Kate Hardy - Hotbed of Scandal

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When not teaching or writing, ANNE OLIVERloves nothing more than escaping into a book. She keeps a box of tissues handy—her favourite stories are intense, passionate, against-all-odds romances. Eight years ago she began creating her own characters in paranormal and time travel adventures, before turning to contemporary romance. Other interests include quilting, astronomy, all things Scottish, and eating anything she doesn’t have to cook. Sharing her characters’ journeys with readers all over the world is a privilege … and a dream come true. Anne lives in Adelaide, South Australia, and has two adult children. Visit her website at www.anne-oliver.com. She loves to hear from readers. E-mail her at anne@anne-oliver.com.

With a big thank-you to my critique buddies, Kathy, Sharon and Linda, for helping me bring out the best in Mariel and Dane’s story.

Thanks also to my editor Meg Lewis, for her patience and advice during the revision process.

‘REMIND me again why I dragged my jet-lagged body to a wedding with you when I could be sleeping it off in the comfort of my own bed?’

Mariel Davenport glanced at her sister Phoebe over the obligatory glass of champagne—except Mariel’s glass sparkled with mineral water. After the stress of packing and avoiding the press, then the long-haul flight from Paris, the last thing she needed was alcohol.

She skimmed the elite crowd, dripping with diamonds and couture and French perfume. Some she knew; most were strangers. Ten years away was a long time.

Phoebe flashed a smile, brown eyes sparkling. ‘Because you’re my big sister and you love me, and we haven’t seen each other since that Mediterranean cruise three years ago.’

Mariel arched a brow. ‘Not because your boyfriend left you in the—?’

‘ Ex -boyfriend,’ Phoebe snarled, all humour extinguished. She topped up her champagne flute from the bottle on the nearby table with a sharp chink of glass on crystal. ‘Kyle’s history.’ She tossed back a mouthful of bubbly in disgust. ‘Men. Who’d trust them?’

The words pierced the thin armour Mariel had struggled to wrap around herself since leaving Paris. ‘Who indeed?’

Phoebe’s eyes widened in obvious dismay. ‘Oh, Mari, I’m sorry…’

‘Don’t be. I was a fool; it won’t happen again.’ She bit down on the inside of her lower lip. Hadn’t she made that very same vow once before? Right here in her home town?

‘That’s the spirit.’ Phoebe’s firm nod had her blonde bangs bouncing. ‘New Year’s resolution: no men. Until the next full moon at least.’ She grinned, then tucked her hand into the crook of Mariel’s arm as the band struck up a popular party hit. ‘Let’s mingle.’ The happy couple had left but the revelry lived on. ‘Or we could dance,’ she suggested. ‘It’ll take your mind off things.’

Mariel shook her head. ‘You know I love nothing better than a good party, but not tonight.’ What sane people would choose New Year’s Day to get married anyway? She raised her glass and pointed it towards the crowd congregating on the makeshift dance floor beyond the open French doors of the luxurious old Adelaide Hills mansion. ‘You go ahead. I’m fine. I’ll just loiter here a while.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive.’ She fixed a smile on her lips and shooed Phoebe away. ‘Go.’

Mariel watched her sister thread her way through the colourful crowd, her silk and diamonds shimmering beneath the heavy chandelier. Only then did she allow herself a much-needed sigh. Phoebe knew nothing of the mess Mariel had left behind in Paris except that it was over between her and French fashion photographer Luc Girard, her business partner of seven years and lover for the past five.

He was probably the reason she’d thrown up—twice—somewhere over China. She massaged the heel of her hand over the affected area. The organza of the latest and probably last addition to her after-five wardrobe shifted beneath her palm.

Turning her back to the room, she sipped water and studied the guests through the gilt-edged mirror over the mantelpiece.

The bride’s parents, who’d spared no expense for their daughter’s special day, were conversing with another wealthy Hills couple near the floor-to-ceiling ice sculpture, now dripping in Adelaide’s January heat.

Was that little Johnny…? What was his last name? Mariel frowned at the blond guy, trying to remember. Not so little now, she thought with a twinge of nostalgia. And there was nothing she liked better than a guy in a well-tailored suit. As her gaze moved on, she realised several of the well-suited men were eyeing her up. And not-so-little Johnny What’s-his-name was headed her way. Great. Just what she didn’t need.

She knew she attracted men. With her face on the cover of Europe’s top magazines, and becoming a familiar face in Australia, it was inevitable. But tonight she could have done without the attention. Especially tonight, since she’d just sworn off men for life. Another sigh slipped past her lips as she automatically checked her lipstick in the mirror, straightened her shoulders and turned, smile back in place.

Well, surprise, surprise. Daniel Huntington the Third, who refused to answer to anything but Dane, leaned a shoulder against the doorway and watched Mariel Davenport hold court, her little flock of male admirers clustered around her, apparently hanging on every word that spilled from those luscious coral lips.

She was the last person he’d expected to see here this evening. Nor had he anticipated the quick punch to his solar plexus as he cast a critical eye over the breezy black halterneck number, with its plummeting neckline and incy-wincy skirt. He was pretty sure if he stood close enough and let his eyes skim casually down he’d see her navel.

Not that he intended to stand that close. With his six-foot-three advantage he could see her well enough from here. He thought he might just be able to smell the perfume she used to wear—that hint of black roses and sweet sin seemed to waft across the few feet between them. Alluring, seductive. It suited her, from the tips of her raven-black hair, piled on top of her head, to the soles of her perfectly pedicured feet and shiny stiletto sandals.

He couldn’t see her feet, of course, or those milelong legs that had her topping out at nearly six foot, but he knew her well enough. First class all the way.

She hadn’t noticed him yet, but he lifted his beer in mock salute, then poured a fortifying mouthful of the cool bitter brew down his suddenly dry throat.

Was she with someone? he wondered. Her French lover? Odd how his fingernails bit into his palms at the thought. He’d been fine about that little detail until a moment ago.

Until he’d seen her again in all that glorious flesh.

But, no, she must have come alone—because if she’d had a partner Dane was pretty sure the man would be attached to her side like some fashion accessory.