Grace looked at her hand, which had practically disappeared inside his strong grasp. “If only I was also willing,” she muttered, snatching her hand away. And then she grimaced. He’d caught her off guard and now she’d let fly with a hopelessly stupid remark.

“Willing?” Mitch remained standing directly in front of her, a perplexed expression in his eyes.

“Please, forget I said that.”

He smiled and brushed the hair back from her cheek. “A wild and willing Grace would be an unexpected bonus.” Then his face grew serious again. “But it won’t get us out of here.”

Barbara Hannay was born in Sydney, Australia, educated in Brisbane and spent most of her adult life living in tropical north Queensland, where she and her husband have raised four children. While she has enjoyed many happy times camping and canoeing in the bush, she also delights in an urban lifestyle—chamber music, contemporary dance, movies and dining out. An English teacher, she has always loved writing, and now, by having her stories published, she is living her most cherished fantasy.

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

3578—OUTBACK WIFE AND MOTHER

3613—THE WEDDING COUNTDOWN

3664—CHARLOTTE’S CHOICE*

Outback with the Boss

Barbara Hannay

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

GRACE ROBBINS reached into her carryall and reluctantly drew out her black lace lingerie. Nervously, her fingers traced the delicate ribbon trim while she wondered how on earth she could go ahead with Maria’s outrageous suggestion. Until now, she’d only ever worn these revealing garments under her faithful ‘little black dress’. She’d never considered displaying her low-cut underwired bra and high-cut wispy knickers on their own.

‘The problem is you’re a natural prude,‘ Grace told her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t enjoy parading in front of a man. Wearing a bikini on the beach was bad enough.

She sighed. Perhaps the solution was to take this one step at a time. She’d already let herself into her boyfriend’s flat. If she put the underwear on beneath her other clothes for now, she could decide whether to go ahead with the rest of her friend’s crazy plan later.

Halfway through this process, Grace paused and studied her image in the full-length mirror. The dramatic effect of her body, framed by a doorway and encased in nothing but skimpy, sensuous black lace, was surprising. Maria was probably right. It would take Henry by surprise too.

But how on earth could she carry this off? And if she did, what could she possibly say to justify such madness?

She sent the mirror a grimacing grin and tried striking a sexy pose, announcing to the empty room, ‘Ta-da! National Underwear Display Day!’

No, she thought with a shudder. She looked and sounded ridiculous.

She tried another, more demure pose. ‘I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours?‘ Definitely not.

Oh, heavens, thought Grace, why am I even bothering? This just isn’t me. Bringing her hands to her face in mock horror, she tried one more time. ‘Henry, the little black dress thieves have struck and left me with nothing to wear!’

Groaning, she decided it was absolutely no use. Playing femme fatale was definitely not her scene. She couldn’t ever make this work.

Grace glanced at the clock on the dressing table and decided there was no need to panic just yet. She still had at least an hour before Henry would return. She had to think this through calmly and rationally.

She grimaced. Calmly and rationally? She hadn’t been able to place one logical thought next to another for days. Her fists clenched. It was all Mitch Wentworth’s fault! The new boss had forced her into this pickle!

For the past fortnight, just thinking about Mitch Wentworth’s arrival to take over the company had seemed to banish every composed and sane idea from Grace’s usually clear-thinking head. And it was her fuming and fretting about this man that had launched Maria’s lame-brained idea in the first place.

The whole wild plan had started at lunchtime when Maria had rested her plump elbows on the cafeteria table, and leaned towards Grace with her best lecturing expression. ‘For goodness’ sake,’ she’d sighed. ‘Stop stewing about Mitch Wentworth and concentrate on the bonuses. Our new boss is a stud! He’s flying in to take over Tropicana Films any day now, and as you’re his assistant you get to work side by side with him. Did you see his photo on the cover of Movie Mag?’

Out of her voluminous handbag, Maria had dragged a glossy magazine and tossed it onto the red laminated tabletop.

‘Of course I’ve seen it,’ Grace had retorted, her nose crinkling in disgust. ‘I took one look at his self-satisfied smirk and the bimbos hanging off each arm and wanted to hand in my resignation, pronto.’

‘Self-satisfied smirk?’ Maria’s dark eyes twinkled with tolerant disbelief. ‘Come on, that’s a really cute smile in anyone’s books. Mitch is the ultimate in T. D. and H.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Tall, dark and hard to get.’

Grace’s lips had pursed into a tight circle as she’d pushed the magazine aside. ‘I’m sure, in his case, it’ll be tall, dark and hard to please. Working for him will be awful.’

Maria threw her arms in the air. ‘Half the women in the movie industry would be lining up for your job just to breathe the same air as Mitch Wentworth.’

‘That’s enough!’ Grace moaned. ‘All I hear about from Henry is how lucky I am to be working for the great Mitch Wentworth.’

‘Henry?’ Maria clicked her fingers in triumph. ‘Now I get it! It’s not Wentworth who’s your problem. It’s the boyfriend, Henry. I should have guessed.’

Grace rolled her eyes. ‘I made the mistake of outlining the plot of Wentworth’s next movie New Tomorrow and now Henry spends every night designing fancy computer graphics he’s absolutely convinced Wentworth will want to use.’

‘So he doesn’t have any time for you?’

‘Exactly,’ Grace snapped.

She’d met Henry soon after arriving in Townsville from Sydney and it had been good to have someone to show her around. But over the past fortnight, as his obsession with impressing her new boss had gained momentum, her enthusiasm for him had diminished rather rapidly.

Grace’s track record with men made her extra wary. She was still plagued by memories of Roger the Rat, a super-suave mover and shaker, who’d broken her heart. After that shattering experience, it hadn’t taken long to convince her that the business world was a breeding ground for men who were superficially quite gorgeous, but so full of their own egos, they trampled all over women and usually left them feeling used and abused.

That was why she’d dated Henry. He wasn’t handsome, but he had other virtues Grace preferred these days. He was scholarly and serious and, most importantly, safe.

She’d shrugged. ‘I—I don’t think it’s that Henry’s not interested. It’s just that he gets kind of…distracted.’

A disgusted grunt had prefaced Maria’s response. ‘Distracted? What can divert a real man from your long legs and green eyes, not to mention the bits in between?’

Grace let out a short, self-conscious laugh. ‘Computers are very fascinating toys.’

With a groan, Maria threw her head back and had stared at the cafeteria’s ceiling. Then she had slowly lowered her gaze. ‘You two are getting physical, aren’t you?’

Feeling distinctly uneasy, Grace ran nervous fingers through her thick tawny hair, flicking it away from her collar. ‘We will—I’m sure. I feel quite—er—fond of Henry. It’s—it’s all a matter of—timing.’

‘Timing?’ Maria almost shrieked. She shook her head in dismay. ‘My dear girl, the answer’s clear-cut. You forget about Henry and set your sights higher.’

‘Higher? How much higher? What do you mean?’

‘Mitch Wentworth, of course. You could snaffle the new boss. You’ve certainly got everything it takes.’ Maria had looked down at her own chubby figure and groaned. ‘If only I didn’t love chocolate.’

Grace jumped to her feet. ‘The new boss? For crying out loud, Maria, where’s your loyalty? Think what he’s done to our old boss, George Hervey. The poor old fellow’s been tossed on the scrap heap by this take-over. Wentworth just blasted his way into Tropicana Films and we’re expected to whip straight into “Yes, sir. No, sir”.’

She sat down again and reached for her friend’s hand. ‘Thanks for the sympathetic ear, but you’re way off beam. I can’t stand the idea of even working for the man, let alone…’ Her mind had darted frantically away from the mere thought of making a play for her boss. She slumped back into her chair. ‘I’ll definitely stick with Henry.’

‘You’re sure?’

Suddenly Grace had been very sure.

Having a boyfriend like Henry was sensible and safe—like wearing a seat belt in a car. But giving a bully-boy showman like Mitch Wentworth so much as a second glance was as wise as skinny-dipping with sharks. ‘I’ve just got to find some way to get Henry away from his computer and interested in me again.’

Maria’s face was split by a sudden grin. ‘Don’t worry, my dear. I can feel a bright idea coming on. We’ll put an end to this nonsense of Henry’s. Tonight’s the night. Before our Mr. Wentworth gets here to totally distract your boyfriend, we’ll undistract him. We’ll make Henry notice you!’

‘Oh, I don’t know if that’s necessary.’ Maria had started to get just a touch too pushy. How had one little gripe about Mitch Wentworth escalated to the point where her friend had been about to launch a rescue mission on her love life?

‘I appreciate your good intentions,’ she’d hedged, disliking the hard edge in her tone, but too tense to do anything about it. ‘But I’m not quite dateless and desperate. And I really think this is just between Henry and me.’

Grace’s glance fell to Mitch Wentworth’s grinning face on the cover of Movie Mag and an image of him standing in her office had floated dangerously into her thoughts. Once her new boss arrived, that cheeky smile, those naughty-boy eyes and those highly indecent muscles would be mere inches away from her.

Maria eyed her shrewdly and Grace had the terrible feeling that the other woman knew exactly what was bugging her! How on earth could she carry on with her work each day while a man like Mitch Wentworth flaunted his lethal, sexy weapons around her office?

He hadn’t even arrived yet and already her thoughts had been trailing in his direction like ants to a picnic basket.

That shocking realisation had prompted Grace into action. ‘Okay, you win,’ she’d told Maria. ‘I’ll give Henry one last chance. What’s your brilliant idea?’

But listening to Maria’s action plan had been the easy part.

Now, as Grace stood eyeing her reflection in Henry’s mirror, the sight of her wide, anxious eyes and her nervous, fiddling fingers reminded her that she wasn’t really up to the task ahead.

She could deal with the twinge of guilt she felt about leaving work early and letting herself into Henry’s flat. The missed time could be made up on another day.

But she couldn’t face the final step.

This mission was impossible. There was no way she could pose at Henry’s front door and carry out the rest of the plan.

The sense of elation Mitch Wentworth had hoped for when he’d arrived in Townsville was somehow evading him. It must be jet lag, he told himself as he ran a weary hand over his eyes. A flight from San Francisco with only a few hours’ stopover in his home town, Sydney, before heading north to Townsville would knock the stuffing out of most travellers. And it was probably a mistake to take a peek at his brand-new baby—the Tropicana Films studios—unannounced and so late in the day.

At this stage, there was only an advance team working on the project, so he’d expected half the offices to be empty. And it was six-thirty in the evening, so it was not surprising that all his employees had gone home.

Even the formidable Ms Robbins.

Her name was on the door of the office in front of him. Grace Robbins. After all George Hervey had told him about this woman’s efficiency, dedication to the company and amazingly wide range of skills, he thought that perhaps—just perhaps—she might have stayed behind to meet him. In fact, once he’d faxed her his flight times, he’d almost expected her to greet him at the airport.

As he’d made his way through the Townsville terminal, he had kept a weather eye out for a middle-aged woman, conservatively dressed, brandishing perhaps a clipboard or some other weapon of efficiency. That was how he pictured Grace Robbins after listening to George’s twenty-minute eulogy of her.

Clearly George’s praise had been way too enthusiastic and his claims too exaggerated. It was a regrettable oversight, Mitch decided as he moved into her office. He was going out on a financial limb with New Tomorrow. With almost all his own money invested in it, this movie had to be a resounding hit and he needed the best possible staff to support him. He expected Ms Robbins to be a key player in the project.

Shrugging aside his annoyance, Mitch tried to be reasonable. Perhaps he shouldn’t judge the woman just because she wasn’t still here when he crept into town virtually unannounced. He’d only sent the fax just before he left Sydney and she might have had an appointment—any number of reasons for rushing home.

His eyes scanned the office. He couldn’t judge much at this stage. Her computer was shut down of course. There was a pile of faxes on her desk, but he had no intention of snooping. At least she wasn’t someone who littered her desk with personal knick-knacks or family photographs. Mitch approved of that. He liked a staff who kept their business and personal lives completely separate.

His glance caught the latest copy of Movie Mag lying at the edge of her desk.

Frowning, Mitch picked it up. The frown deepened and his eyes narrowed. Someone had taken a thick black marker pen and added graffiti to the cover. His picture sported an Adolf Hitler-style moustache and enormous black-rimmed spectacles. Several of his teeth had been blackened, leaving him with a ludicrous, gap-toothed smile.

Mitch’s shoulders rose, then slumped as he drew in a long breath before expelling it slowly in a hiss through his teeth. With slow, deliberate movements, he folded the offending magazine and placed it thoughtfully in his coat pocket.

And as he prowled back through the empty building he felt more jet-lagged than ever.

When he reached the thick glass doors at the entrance to the studio, a tall, dark shape outside caught his attention. An agitated young man was gesticulating wildly—pointing to himself and then to Mitch. For a moment, Mitch experienced a surge of hope. Had one eager employee returned to greet him? But just as quickly he dismissed the fanciful notion. Anyone working for the company would be able to let himself in.

Mitch opened the door and the fellow launched forward, his hand outstretched.

‘Mr Wentworth?’

Mitch nodded as the man stepped through the doorway and he shook the proffered hand. ‘How do you do?’

‘Henry Aspinall. And I’m very well, sir. I must say this is indeed a great honour. Oh, boy, it’s such a stroke of luck meeting you here, Mr Wentworth, sir. I’ve been trying to ring Grace all afternoon to check your arrival time and…’

Mitch interrupted the enthusiastic outburst. ‘Grace? Grace Robbins? You know her?’

‘Sure.’ Henry nodded. ‘When I couldn’t reach her at her flat, I thought she must still be here.’

‘No, there’s no one here—not even Ms Robbins,’ Mitch confirmed.

‘Oh, well, not to worry.’ Henry grinned. ‘It was really you I wanted to meet. You’ve received my e-mail messages?’

Mitch rubbed his brow, cursing the tiredness that fogged his memory. ‘Aspinall, Aspinall…’ He needed to recall whether this was someone really important he should remember, or just a nuisance fan.

Henry took advantage of the hesitation. ‘Grace told me about New Tomorrow and I’ve designed some computer graphics to blend in beautifully with the North Queensland outback…’

Mitch held up his hand to halt the flow of Henry’s enthusiasm. ‘Of course. You swamped my Los Angeles office with messages. You’ve done some graphics for the battle scenes.’

Henry looked jubilant. ‘That’s it, sir! What do you think? Would you like to see them?’

Mitch shot Henry an appraising glance. ‘Do you mind if we start walking? I’d kinda like to get to my hotel.’

‘Yes, sir. No problem. Where are you staying? The Sheraton? I’d be honoured to give you a lift.’

Mitch shrugged. Why not go with the fellow? It would save hunting up another taxi. While under other circumstances he might have found Henry Aspinall’s zeal annoying, like the unwanted attentions of an over-enthusiastic puppy, this evening it appealed to his dented ego. At least someone was keen to see him and seemed eager for his film’s success. He grunted his acceptance of the offer.

As they stepped onto the street, Henry skipped along the pavement with excitement. ‘My flat’s on the way. I’ve got everything set up. We could call in and I could quickly show you—’

Mitch held up his hand and nodded. ‘Sure thing,’ he agreed as Henry opened the passenger door of a battered and rusty sedan. ‘Take me to your disk.’

To his relief, they pulled up in front of a set of low maisonettes within five minutes. The car door squeaked on its hinges as Mitch prepared to follow Henry into his flat. After sitting for even such a short time, his weariness had returned with a vengeance. He would make this call as brief as possible. All he wanted now was to crawl into crisp, clean hotel sheets and sleep for three days.

‘That’s funny,’ commented Henry as they crossed the short strip of weedy front lawn. ‘I don’t remember leaving any lights on.’ He shrugged a puzzled smile Mitch’s way before sorting through his keys for the one he needed.

But his key never reached the lock.

As their footsteps echoed on the concrete paving of the narrow entryway, the front door flew open.

‘Surprise!’

A blaze of light flooded the doorway, illuminating a beautiful creature wearing next to nothing. Her eyes were fixed on Henry.

‘It’s Tuesday! National Girlfriend Exposure Day!’

Standing back in the shadows, Mitch was vaguely aware of strangling noises coming from Henry, but he was too stunned to move or speak.

A goddess, tall and tawny-headed, posed before them, dressed in the briefest of black lacy undergarments. She was absolutely breathtaking. Her creamy skin was satin-smooth and her womanly curves perfectly shaped—delicate slenderness and lush fullness balanced in proportions designed to impel a man to reach out for them.

He blinked, but shot his eyes wide open again in case he missed something.

And what he noticed was the ‘something’ in her eyes that didn’t quite mesh with this vision of alluring temptress. Was it fear, embarrassment? The shy tilt of her head and the downward curve of her shoulders made him think of a little girl pushed into the stage’s limelight by an overly ambitious parent. This woman had the body of a sultry seductress and the mien of a vulnerable child.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ Henry yelled.

His voice sent her slumping against the door frame like a puppet whose strings had been cut. But, almost instantly, her eyes flew to Mitch and she suddenly jerked again to terrified life.

‘Oh, my gosh,’ she moaned, and stared at Mitch in absolute horror. She clasped her hands to her chest. ‘Oh, no! Oh, no!’ she cried.

Her arm shot out and the door slammed in their faces.

‘GRACE! What has got into you?’

Grace turned, shaking with terror, her eyes wide and her hand covering her mouth, as she watched Henry stride across his living room towards her. His crimson face was twisted with anger.

‘Do you realise what you’ve just done?’ he shouted. ‘Do you know who—?’ Henry stopped shouting abruptly, as if he realised he was making this fiasco much worse. His voice dropped to a panicky whisper. ‘That’s Mitch Wentworth at the door!’

‘I know, I know,’ Grace moaned. Her eyes hunted around the small room, searching frantically for any item of clothing she could grab. Where was a gaping black hole when she needed to leap into it?

‘How could you do this to me, Grace? What’s he going to think?’

As if the answer to his own question suddenly popped into his head, Henry swore, spun on his heel and darted back to his front door.

Grace made a speedy escape to the bedroom.

‘He’s gone!’ she heard Henry roar. ‘Wentworth’s left already!’

She sank with relief onto the bed. Thank heavens for that. With shaking hands, she pulled a T-shirt over her head.

Henry burst into the room. ‘You’ve ruined me! You do realise that, don’t you? I’ll never get Wentworth to look at my graphics now.’ Flinging his hands into the air, he glared at her. ‘I had Mitch Wentworth here, Grace. Here in my own home. He was going to look at all my designs tonight! Tonight! You stupid woman! You’ve spoilt everything.’

Grace shuddered. ‘I’m sorry, Henry,’ she replied dully. ‘How was I to know you’d bring him home? I didn’t even know the man was in Townsville.’ With nervous, wrenching movements, she pulled on her jeans. All she could think of was how badly she wanted to get away.

And never come back!

Henry was carrying on like a spoilt little boy who’d dropped his ice-cream cone in the dirt.

‘I’m sure you’ll be able to show your ideas to him some other time,’ she muttered. Why had she ever wasted one moment trying to arouse Henry’s interest in her? He couldn’t have been less appreciative of her efforts if she’d trashed his entire flat.

She shoved her feet into trainers. ‘I’m sorry my silly plan was such a flop,’ she told him as he slumped and sulked on the far side of the bed. Her shoulders rose in a dismissive shrug. ‘It—it seemed like a good idea at the time…’

But not any more! A wave of shame drenched her with fresh horror. Never had she been more aware of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Henry shook his head and growled. ‘I thought you were supposed to be smart, but that was about the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.’

One thing was for sure, Grace promised herself silently: Henry wouldn’t see anything like that ever again. Jumping up, she grabbed her carryall and offered him a mumbled, ‘I won’t hang around,’ before blinking back embarrassed tears, hurrying past him and out of the room.

But as she left his flat Grace winced at the thought of a much more pressing concern than Henry’s fit of the sulks. Her big, bigger, biggest problem was so horrendous she wished she could take off on the next space shuttle! She’d gladly spend six months on a space station in the far reaches of the universe.

There was no way on earth she could face her new boss in the morning.

Please, please, please don’t let him recognise me.

When Mitch Wentworth stepped into her office next morning, Grace huddled over her computer and prayed as she had never prayed before.

She was prepared to repent in sackcloth and ashes. She would make a big donation to charity. She could do both. Anything. Just as long as her boss didn’t connect her with that humiliating moment in Henry’s doorway.

This morning, she’d taken great pains to look as different from the previous night’s pouting sexpot as she possibly could. But was it enough? Suddenly, with Mitch Wentworth’s expensive, hand-stitched shoes firmly planted in the middle of her office, Grace doubted the ability of hair gel and a primly fashioned bun to effectively change her appearance. And how helpful were the heavily framed glasses she’d borrowed from her neighbour? Her only reassurance was that last night Mitch had glimpsed her very briefly. And surely the shapeless, dull brown dress disguised her body?

What had actually been said at Henry’s front door was all an embarrassing blur, but with a hefty dollop of luck Mitch Wentworth would have no idea she was remotely connected to Henry Aspinall—or the trollop who’d greeted him last night.

Nevertheless, as he moved towards her, her shoulders lifted and squared as if she was braced to take a blow.

‘Good morning. I presume I have the pleasure of meeting Ms Robbins?’ His dark eyes assessed her carefully, but they showed no sign of recognition.

Yes! Relief flowed and swirled through Grace, but she still couldn’t dredge up a smile as she replied, ‘Good morning, Mr Wentworth.’ She stood and held out her hand to greet him formally, and the room buzzed with her tension. His handshake was predictably strong and firm.

My, he was tall! And broad-shouldered. She’d been prepared for the well-defined bone structure, the thick dark hair and the eyes designed purely for seduction, and last night she’d realised he was a big man. But now, in her small office, he took up far too much space. There was no escaping his spectacular style of masculinity: the kind of looks she’d learned to mistrust instinctively.

‘You come highly recommended. George Hervey gave a glowing report.’

She smiled faintly.

Mitch did not smile back. ‘But, of course, that’s all over now. With me, you will have to prove yourself.’

Prove myself?

Despite her nervousness, a surge of defiance heated Grace’s cheeks. Here we go! The bloodthirsty pirate takes the helm! Her chin lifted automatically, but, just in time, she remembered to mask her stormy reaction by lowering her gaze. Her green eyes had a bad habit of attracting unwanted attention when her dander was up. And already she could feel her hackles rising.

Mitch spoke again, his deep Australian drawl blending with the American twang he’d acquired after many years in the United States. ‘I expect one hundred per cent commitment and loyalty.’

‘Of course, Mr Wentworth.’

He drew in a sharp breath and Grace suspected that her softly spoken subservience irked him. Nevertheless, he continued without missing another beat. ‘You’re a vital key to the success of this New Tomorrow project. But…’ his voice dropped and he paused for dramatic effect ‘…I am that project. You’re working for me now, Grace Robbins. When you think of New Tomorrow, you think of me.’

He was as full of himself as she’d expected! However, she couldn’t ignore the fact that his brainchild was very exciting—a project she itched to become more involved with.

‘Your film has a brilliant premise,’ she replied, and would have continued, but, with an ominous flourish, Mitch reached into his pocket and withdrew something that looked like a magazine.

He threw it onto the table.

Her boss grinned up at her, his face disguised by a bristly moustache.

Rimless spectacles.

And blackened teeth!

Grace’s stomach felt as if it had been pumped full of concrete. Slashed onto the page with thick, black, angry strokes, her graffiti was clear evidence of the tantrum she’d thrown in this very office after her lunchtime discussion with Maria.

How on earth had he found it?

She flinched.

And suppressed a whimper.

Gulped down the urge to scream. Why couldn’t real life be like making a movie? If only a director could jump into her office and yell, ‘Cut! I don’t like the way this scene’s falling. Let’s start again and this time we’ll leave out the magazine…’

But no.

No one was going to rescue her from her own reckless actions. For several seconds Grace hoped she might faint.

No such luck.

Her legs trembled, but didn’t give way. No comforting blackness descended. And Mitch Wentworth remained standing squarely in front of her, pinning her to the spot with his cold, unflinching stare.

‘It seems you have a problem,’ he challenged.

She swayed slightly and grasped the back of her chair.

‘Obviously, you’ve got a problem with me,’ Mitch repeated in a cold, flat voice.

Where had she heard that the best defence was to attack? With a shaking, accusing finger, she pointed at him. ‘You—you’ve been spying on me!’

He stared at her in simmering silence. Then, to her surprise, he shook his head and walked away. For several seconds, Mitch stood with his back to her, but Grace could sense his anger in the rise and fall of his shoulders. He turned swiftly to face her again. ‘I don’t spy, Ms Robbins! I called here yesterday evening to check out the office. My office. And it didn’t take the help of a special service investigator to uncover what you left lying so blatantly on your desk. Right here!’

Grace looked away. He was about to sack her. She knew it. And if she stretched her imagination to take in his point of view she probably couldn’t blame him.

But she loved this job. Over the past four years, it had become the single most important thing in her life! Somehow, she dragged her eyes upwards again to find Mitch studying her. His hands were now shoved deep into his trouser pockets. If he was going to fire her, she wished he would get it over quickly.

‘Do you want to see this project through?’

‘Huh? I—I mean I beg your pardon?’

‘New Tomorrow. You want to stay on the team?’

‘Yes, I do. Very much. I’m actually very committed to New Tomorrow. I—’

‘You want to work with me?’

For a fraction of a second she hesitated, but it was long enough to elicit another of his quick frowns.

‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

Mitch picked up the offending magazine and tossed it into her waste-paper basket. Then he began to pace the small square of carpet in the middle of her office. ‘Okay. We’ll forget about this, Grace.’

Grace? He’d dropped the Ms Robbins?

‘I don’t have any problems at this stage,’ he continued. ‘If you have problems you should get them off your chest.’ He shot a questioning glance her way.

She shook her head.

‘You’re quite sure?’ he persisted.

Of course she had objections about Mitch Wentworth. She had a list as long as both his arms. But what could she do with them?

Especially now, when he’d skilfully backed her into a corner?

How could an employee criticise her boss for the way he’d bulldozed his way into taking over George Hervey’s little film company? As for her other problems—there was no way she could lambaste a man for his killer good looks.

She really had no choice but to offer an olive branch. ‘I have no complaints,’ she told him. ‘And—and I apologise. You were never meant to see the silly doodling on that magazine. I admit…I’ve been…rather thoughtless.’

He half turned and eyed her speculatively, his hands resting on his hips, pushing his suit coat aside. He was still too damned good-looking to be let loose in small spaces.

‘But,’ she finished defiantly, ‘can you spare me another speech?’

He chuckled and, for the briefest of moments, his eyes danced before his frown slid quickly back into place. ‘No, Grace, I’m afraid you’ll have to bear with me for a little longer. You see, from now on, people will have to get used to following my orders. And the New Tomorrow project must dominate everybody’s thinking. It’s my single focus and it’s got to be the focus for everyone else on the team. For anyone who’s not on that wavelength, there’s going to be a lot of pain and suffering. And if heads have to roll…’ his own head cocked to one side and he glared at her ‘…then so be it.’

‘I understand,’ Grace responded, a little flush mounting on her cheeks. How dared he suggest she wasn’t focused? She’d always taken great pride in her professional commitment. ‘I’m quite well aware that I’m playing with the big boys now.’

Perhaps she had gone too far. Grace squirmed uneasily as Mitch’s jaw clenched and his frown lingered while he studied her face. ‘The big boys…’ he repeated softly. His dark eyes linked for an uncomfortably long moment with hers. They moved to her mouth.

And Grace felt as if she’d stepped into quicksand.

How did he do it?

His hands were now lodged firmly in both trouser pockets and he was standing a good metre and a half away and yet, the way his eyes touched her—she felt as if his mouth was caressing hers—intimately.

This was ridiculous!

She tightened the lips he seemed to be studying so intently. And, her mind racing, she began to talk—anything to cover her turmoil. ‘I—I think you’ll find that I’ve been networking successfully on the location options, Mr Wentworth. I’ve already contacted the property owners in the Tablelands and Gulf regions. I’ve been inundated with offers of accommodation from tourist operators in the north. I have contour maps from the army, information on the roads…The internet is invaluable…’

Mitch held up his hand. ‘Hold it. Okay, I’m impressed, but I don’t need an itemised account just yet. I’m sure it’s all in your report.’

Her eyes blazed. ‘How can I help babbling? You make me nervous when you…when you keep staring at me…like that.’ A swift flood of heat rushed into her cheeks.

Mitch took a step closer and, for a breath-robbing moment, Grace thought he was going to touch her. ‘You don’t like men looking at you?’ he asked lazily.

‘Of course I don’t,’ she snapped while her heart thundered.

His eyes left her then, and he turned to the opposite wall, but an annoying little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

‘No woman does!’ she said indignantly. What was so darned amusing?

‘Ogling women is certainly inappropriate in the work-place,’ Mitch agreed, while he appeared to examine with fascination a ‘Save the Rainforest’ poster on her wall. ‘I apologise if I seemed to be staring. You have an intriguing…face.’

Grace gulped, uncertain how to react.

He moved to the door then stopped. With his thumb, Mitch traced the straight timber edge of the door frame.

Grace’s heartbeats continued to trouble her. He hesitated as if he still wanted to tick her off about something and she wished he’d get it over and done with.

A dreadful thought struck and her hands clenched so tightly her fingernails dug into her palms. Surely he wasn’t about to announce that he’d recognised her after all? He knew she was the hussy in the wispy triangles of black lace?

Not now?

But when his eyes swung back to hers, although they glinted with secret amusement, he merely nodded his head and said with studied politeness, ‘Nice to meet you, Grace. I’ll look forward to reading your report.’

He turned and left and Grace’s knees buckled. She sank onto a chair.

Groaning, she tried to reassure herself that Mitch couldn’t have known about last night in Henry’s flat. She was panicking about nothing. If he’d recognised her, he would have brought it out in the open—the way he had with the magazine.

Yikes! The magazine! With a moan of despair, she buried her face in her hands. The magazine! The underwear! How could she cope?

Staring through her fingers at her keyboard, Grace knew the full meaning of regret. But, she decided after a few minutes of blistering remorse, what she regretted most was that the human brain wasn’t more like a computer. If only there was a safe way to wipe a man’s memory…and get away with it.

MITCH closed Grace’s preliminary report on location options for New Tomorrow and placed it carefully on his desk. Leaning back in his chair, he glanced at his watch and stretched his arms above him. He was surprised that it was already seven p.m. No wonder his stomach was growling with hunger. In the past three days since he’d arrived in town, there’d been so much work to get through that he’d stayed back in the office each night, then grabbed a snack from the sandwich bar next door rather than eating properly in the hotel’s restaurant.

He allowed his arms to drop again and inter-linked his hands behind his neck. It was his favourite position for thinking.

And he needed to think about Grace Robbins.

This report she’d submitted was impressive. The clear, concise writing, the maps and illustrations, the impeccable layout and thorough attention to detail showed beyond doubt that Grace was absolutely professional. She was one smooth operator.

In the two months since she’d moved from the Sydney office to be part of the advance team working out of Townsville, Grace had assimilated an amazing amount of information about the northern region and all of it was highly relevant to their project. While reading her report, Mitch had become excited by all the potential location sites she’d outlined.

What had really surprised him was her uncanny grasp of what he was trying to achieve with this movie. He’d only sent a fairly sketchy proposal; she hadn’t even read a full script. But it was as if he and Grace had already shared several in-depth conversations about his hopes and expectations for New Tomorrow.

An assistant who could methodically work her way through extraneous details to find exactly what was relevant was a great asset. But one who could also share his artistic vision was a rare find. When her efficiency and presentation skills were also considered, Mitch knew George Hervey had been right. Grace was of inestimable value to the company.

It was a pity these qualities didn’t come with a pleasant, sunny personality. There was only one way to describe Grace—well-balanced—with a huge chip on both shoulders!

Throughout the three days he’d spent in the office, her face had remained a polite, but frowning, almost unfriendly mask. And, while it didn’t particularly bother him, Mitch was beginning to think he’d dreamed up that vision of an alluring, provocative beauty framed by the doorway of Henry Aspinall’s flat.

The way she scurried around the office with her head down, dressed in sombre browns and greys, she looked like a drab brown mouse. It was hard to believe she’d ever made a sexy come-on in her life.

Perhaps he should have said something to clear the air. But he hadn’t wanted any blurring of business and private matters between himself and the woman with whom he had to work so closely.

He flipped open the plastic cover of the report and turned again to Grace’s recommendations. Pen in hand, he read through them once more, circling certain points and making notes in the margins. She had certainly presented some thought-provoking options.

Grace was in the mood for cooking something special. It was an inspiration that didn’t hit her often, so she tended to make the most of it, preparing large quantities that would last her for many meals. Occasionally she felt expansive and threw a dinner party, but tonight she was making her favourite curry and she wasn’t planning on sharing it with anyone.

On the way home from work, she stopped off at the local supermarket and bought all the necessary ingredients. And after a long, warm soak in scented bath oils, she padded into her kitchen, drew the red gingham curtains closed and slipped her favourite Spanish guitar CD into the player.

In the four years she’d worked for Tropicana Films, she’d always made a deliberate effort to separate her work and her leisure. At the end of the working day, she relished time for herself to clear her thoughts. Now it was especially important to forget about her new boss and the persistent, niggling worry that he might have recognised her as the figure flaunting herself in Henry’s doorway.

What if Henry had said something to Mitch?

Shaking her head furiously, she tried to push aside such invasive thoughts and turned up the volume on the CD player. The fluid sounds rippled around her and she began to feel better than she had in days.

Three days.

She hummed softly under her breath as she diced lamb, and chopped onions and garlic. And within twenty minutes the small kitchen was redolent with the rich fragrance of lamb simmering in curry leaves, fresh coriander, crushed cummin and chilli.

Totally absorbed in her task, she was stirring in the final ingredient, coconut milk, when a knock on her door startled her. Quickly, she lowered the heat and snatched up a towel to wipe her hands as she headed for the door.

The last person she expected to find on her doorstep was Mitch Wentworth. Grace’s heart plummeted.

‘Wow, something smells wonderful.’ He sniffed the air appreciatively.

‘Er, hello, Mr Wentworth,’ she murmured, only just resisting the temptation to slam the door in his face. At least she was fully clothed this time. Not that her favourite old tracksuit was exactly suitable attire for greeting the boss. Especially when he was still in the elegantly tailored business suit he wore to the office. Her hand strayed to her hair which, aided by the soak in the bath and the warmth of the kitchen, had loosened and begun to fall in wispy strands around her face. She rubbed one bare foot against the other. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Do I smell roghan josh curry?’ Mitch asked.

Her eyes widened. ‘Madras, actually,’ she answered warily. Surely he wasn’t looking for a meal?

‘Ah, yes. I should have noticed.’ Mitch smiled and Grace took a step back. She needed to put some distance between herself and that smile. ‘There is faint aroma of coconut,’ he agreed. ‘Roghan josh has yoghurt, doesn’t it?’

‘You—you like curries?’ Why did she ask? Every man she’d ever met liked curries. But rarely were they so familiar with the details of the ingredients. ‘This one needs to simmer for a good while yet,’ she hastened to add, in case he had any bright ideas about inviting himself for dinner.

‘There’s no need to look so nervous, Grace. I won’t be invading your privacy for very long,’ Mitch reassured her as if he’d been reading her mind. ‘And I’m sure Henry Aspinall would have something to say if I ate his share of dinner.’

‘Hen—Henry?’ Grace stammered. What exactly did he know about Henry?

‘He’s been chasing me to look at his graphic designs and when I first met him he mentioned you and he were…good friends.’

‘Oh.’ Grace gulped. Nervously, she waited to see if Mitch was going to expand on this information. When he didn’t, she added, ‘So why have you come here?’

‘Do you mind if I come in for just a moment? There are a few things I need to discuss with you and I’d like to clear them up tonight.’

Mitch expected her hesitation, but he also knew Grace would invite him in. She had seen that he was holding the folder with her report and curiosity sparked from her green eyes. Valiantly ignoring his hunger pangs, he followed her into the small sitting room, rich with the fragrant, spicy smells that drifted from her kitchen.

He couldn’t help noticing that it was a lovely room—not extravagantly decorated, but comfortable and welcoming. And the raw, emotive passion of the guitar music in the background was a surprise. Another layer to the Grace Robbins enigma.

Mitch’s gaze roved slowly around the cosy setting. The lighting was low, creating a soothing mood. And the warm, natural earth colours of the terracotta tiled floor and the two large Aboriginal paintings dominating the main wall gave a sense of mellowness. In the opposite corner, beneath a black and white movie poster of Bogey and Bacall, a fat earthenware pot held a sheaf of dried grasses. Beside it sat an overly plump floor cushion covered with a stone-and claret-coloured design.

He’d rarely settled in one spot long enough to establish his own home, but when he did make purchases these same earthy tones, sunburnt ochres and browns were the colours that always attracted him.

The chocolate brown sofa was deep and soft and Mitch sank into it gratefully. Grace sat opposite him on a woven cane chair and clutched at a sienna and black striped cushion as if her life depended on it. Nevertheless, he didn’t miss the way she curled into the deep chair with catlike elegance.

‘You decorated this place yourself?’ he asked.

‘Yes. I thought the New Tomorrow project would take long enough to warrant moving all my gear from Sydney.’

Mitch nodded. ‘It’s very attractive. I’m looking forward to finding a home base for myself.’ His glance drifted to the fish tank on a stand behind her chair. Two goldfish and a black fish. ‘I have a sister-in-law who is a feng shui expert. She claims that aquariums are very helpful for creating…’ he paused, searching for the right word, but gave up with a smiling shrug ‘…a happy environment.’

Grace’s mouth twitched as she gestured to the fish. ‘I’ve read that. These guys are the Marx Brothers.’

‘Let me guess. The black one is Groucho.’

‘Of course.’ She laughed. Then she looked startled as if she hadn’t meant to let down her guard. ‘Um—what did you want to speak about?’

She was edgy—probably in a hurry to get rid of him before Aspinall turned up. Mitch suppressed a sigh as he pictured the other man wolfing down her delicious meal. He avoided thinking of any other delights in store for Henry Aspinall by flipping her report onto his knee and tapping his finger against the cover. ‘This is good, Grace. Very good. I have to say I’m very impressed by how quickly you’ve made yourself familiar with the North Queensland territory.’

Her eyes lit up with pleasure. Mitch found their sudden sparkle arresting.

‘It’s very interesting country,’ Grace replied, unconsciously crossing one long, towelling-clad leg over the other. ‘As I said in my report, I think there are many location options on our back doorstep.’

Mitch had never noticed before just how sexy faded blue terry towelling could be. He dragged his gaze away. Her body shouldn’t, couldn’t be a factor here. Praising her business skills was the way to win over Grace Robbins. ‘Your report is very persuasive. That’s why I’m here tonight. I’d like to start investigating some of these outback locations straight away.’

‘Immediately?’

‘Tomorrow morning.’

She nodded thoughtfully and Mitch could sense her thoughts whirling behind those wide green eyes as she calculated what needed to be done. ‘You’d definitely check out Undara?’ she queried.

He referred to his scribbled notes. ‘The ancient lava tubes? Yes. They sound fantastic for the underground scenes. And I want to look at some of the old deserted mining towns, too.’

‘Like Ravenswood or the Mount Surprise district?’

‘They’re the ones.’ Mitch nodded.

‘You’d hire a four-wheel drive?’

Mitch could tell that she was catching onto his enthusiasm. The cushion she’d been clutching earlier slipped unheeded to the floor.

‘I think that would be best. Then I could mosey on and explore more of the outback. I want to take a good look at the Gulf country. There’s so much great wilderness terrain out there.’

‘And with its own peculiar kind of beauty,’ Grace supplied. She leaned forward, an excited pink tinting her cheeks. ‘I’m sure you’ll find just what you’re looking for in the Gulf.’

For the briefest moment, Mitch had the eerie feeling that there was something deeply prophetic about her words—as if he would actually find something much more meaningful than a location for his film. He blinked and shook his head. Grace might be clever, but she could not see into the future. Working overtime on top of jet lag could produce the weirdest sensations.

He smiled at her. ‘You understand what I’m looking for, don’t you?’

‘I—I think so.’ Perhaps he was staring too intently. Her cheeks grew pinker and she looked away for a moment.

‘This industry is a dog-eat-dog world. And filming at a great location will give my movie the kind of competitive edge I need.’

She seemed to recover, giving a little shake, and as she spoke she met him once more with a level gaze. ‘As I understand it, you’re hoping to create a kind post-World War III scenario—a world where the people who are left will start all over again. The old world is lost or contaminated except for this small section of land and it is pure and unpolluted. So you want something isolated—pristine, untouched.’

Mitch jumped to his feet. ‘That’s exactly what I’m looking for. It’s great that you understand. And that’s why you’ll be coming with me.’

The look of horror that swept across her features shocked him. He hadn’t expected opposition from someone so deeply involved with the film.

‘You’ll help me check out the locations, of course.’

‘Oh, no. I can’t. I—I can’t possibly,’ she stammered.

‘Why not?’ He’d set his mind on having her with him. Her knowledge, the research she’d already undertaken, was invaluable.

‘I have so much to do.’ Her hands were twisting nervously in her lap. She looked so frightened, Mitch wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. What kind of a man did she think he was?

‘I’m the boss, Grace. I know exactly what you have to do. And I know you can spare the time for this trip.’

What had he done wrong to upset her so badly? How could she be so keen one minute and then suddenly back off as if he’d turned into a ghoulish monster? Mitch paced the length of her fashionable hand-woven rug. Caught up with the positive tone of her report, he had come tonight with the expectation that Grace would see it as her professional duty to accompany him—no matter what her personal hang-ups were. And now he was prepared to be as stubborn as was necessary.

He wasn’t leaving until she said yes.

‘GRACE, I’m offering you a chance to get out of the office—to get away in the outback and to really explore this project with me. How could you refuse?’

‘By saying no!’ she snapped, and leapt to her feet. She was incensed by Mitch’s arrogant assumption that she’d give her eye-teeth to slip away with him. ‘I realise that’s probably a new experience for you, Mr Wentworth.’

He shot her a startled glance, before throwing his head back and releasing a quiet chuckle. ‘Of course I’ve had my share of rejections, Ms Robbins.’

Mitch eyed her shrewdly while he paced her floor and Grace felt like a witness in the dock about to be cross-examined. There was a long, awkward silence before he spoke again. ‘Would we be talking about relationships here? The man-woman kind? Or are we talking about business and the world at large?’

She didn’t answer, but when he retaliated by crossing the short strip of matting towards her Grace held her breath, desperately willing her heart to stay calm and wishing that she could think of a smart retort that would stop him in his tracks. In spite of all the warnings her mind issued, her body started overreacting whenever this man got close. He must know the effect he had on women. He should be considerate and keep his distance.

‘Which Grace Robbins is rejecting my request?’ Mitch drawled softly, while he shook her report in her face. ‘The Grace who wrote this report wouldn’t hesitate to help check out these locations.’

Suddenly she was very unsure of her ground.

‘Is there something deeper going down here?’ Mitch frowned and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps I was wrong to throw that magazine with your artwork in the bin and assume we could start afresh? Do you dislike me so much that you can’t bear to make this journey in my company?’

She shook her head, trying to convince herself that her protests were well-founded, but for the life of her Grace couldn’t articulate her objections. Surely she had good, solid, professional reasons to offer him beyond the pitiful fact that he was so sexy that her clear thinking, precise mind turned to candy floss when he was around? And now he expected her to go away with him!

Just the two of them!

Until now she had always been prepared to cooperate wholeheartedly with her employer. But her previous boss, George Hervey, had been a thoughtful and considerate, elderly gentleman. Working for him, she had always felt safe and sure of her role.

Now, trying to come up with a plausible explanation for her refusal, she couldn’t get her head past Mitch’s suggestion that her objections were more to do with how she felt about him than how she felt about her work.

Mitch was still spearing her with his dark gaze. ‘Would it make a difference if I promised Henry Aspinall not to lay a finger on you for the duration of the journey?’ he asked.

‘Henry?’ Her cheeks flamed. Why did he keep mentioning Henry? ‘Henry has nothing to do with this. He’s mistaken if he thinks we’re still…friends.’

‘Indeed?’ He considered her response for another uncomfortably long moment. ‘You look terrified. What is there to be afraid of?’

Mitch stepped forward and, with an assurance she was sure came from years of experience, reached out his hand to rest it lightly at the nape of her neck. Her skin grew hot beneath his touch and she fully intended to pull away. But, with the same ease that a bright flower attracts a giddy butterfly, he slowly drew her towards him and her good intentions melted. Her lips hovered just below his. ‘Is this what you’re frightened of, Grace?’

Her heart fluttered frantically.

There was no doubt he intended to kiss her.

And Grace also sensed at that moment, that if she cried out, or tried to beat Mitch Wentworth off with her fists, he would certainly let her go. She might have asked him to stop if she hadn’t been having such difficulty with her breathing, but instead she allowed him to close that last short gap.

As Mitch’s warm mouth settled over hers, a tiny sob escaped her and she felt him pull away slightly.

But she was already under his spell.

Her eyes were already closed and her face was tilted at a shamefully helpful angle. And, after that one brief touch of his lips, she was mentally begging him to taste her, to explore her mouth with his own. And when he did Grace sank against him as if she needed his strength.

There was nothing arrogant or pigheaded about the way Mitch’s hands tenderly cradled her face, or the way his mouth lazily investigated hers. It was a journey of discovery beyond her wildest dreams. Wherever he touched her, her skin seemed to flare with delicious sensitivity. The way his mouth moved, slowly and seductively against hers, felt so-o-o good. Utterly spellbound, Grace’s lips opened, pleading for more. Mitch’s kiss deepened and, as if they had a mind of their own, her arms rose shyly to link themselves around his neck.

There was nothing threatening about being in his embrace. Never before had she felt so womanly, so desirable, so eager for a man to explore more than her lips. When Mitch finally broke away, it took all her strength of will not to moan in soft protest.

He looked down at her, his gaze smoky with emotion. ‘Another question answered,’ he murmured softly.

And the spell was broken.

Shocked, Grace staggered backwards, her hand at her mouth as if she couldn’t quite believe she’d allowed such a thing to happen.

‘What do you think you’re doing? You can’t just get your way by trying to seduce me,’ she cried, her voice shrill with self-recrimination.

‘Of course not,’ Mitch responded quickly. ‘I wasn’t using a kiss as a persuasive device. It was just—how shall I put it? An experiment. I needed to discover something.’

Incensed, Grace grabbed a sofa cushion and hurled it at him. ‘How dare you? How could you experiment with me?’

Mitch caught the cushion neatly and stood holding it in both hands. Hands which only minutes earlier had been caressing her. ‘I don’t know, Grace,’ he replied, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘Can you explain how we seem to be such a great team when it comes to kissing?’

Of course she couldn’t! It was the stupidest thing she’d ever done. Well, almost, she corrected as her memory replayed two other occasions this week when she’d made a first-class fool of herself in front of this man.

‘Don’t think a little kiss will make me want to go off travelling in the outback alone with you,’ she hissed.

‘What if I promise never to kiss you again?’

‘Oh?’ Grace gasped. Never? She hoped her reply held no echo of the ridiculous wave of regret that flooded right through her.

‘Boy scout’s honour,’ Mitch replied, tossing her a grin and a two fingered salute. Then he shot her a cheeky sideways glance and added, ‘Of course, I’d be prepared to build in an escape clause.’

‘Escape?’ she echoed faintly.

‘I’ll only kiss you if you want me to. The next time I take you in my arms will be when you ask me to, Ms Robbins.’

That brought her to her senses. ‘In your dreams, Wentworth.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t promise what might happen in them.’

Grace glared at him as she folded her arms across her chest and took several deep, fortifying breaths. The impact of that kiss was still reverberating through her body. Her heartbeats weren’t just racing, they were stampeding. Anybody would think she’d never been kissed before. She suppressed the recognition that she had never been kissed like that before. Roger the Rat had been nowhere near as good.

To think she’d joked the other day about playing with the big boys. Clearly, Mitch’s kisses were in a league of their own.

His businesslike tone cut through her wayward thoughts. ‘I really do need you to make this trip with me. You understand exactly what I want. You’ve already done all the groundwork. No one else will be nearly as useful. Give me some credit. I swear I’m not a boss who preys on his female staff. I want us to work together as a great business team.’

Forget about the kiss, she chided. He means it. It’s not going to happen again. Concentrate on the job. ‘How many days would we be away?’ she asked softly.

Mitch beamed at her. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’ He glanced again at the notes he’d made on the end of her report. ‘Five days should just about do the trick.’

She nodded weakly.

His answering nod of acceptance, as if he knew all along that she would capitulate, annoyed Grace, but she forced her mind to stay focused on practical business details. ‘Do we need to make any bookings?’

‘I’ll book for tomorrow night at Undara,’ he replied. ‘After that I’d like to be as flexible as possible. We’ll take my mobile phone and book ahead as we go.’ Mitch’s eyebrows rose and he jerked his head in the direction of her kitchen. ‘That curry of yours should be just about ready by now, shouldn’t it?’

‘Don’t push your luck, Mr Wentworth,’ Grace warned, pointing to her door. ‘If I have to spend the next five days with my boss, I need a little solitude tonight.’ More than anything else, she needed to think about how on earth she’d ever allowed that kiss to happen.

Her very worst fears about Mitch had already proved well-founded. He was the kind of man who could charm a nun away from her prayers. And now she was going to be travelling alone with him! Grace believed he’d keep his promise about not kissing her again, but she needed to develop strategies to ensure her body didn’t come up with any silly ideas of its own.

Mitch didn’t try to hide his disappointment that he wouldn’t taste her curry, but to her relief he had just enough manners not to push the matter. ‘I’ll have the vehicle ready for nine o’clock in the morning,’ he said as he went through her doorway. ‘I’ll pick you up from here.’

Punctuality was not her boss’s strongest feature, Grace decided next morning when he eventually pulled up outside her flat a good thirty minutes late. He was driving a large, solid-looking off-road vehicle with a tray back.

She had expected something more flashy and sporty—perhaps a shiny black and gold, city-style, four-wheel drive. This was a regular bush vehicle.

When Mitch swung the driver’s door open and jumped down, flashing her a boyish grin, she was surprised by the way her own spirits lifted. She was hardly feeling her best after a long night tossing restlessly in her bed, worrying about spending five days rattling around the North Queensland outback side by side with her employer.

But this morning, dressed in jeans and an army-green bush shirt, he was looking so genuinely excited, like a boy allowed off on his very first Huckleberry Finn adventure, that her fears subsided somewhat. His enthusiasm, as he patted the truck’s sturdy bonnet, was almost infectious. Not that she was prepared to let him see a chink in her armour. She nodded an unsmiling greeting.

Mitch wasn’t to be put off. ‘I’ve made sure I got a vehicle fitted out with absolutely everything we could possibly need. Spare water tanks, special tow ropes and winches in case we get bogged. Tarps and cooking gear if we decide to rough it. That’s why I’m a bit late—making sure we had all those extras.’

‘Did you get G.P.S.?’

‘A global positioning system?’ Mitch frowned, looking slightly put out. ‘What do you know about that sort of thing?’

‘Oh…’ she shrugged ‘…I’ve read about it. It seems like a brilliant system for making sure you don’t get lost. The army use it a lot.’

‘I doubt we’ll need gear that sophisticated to help us navigate. We’ve got maps and a mobile phone and a good sturdy vehicle—and neither of us is a fool. We’re not going to get lost.’

‘I guess not,’ she agreed, but she pulled a face that allowed just a hint of doubt to linger in the air as she lifted her carefully packed kit bag and heaved it onto one shoulder.

‘Here, let me take that,’ he offered.

Finding it rather a strain to remain ungracious in the face of his helpfulness, Grace allowed him to take her pack. As she did so, he dipped his face close to hers and his dark eyes danced as they studied her. ‘Aha! I think I detect a faint smile,’ he teased.

‘A slip of the lip,’ muttered Grace.

Mitch sighed as he hefted her bag into the back of the truck. ‘So that’s the way it’s going to be, is it, Ms Robbins?’ His glance slid to her jeans. ‘Five days of venom in denim.’

His words found their mark and Grace’s cheeks burned. Perhaps she was behaving unprofessionally—more like an immature kid.

‘Sorry,’ she said, shooting him a fair attempt at a smile. ‘I’m a bit tired.’

‘Then you should just sit back and relax and let me take care of the driving. Did you want to bring any of your favourite CDs to help while away the miles?’

She stared back at him, surprised. ‘That’s a great idea! I won’t be long.’ About to dash into her flat, she paused. ‘Do you have any preferences?’

Mitch leant his long frame against the truck’s door and sent her a slow, conspiratorial smile. ‘I think there’s a very good chance we have similar tastes, Grace. I’m prepared to go along with whatever you choose.’

As she collected a pile of CDs, she sensed her mouth softening into the beginnings of a genuine smile.

Grace wasn’t sure who was more surprised, she or Mitch, when they covered the six-hour journey up the narrow road to Undara without any sparring or tense silences. They only saw a few vehicles during the journey. They listened to her music, chatted about New Tomorrow, about people they knew in the film industry, or sat in comfortable silence as the countryside flashed past them in streaks of brown and grey-green against a bright blue sky. There were even moments when she actually laughed out loud at stories he told about colourful Hollywood personalities.

But whenever she started to relax Grace quickly reminded herself to be wary of her boss. He could pour on the charm when it suited him, but she knew from bitter experience that she must never lower her resistance.

From time to time Mitch stopped the truck to look at a point of interest. A flock of emus caught his attention, and he slowed to take a closer look.

‘I’ll bring them in near us,’ he told her.

Grace eyed him dubiously. ‘So what exactly are you going to do? Warble their mating call?’

He darted a withering glance in her direction. ‘Just watch this, city girl.’ Winding down his window, he held out his wide-brimmed hat and waved it at the emus. The birds stopped abruptly, staring at the movement. As Mitch continued waving, one of the scraggy, long-legged birds slowly stepped forward, a beady eye fixed on the hat. Then the others followed cautiously, until several dark-feathered adults and three stripy chicks were all gathered at the edge of the highway, staring fiercely at Mitch and his hat.

‘That’s a cool trick,’ breathed Grace. ‘Where’d you learn it?’

‘Oh, I knocked about in the bush quite a bit when I was younger. I’m not a complete city slicker. Look!’ He pointed as one of the adults herded up the chicks. ‘You don’t often see the mother emu with her babies.’

Grace cleared her throat. ‘Actually, city boy, it’s the male emu that incubates the eggs and looks after the chicks.’

‘Poor bloke,’ Mitch muttered under his breath as he accelerated back onto the highway. He shot Grace a baleful glance. ‘And where did you learn that?’

‘Oh, I read a lot…’ she answered airily.

They travelled on, companionably silent, as the bush flashed past them—the rough black trunks of ironbarks, the silvery smooth limbs of woollybutts and the deeper red of bloodwoods.

Later in the day, more animals emerged. A butcher-bird startled Grace when it took off suddenly from the side of the road with a long, thin snake in its beak. In the shadowy verges, kangaroos and wallabies slowly edged out for an afternoon graze. It was late in the day by the time they rattled down the final stretch of dirt road to reach Undara.

‘You’ve organised our accommodation, haven’t you?’ she asked warily.

‘Sure have,’ Mitch assured her. ‘We’re also booked in for a meal tonight and our underground tour in the morning. I’ll just head into the office there and pick up our keys.’

Grace watched as he bounded up the three steps and crossed the timber veranda to the reception area. Somehow, despite his city lifestyle, Grace had to admit that Mitch had avoided the urban cowboy image. He really looked as at home in faded blue jeans and scuffed riding boots in the bush as he did in his expensive Italian suits and hand-stitched, shining shoes in the city.

She had the uncomfortable feeling that Mitch was the kind of guy who would look good in any setting—in any clothes. Or without clothes, came the errant thought. She dismissed it quickly.

As he headed back to the truck, he was frowning. He flipped open the door and swung his long frame into the driver’s seat. ‘Minor hitch,’ he mumbled.

Grace’s heart jumped a beat or two. ‘How’s that?’ she whispered.

‘I don’t know how it happened, but there’s been a misunderstanding about our accommodation.’

‘A misunderstanding? Didn’t you know the accommodation here is converted railway carriages?’

‘Yeah. That’s not the problem.’ His dark eyes rested on her and his mouth twisted into a lopsided grin. ‘Actually, there’s no problem really. At least, there won’t be if you don’t throw a tantrum.’

Alarm sent tiny shivers darting through Grace’s innards. ‘Tantrum?’ she squeaked and then she struggled to gain more composure. ‘I haven’t thrown a tantrum since I was two years old. For heaven’s sake, what are you rambling on about?’

He twisted the key in the ignition and, as the engine chugged back to life, he told her. ‘A couple of busloads of tourists have filled the place up and there’s only one spot left for us. Honestly, I don’t know how they got the idea we were a couple.’

Grace shot him a suspicious glare. ‘You—you mean we have to share a…’

‘A room,’ Mitch supplied.

‘Twin share?’

‘’Fraid not. Double.’

‘We can’t!’ Grace yelled back. She ran nervous hands through her hair. The comfortable safety shield she’d been building all day had suddenly developed huge gaping cracks. ‘This is ridiculous!’ she shouted.

‘We’re not in the city now, Grace. In the bush you take what’s offered.’ Mitch nudged the truck towards the distant row of brown-painted railway carriages lined up in the shade of gum trees. ‘In case you didn’t know, beds are for sleeping, not just for sex. We can build a little barricade with pillows.’

Grace clamped her teeth closed as a screech of frustration threatened.

Mitch shot her a sideways glance. ‘I didn’t think you’d take this news too calmly. Look, it’s a long drive back to anywhere else and we’d only have to come back out here again in the morning,’ he commented. ‘You get all kinds of hazards in remote areas, but I’m game if you are.’

‘Of course you are!’ she cried.

Mitch stopped in their allotted parking bay, outlined by rough bush timber, cut off the engine and turned to her. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It’s no skin off your nose to spend one more night in bed with a woman you hardly know. It—it’s your—hobby!’ She flung her hands upwards to emphasise her words.

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