Bronwyn Jameson - Diamonds are for Surrender

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BRONWYN JAMESONspent much of her childhood with her head buried in a book. As a teenager she discovered romance novels and it was only a matter of time before she turned her love of reading them into a love of writing them. Bronwyn shares an idyllic piece of the Australian farming heartland with her husband and three sons, a thousand sheep, a dozen horses, assorted wildlife and one kelpie dog. She still chooses to spend her limited downtime with a good book. Bronwyn loves to hear from readers. Write to her at bronwyn@bronwynjameson.com.

With heartfelt thanks to Melissa Jeglinski

for her faith in and support of our author-led

series from start to finish.

Thank you, MJ, you are a gem!

Kimberley Blackstone’s long stride—and the Louis Vuitton suitcase she towed in her wake—gathered momentum as she left customs at Auckland’s international airport and headed toward the exit. Despite the handicap of her three-inch heels, she hit the Arrivals hall at a near jog, her focus on grabbing the first taxi in the rank outside, her mind making the transition from laid-back holiday mode to all that awaited her at House of Hammond on her first workday after the Christmas-New Year’s break.

She didn’t notice the waiting horde of media until it was too late. Flashbulbs exploded around her like a New Year’s light show. She skidded to a halt, so abruptly her trailing suitcase rammed into her legs.

Surely, this had to be a case of mistaken identity. Kimberley hadn’t been on the paparazzi hit list for close to a decade, not since she’d estranged herself from her billionaire father and his headline-hungry diamond business.

But, no, it was her name they called. Her face the focus of a swarm of lenses that circled like avid hornets. Her heart started to pound with fear-fuelled adrenaline.

What did they want?

What the hell was going on?

With a rising sense of bewilderment she scanned the crowd for a clue and her gaze fastened on a tall, leonine figure forcing his way to the front. A tall, familiar figure. She stared in stunned recognition and their gazes collided across the sea of heads before the cameras erupted with another barrage of flashes, this time right in her exposed face.

Blinded by the flashbulbs—and by the shock of that momentary eye-meet—Kimberley didn’t realise his intent until he’d forged his way to her side, possibly by the sheer strength of his personality. She felt his arm wrap around her shoulder, pulling her into the protective shelter of his body, allowing her no time to object, no chance to lift her hands to ward him off.

In the space of a hastily drawn breath, she found herself plastered knee-to-nose against six feet of hard-bodied male. Ric Perrini.

Her lover for ten torrid weeks, her husband for ten tumultuous days.

Her ex for ten tranquil years.

After all this time, he should not have felt so familiar but, oh, dear Lord, he did. She knew the scent of that body and its lean, muscular strength. She knew its heat and its slick power and every response it could draw from hers.

She also recognised the ease with which he’d taken control of the moment and the decisiveness of his deep voice when it rumbled close to her ear. “I have a car waiting. Is this your only luggage?”

Kimberley nodded. A week at a tropical paradise did not require much in the way of clothes. Especially when she was wearing the one office-style dress and the only pair of heels she’d packed. When he released his grip on her shoulder to take charge of her compact suitcase, she longed to dig those heels into the ground, to tell him exactly what he could do with his car, and his presumptuous attitude.

But she wasn’t stupid. She’d seen Perrini in action often enough to know that attitude yielded results. The fierce expression and king-of-the-jungle manner he did so well would keep the snapping newshounds at bay.

Not that she was about to be towed along as meekly as her wheeled luggage.

“I assume you will tell me,” she said tightly, “what this welcome party is all about.”

“Not while the welcome party is within earshot.”

Barking a request for the cameramen to stand aside, Perrini took her hand and pulled her into step with his ground-eating stride. Kimberley let him because he was right, damn his arrogant, Italian-suited hide. Despite the speed with which he whisked her across the terminal forecourt, she could almost feel the hot breath of the pursuing media on her back.

This was neither the time nor the place for explanations. Inside his car, however, she would get answers.

The initial shock had been blown away—by the haste of their retreat, by the heat of her gathering indignation, by the rush of adrenaline fired by Perrini’s presence and the looming verbal battle. Her brain was starting to tick now. This had to be her father’s doing. And if it was a Howard Blackstone publicity ploy, then it had to be about Blackstone Diamonds, the company that ruled his life.

The knowledge made her chest tighten with a familiar ache of disillusionment.

She’d known her father would be flying in from Sydney for today’s opening of the newest in his chain of exclusive, high-end jewellery boutiques. The opulent shopfront sat adjacent to the rival business where Kimberley worked. No coincidence, she thought bitterly, just as it was no coincidence that Ric Perrini was here in Auckland ushering her to his car.

Perrini was Howard Blackstone’s right-hand man, second in command at Blackstone Diamonds and head of the mining division, that position of power a legacy of his short-lived marriage to the boss’s daughter. No doubt her father had sent him to fetch her; the question was why.

On his last visit to Auckland, Howard had attempted yet again to lure her back to Blackstone’s, to the job she’d walked away from the day she walked out on her marriage. That meeting had escalated into an ugly word-slinging bout and ended with Howard vowing to write her from his will if she didn’t return to Blackstone’s immediately.

Two months later Kimberley was still here in Auckland, still working for his sworn enemy at House of Hammond. They hadn’t spoken since; she hadn’t expected any other outcome. When her father said he was wiping his hands of her, she took him at his word.

Yet here she was, being rushed toward a gleaming black limousine by her father’s number-one henchman. She had no clue why he’d changed his mind or what the media presence signified, apart from more Blackstone headlines and the certainty that she was being used. Again. Sending Perrini was the final cruel twist.