from my randomly-lip-locking-strangers affliction, now we’re properly introduced and all.’

‘Pity.’

His thumb brushed her lower lip before his hand dropped away along with her belly and she floundered for a safe change of topic. There were only so many flirty comments and loaded stares a novice could handle.

‘Are you here on business?’

‘Of sorts.’

‘Sounds cryptic.’

He shrugged, the action emphasising the tension in his shoulders. ‘Time for new challenges so here I am.’

‘Trying to find a higher mountain to jump off than the ones you’ve already conquered around the world?’

‘Something like that.’

His smile didn’t reach his eyes and she wondered why he was really here.

‘What about you?’

‘Me?’

‘Are you up for new challenges? The writing idea?’

He’d subtly moved the focus back onto her. Interesting, as most of the guys in the social circles she’d moved in loved to talk about themselves but Roman seemed strangely reticent to discuss anything beyond here and now.

‘Is it something you could go for?’

If he only knew. She’d loved writing as a kid, had penned her first full-blown dragon-and-princess fantasy at eight, had won a short story comp run by a Melbourne newspaper at eleven and got top marks in English every year at the private girls’ school she’d attended.

Then her father had been elected Prime Minister and a starry-eyed fifteen year old with dreams of being a journalist-cum-fiction-writer had been indoctrinated into the expectations of a PM’s daughter, sending her dreams along with the many vivid plots dancing in her mind straight down the toilet.

She’d followed a career path deemed more suitable, giving up her ‘impulsive, flaky writing’ to enter economics.

Oh, she’d done well, both at university and the merchant bank she’d worked for—not that she ever had an option for failure—but getting creative with figures wasn’t a patch on getting creative with words and as her resentment had steadily built so had her frustration.

It had spilled over into all areas of her life, including her marriage, and while Leon had been amicable to the split she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been the major cause of the inevitable breakdown of their relationship.

‘Yeah, writing for a living would be great.’

‘What kind?’

‘Probably freelance for a start.’

Give her a chance to free the muse and get the words flowing again, then see if anyone would truly employ her with zilch experience in the field.

‘You should do it.’

Buoyed by his enthusiasm, she squared her shoulders. ‘Maybe I will.’

‘Good for you.’

He winked and her heart stuttered and stalled. ‘Go ahead, paint a picture in words for me.’

‘Now?’

‘Yeah, no time like the present to get you started on your new career path.’

He leaned closer and she sucked in a breath of heady male tinged with chlorine. ‘Describe your favourite holiday destination.’

‘Lizard Island,’ she blurted, needing to deflect those hypnotic dark eyes before she did something foolish, such as kiss him again. Though if her two-word answer was all she could come up with description-wise, she’d better ditch the writing idea now.

‘Whitsunday Islands?’

She nodded. ‘Not as well known as Hayman or Hamilton. Coastline’s more rugged, beaches more isolated. Off the beaten track.’

‘Unspoilt beauty can be more appealing than commercialised tourist traps.’

She silently chalked up another brownie point to him, in total agreement. She’d spent enough time traipsing around the world’s hot spots with Leon: from Monte Carlo to New York, London to Tokyo, playing a diplomat’s wife to perfection. Dining at Michelin-starred establishments, staying at exclusive spa resorts, mingling with the upper echelons of society, living the high life.

She would’ve rather camped in the Pyrenees and eaten hawker food and gone without pedicures than have her every move watched and scrutinised by people who almost wanted her to slip up so they could spread gossip or leak it to the press. Just as they had during her divorce.

She’d grown oblivious to the constant watching after a while, had pretended it hadn’t bothered her, but it had taken its toll.

She’d spent the bulk of her life under a microscope and the fact that she was here, staying in a funky hotel under a pseudonym, flirting with an adventurous guy so far removed from the men in her social circle, was so freaking fantastic she wanted to shout it to the world.

Or do something crazy, something impulsive, something so far removed from her past to render her a new woman.

Grabbing his hand before she had second thoughts, she looked him straight in the eye.

‘You know something? I’m pretty sure this concussion is worsening. Maybe you should walk me to my room after all?’

If he was surprised by her forwardness he didn’t show it. A consummate performer. Then again, a guy who looked like him probably had women throwing themselves at him every day of the week. What was one more?

‘Sure, no worries.’

He stood and held out a hand and as she stared at it she had a moment to change her mind.

Would she really go through with this? Invite a guy she barely knew back to her room? Have sex with him? Her first one-night stand?

‘I’ll just leave you at your door …’

His hand wavered but before he could lower it hers shot out and grabbed it as she surged to her feet, wobbly, off balance for a second before he steadied her.

She wanted to explain why she was doing this, wanted to give him a clue as to what this meant for her, but how to do it without sounding like a naïve moron?

‘Ava, don’t worry about it. If it’s easier I’ll leave you here—’

‘I’m a prime minister’s daughter and I’m four weeks out of a lacklustre marriage to a politician and I’ve spent my life doing the right thing and saying the right thing and I’m sick of it and I want a little adventure of my own and—’

‘Shh …’

He placed a finger against her lips and she exhaled, embarrassed by her blurted admission.

Taking a deep breath to quell her mortification, she risked a quick glance at his face. If she saw pity, she was out of here.

Instead, his understanding had her swaying unconsciously towards him, her body recognising on some subconscious level what her mind only just realised.

This guy was special.

‘You don’t owe me any explanations.’

He lowered his finger, traced a path along her jaw, under her ear, across her collarbone, lingering in the hollow there.

‘I think you’re amazing and if you want me to spend the night with you, the pleasure is all mine.’

Ava would’ve melted into a puddle of lust there and then if not for his strong arm sliding around her waist, supporting her as they strolled towards the lifts.

She didn’t speak. She couldn’t, not with her throat constricting and her diaphragm heaving and her pulse pounding so hard she could barely hear herself think.

When they reached the lifts he squeezed her gently and she automatically snuggled into his side.

‘You sure about this?’

She hadn’t been sure about taking an economics major, she hadn’t been sure about marrying Leon and she sure as hell wasn’t sure what she’d do next career-wise but if there was one thing she was sure of tonight this was it.

‘Does room 1620 answer your question?’

She held her breath as he guided her into the elevator, hit the sixteen button and brushed a soft kiss across her lips.

‘Perfectly,’ he said as they stood like silent sentinels, watching the panel counting down the numbers from twenty-seven to sixteen, and when the elevator pinged and the doors slid open on the sixteenth floor she could’ve sworn she experienced an adrenalin rush no jump off a bridge could ever hope to reproduce.