Her Hottest Summer Yet

Claude put her mind to rest when she said, “You do realise he has a stick up his backside? Like, permanently?”

“So says you.” Avery laughed. “I thought he seemed perfectly—”

“Nice? Okay, then. You have my blessing. Shake that tree if it floats your boat. Just don’t get hurt. By the stick. Up his—”

“Yes, thank you. I get it.”

“In fact have at them both if you so desire. Neither Jonah Broody North or Luke Bloody Hargreaves are my type, that’s for sure.”

Avery swallowed down the tangled flash of heat at thought of one and focused on the soothing warmth that settled in her belly at thought of the other. “So what is your type these days, Miss Claudia?”

Claude’s hand came to rest on her chest as she stared at the ceiling. “A man who in thirty years still looks at me the way my dad looks at my mum. Who looks at me one day and says, ‘You’ve worked hard enough, hon, let’s go buy a campervan and travel the country.’ Who looks at me like I’m his moon and stars. Hokey, right?”

Avery stared up at the ceiling too, noticing a watermark, dismissing it. “So hokey. And while you’re at it, could you find me one of those too, please?”

“We here at the Tropicana Nights always aim to please. Now,” Claude said, pulling herself to sitting and reaching for the phone, “time to tell me why you are really here. Because I know you too well to know an impromptu month off had nothing to do with it.”

Then she held up a finger as someone answered on the other end. And while Claudia ordered dinner, a massage, and a jug of something called a Flaming Flamingo, Avery wondered quite where to start.

Claude knew the background.

That after the divorce Avery rarely saw her dad. Mostly at monthly lunches she organised. And thank goodness they honestly both loved baseball, or those meetings would be quiet affairs. Go Yanks!

As for dear old Mom, she’d turned on Avery’s father with such constant and unceasing venom when he’d left it had been made pretty clear to Avery that once on her mother’s bad side there was no coming back.

In order to retain any semblance of the family she had left, what could Avery do but become the perfect Park Avenue daughter?

Until the moment her mother had announced her grand plans for her Divorced a Decade party. And Avery—being such a great party planner—of course was to be in charge of the entire thing! After a decade of smiling and achieving and navigating the balance between her less-than-accommodating parents, Miss Park Avenue Perfect had finally snapped.

“You snapped?” Claude asked as Avery hit that point of the story, her voice a reverent hush. “What did Caroline say when you told her no?”

Okay, so this was where it kind of got messy. Where Avery’s memory of the event was skewed. By how hard she’d worked to retain a relationship with her distant dad. And how readily her mother had expected she’d be delighted to help out.

“I didn’t exactly say...that. Not in so many words.”

“Avery,” Claude growled.

Avery scrunched her eyes shut tight and admitted, “I told her I couldn’t help her because I was taking a sabbatical.”

“A sabbatical. And she believed you?”

“When she saw the mock-up I quickly slapped together of my flight details she did. Then I just had to go ahead and call you and actually book the flights. And let all my clients know I was on extended leave from work and couldn’t take any new jobs. And close up my apartment and turn off my electric and water and have my mail diverted for a couple months. And voilà!”

“Voilà!” Claude repeated. “Good God, hon! One of these days you’re going to have to learn to say the word no!”

Avery pish-poshed, even though she and Claude had had the same argument a dozen times over the years.

“Starting now,” said Claude. “Repeat after me—No.”

“No,” Avery shot back.

“Good girl. Now practise. Ten times in the morning. Ten times before bed.”

Avery nodded, promised and wondered why she hadn’t brought up the fact that she hadn’t had a problem saying “no” to Jonah North. And that saying “no” to him had felt good. Really good. So she had the ability. Buried somewhere deep down inside perhaps, but the instinct was there when she really meant it.

But Claude was right. She should have told her mother “no.” Well, considering there were more venomous snakes in the world’s top ten here than any other place on earth, if she was ever going to toughen up, this was the place.

* * *

The Charter North Reef Cruiser was on its way to Green Island. In the engine room everything looked shipshape, so Jonah headed up the companionway to the top deck.

The crew ought to have been used to him turning up on a skip unannounced; he did it all the time. There was no point having a fleet of boats with his name on them if they weren’t up to his standards. Besides, his father had been a boatman before him and he knew an extra pair of hands was always welcome.

But the moment he entered the air-conditioned salon, the staff scattered. He caught the eye of one—a new girl, by the starched collar of her Charter North polo shirt, who wasn’t as quick off the mark as the others. With a belated squeak she leapt into action, polishing the silver handrails with the edge of her sand-coloured shorts. Odd. But industrious.

So he walked the aisles. The passenger list was pretty much as per usual—marine biologists researching the reef, Green Island staffers, a group of girls who looked as if they’d closed one of the resort bars the night before, a toddler with a brown paper bag under his chin.

His gaze caught on a crew of skinny brown boys, skateboards tucked on their laps, eyes looking out of the window as if urging the island nearer. Part of the Dreadlock Army who lived in these parts, kids who survived on sea water and fresh air. A lifetime ago he’d been one of them.

Fast forward and this day he’d been awake since five. Gone for a five-kilometre run. Driven the half-hour to Charter North HQ in Port Douglas. Checked emails, read the new safety procedures manual he’d paid a small fortune to set up, negotiated the purchase of a new pleasure cruiser he had his eye on in Florida. No time for sticking a toe in the ocean, much less taking it on.

As the captain began his spiel over the speaker system about the adventures available once they hit the island, Jonah slid his sunglasses in place and headed aft.

A few customers had staked out prime positions in the open air, laughing as they were hit with ocean spray. He didn’t blame them. It was a hell of a day to be outside.

When they said Queensland was beautiful one day and perfect the next, they were talking about Crescent Cove. The Coral Sea was invariably warm, a slight southerly bringing about a gentle swell. The sky was a dome of blinding blue with only a smattering of soft white streaks far away on the horizon. And soon they’d hit the edge of the Great Barrier Reef, one of the natural wonders of the world.

He was a lucky man to have been born here. Luckier still to remain. He breathed deep of the sky and salt and sun. He didn’t need surf. All he needed was never to take the place for granted again.

He nodded to the staff keeping watch on deck and made to head back inside when someone caught his eye. Not just any someone, it was his waterlogged mermaid herself.

She lifted a hand to shield her eyes and turned her gaze to Crescent Cove. She had nice hands. Fine. Her nails were the colour of her dress—a long flame-orange thing flapping against her legs—and her hair was twisted up into a complicated series of knots atop her head making her look as if she were about to step out onto the French Riviera not a small island on the edge of the Pacific.

Jonah glanced at his own hands knowing they’d be less than fine. Burly brown with many a war wound, and motor oil under his chipped nails. He rubbed his fingers across his rough chin. How long since he’d shaved? Three days? Four?

He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his long shorts, his forehead pinching. What did he care about all that?

Unfortunately, in the time he’d spent caring, she’d turned to face him, all elegant stance and plaintive eyes.

Caught out, his breath found itself caught somewhere in the region of his gut.And then her eyes narrowed. As if he’d done anything to her other than save her ass.

Then the boat hit a swell, the bow lifting and crashing to the water with a thud.

Squeals of excitement ricocheted through the cabin. But, facing him, his mermaid had no purchase. She lost balance, knocked a hip against the side of the boat, and began to topple—

From there everything happened in slow motion—Jonah’s leap over a bench, his canvas shoes landing on the slippery deck then sliding him towards her. He reached for her hand, grabbed, caught, and dragged her back to safety and into his arms.

Her hands fisted into his shirt, the scrape of nails through cotton hooked his chest hair, pulling a couple right from the roots. At the sharp tug of pain, he sucked in a breath. And her eyes lifted swiftly to his. Those odd mismatched eyes. Seriously stunning in such an otherwise quiet face.