The muted TV screen was showing ten minutes to midnight. Swapping his handmade silk shirt for a soft worn jersey, he poured himself a large Scotch from the suite’s minibar, drank it down. He was looking forward to a few hours of oblivion.
* * *
Olivia pressed her lips together and waited for Jett to answer the intercom to his penthouse apartment. She was wearing a stupid party hat and juggling a supermarket bag filled with New Year cheer and her nerves were stretched to breaking point.
Three hours ago she’d been eating a late dinner alone in the hotel room, listening to other people having fun, watching the celebrations from her balcony. Where would she be next New Year? Next New Year, she’d know—one way or another. She’d wanted to reach out, grab hold of life with both hands while she still could and join in.
Her focus had been so narrow, so sharply defined by the goals she’d set for herself. The race, the fundraising and memories of her mother had reminded her that time was a gift that couldn’t be bought or bartered for and could be snatched away without warning.
And she’d made a decision. Changed her mind. Jett. Tonight. This was her chance to take time for herself before she knew for sure what her future held. The result would surely be positive. She’d have no choice then but to make those difficult decisions she’d put at the back of her mind for so long. Surgery. Lifestyle.
But not tonight. Not even next week.
She’d had the entrée with Jett, and Brie was right—she wanted the main course.
She shifted impatiently on the balls of her feet. What if he wasn’t in? What if he was sharing a New Year’s bonk with some other random woman he’d picked up? The way he’d done with her on Christmas Eve?
She heard a crackle through the speaker then, ‘Olivia.’ The disembodied voice didn’t sound particularly pleased.
He had the advantage and she wished the video worked both ways so she could see his expression. So she’d know whether she was making an idiot of herself. She tapped her silly hat and smiled. ‘You still recognise me, then.’
The pause lasted long enough to write Happy New Year with a blocked glitter pen. ‘What’s up?’
‘Brie mentioned you were on your own tonight... And since I...’ She trailed off, biting back the needy, desperate words on the tip of her tongue.
Dammit, she wasn’t taking no for an answer. She wasn’t needy—she was taking control. She rose up on tiptoes, closer to the intercom as if to draw him into her game. ‘It’s nine minutes to midnight. Let me in, I want to wish you Happy New Year.’ She glanced at the bag in her arms. ‘And I’ve got stuff.’
‘Stuff.’
‘Eight minutes thirty seconds and counting.’
The elevator doors to his penthouse slid open to her left.
Relieved, with dignity intact—for now at least—she stepped inside. And was tempted to back out again. The mirror on the back wall reflected a woman with wild red hair topped with a green foil cone hat on an odd tilt, eyes too wide for her face. Freckles and fine lines from years of sailing in the sun. Definitely not Jett’s type—oh yeah, she’d looked him up on the Internet and seen his type.
She’d only hooked his attention the first time because it had been dim and she’d looked half decent in her new fire-engine-red cocktail dress. Tonight she was wearing an avocado-coloured ankle-length shift and gold sandals. Nothing too sexy and provocative in case he’d changed his mind about spending the night alone and had another woman up here.
Her fingers clenched around the bag. She’d die of embarrassment, she’d just die— ‘Hi,’ she said, breezing out as the door opened, not looking at him and heading straight for the fantastic view taking up one whole wall. The only light in the room came from outside and the muted TV screen. ‘Wow, look at that. The penthouse view. Almost as pretty as Sydney Harbour.’
‘You’re a Taswegian, you’re biased.’ His voice, a mellow baritone, stroked up her spine and her eyes slid closed. His woodsy soap she’d become familiar with during the race teased her nostrils. His presence behind her filled her with a new kind of longing.
Turning, she set her bag of goodies on the smoked-glass dining table where his computer blinked and now she did look at the reason she was here.
Rumpled and casual in shorts that might have been white once upon a time and a soft-looking black T-shirt. The tight fit outlined hard-packed muscles and those powerful legs, which had caught her attention that first night, were tantalisingly bare from mid-thigh down. ‘You’re an Apple Islander too.’
With only a dim light in the corner, the dusky air was thick with tension. He furrowed a hand through tousled hair, obviously not for the first time tonight. ‘I think you should go.’