Off Limits

It’s not worth arguing about. We’ve gone to hundreds of this kind of thing in our time. I’m sure this won’t be any different.

He nods, but he’s distracted. ‘Do we need to talk?’

His suggestion sets off a kaleidoscope of possibilities. Talk? About what? About us? What would I say? And him?

I swallow to hide my confusion and return his question with one of my own. ‘Do we?’

He reaches across and wipes his thumb over my lip. Butterflies bounce around my gut.

‘I guess not. It doesn’t matter.’

I stare straight ahead, moving out of his reach. Because maybe this doesn’t matter. Maybe this is just one of those things and in a few weeks I’ll wonder what the heck I got so worked up about. Why I let him get under my skin like this.

I hope it’s true even as I know how unlikely that is.

Chapter Eight

I LOVE AUSTRALIA. We don’t get here often—though with Jack opening this office that will probably change.

The heat and humidity hit me as soon as the doors open. Even in the air-conditioned airport there’s a sultry oppressiveness that makes me ache to find the nearest swimming pool and dive straight in.

A limo is waiting for us, and a couple of reporters from the broadsheet newspapers. I forget sometimes that Jack is a ‘Person of Interest’, especially in the business world. Working with him for over two years has made him just ‘Jack’ to me, but to the world he’s an enigmatic tycoon and philanthropist.

I remember feeling awestruck before I knew him. The prospect of working for him was one I pinned all my hopes to.

Now it’s just my life.

Jack and I have been pretty much inseparable this whole time. I’m his right hand. Despite having been hired as his in-house counsel, my job has morphed an

d varied and now incorporates a wide variety of duties. I’m across his workload and can step in at any point, finishing negotiations, speaking on his behalf. When we travel together we either stay in adjoining rooms or in one of his apartments. It depends on how long we’re in town and what’s required of us.

This unfettered access has been helpful when we needed to proof things late at night or discuss early morning meetings. It’s never been an issue. But the thought of sharing his penthouse at Woolloomooloo is filling me with a sense of apprehension. Not because I’m afraid of him. I’m afraid of what I want from him—what I need. Of what living in close confines, even temporarily, will force us to confront.

My sense of foreboding doesn’t improve once we arrive and I remember how stunning the place is. How glamorous and romantic.

The thought is errant and I quash it immediately. Romance be damned. We’re colleagues who happen to be sleeping together. That’s all.

The penthouse is in a big converted wharf building. He bought the whole top floor from some Hollywood celebrity about five years ago, converting several luxurious flats into one enormous sky home. It has panoramic views of Sydney Harbour. From where I’m standing I can see the bridge and a beautiful little island. There’s a balcony that wraps all the way around and a lap pool in a glass room to one side.

I look at the water, my temptation obvious.

‘Plans for tonight?’

Jack’s right behind me. I don’t turn around but I can feel his nearness. My body quivers; I want to jump him.

‘None. Getting into the time zone.’

‘I’m in the time zone, baby.’ He grins, and strolls towards the enormous glass windows that overlook the harbour. ‘I’m also hungry enough to eat a horse.’ He turns to face me, his eyes dragging from my head to my toes and then back up, slowing down over my cleavage. ‘Shall we go out?’

My body is sticky from the humidity and I am weary. Wary, too. Instinctively I understand that we need to keep some boundaries in place. Going out, just the two of us, is an unacceptable boundary erosion.

I smile—hopefully politely. ‘I’m going to have a swim before I do another thing. Don’t feel you have to wait for me to eat.’

I walk back towards the door, to where our suitcases are, and wheel mine along beside me down the corridor.

I find the room I used last time I was here and step into it, shutting the door behind me with an emphatic click. I lean against it and suck in a deep breath, then open the case and pull out my swimsuit. A simple black one-piece. I slip it on, pausing to check my reflection before wrapping a towel around my middle and walking back into the apartment.

I hear him before I see him and my stomach twists. His powerful arms are pulling him through the water, and if you told me he had trained as an Olympic swimmer I would believe you. His tan glistens like gold beneath the Australian sun.