Joss Wood - The Last Guy She Should Call

Knowing that she couldn’t keep her eyes shut for ever, she took a deep breath and slowly turned around. He was leaning against the stone pillar directly behind her, those dark eyes cool. His lower jaw was covered in golden stubble and his mouth was knifeblade-thin.

That hadn’t changed.

A lot else had. She squinted… Tall, blond, built. Broad shoulders, slim hips and long, long legs. He was a big slab of muscled male flesh. When his mouth pulled up ever so slightly at the corners she felt a slow, seductive throb deep in her womb… Oh, dear. Was that lust ?

Seb stopped in front of her and jammed his hands into the pockets of very nicely fitting jeans.

‘Brat.’

His voice rumbled over her, prickling her skin.

Yep, there was the snotty devil she remembered, under that luscious masculine body that looked, and—oh, my—smelled so good. It was in those deep eyes, in the vibration of his voice. The shallow dimple in his right cheek. The grown-up version of the studious, serious boy who had either tolerated, tormented or loathed her at different stages of her life. Always irritating.

‘I have a name, Seb.’

He had the audacity to grin at her. ‘Yeah, but you know I prefer mine.’

Dear Reader

I write romances about finding love in the twenty-first century, and I love creating quirky heroines—women a little left of centre. Rowan, I think, is one of my quirkiest to date, and she came about when I was watching a travel programme and the female presenter captured my attention. Rowan ran into some minor trouble as a teenager, and as soon as she could left home to travel the world. She’s spent years of bouncing from country to country, and I needed to work out what, and who, would make Rowan settle down—especially in her home town, which holds so many bad memories for her.

Seb is Rowan’s best friend’s brother, her childhood nemesis, and the person whose attention she has always wanted to capture and hang onto. When she finds herself broke and deported, dreading the idea of returning to Cape Town as the family screw-up, it’s Seb she reluctantly turns to to help her out of trouble.

As they start discovering the adult versions of the children they used to be they both have to learn to trust, to believe in themselves, in each other and in love itself.

Writing romance is the best job in the world, and I hope you enjoy Seb and Rowan’s journey to their happy-ever-after.

With my very best wishes

Joss

xxx

PS Come and say hi via Facebook: Joss Wood, Twitter: @josswoodbooks and Josswoodbooks.wordpress.com

The Last Guy

She Should Call

Joss Wood

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JOSS WOODwrote her first book at the age of eight and has never really stopped. Her passion for putting letters on a blank screen is matched only by her love of books and travelling—especially to the wild places of Southern Africa—and possibly by her hatred of ironing and making school lunches.

Fuelled by coffee, when she’s not writing or being a hands-on mum Joss, with her background in business and marketing, works for a non-profit organisation to promote the local economic development and collective business interests of the area where she resides. Happily and chaotically surrounded by books, family and friends, she lives in Kwa-Zulu Natal, South Africa, with her husband, children and their many pets.

Other Modern Tempted ™titles by Joss Wood:

TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING

IF YOU CAN’T STAND THE HEAT…

These and other titles by Joss Wood are available in eBook format from www.millsandboon.co.uk

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I love the idea of my characters living happily ever after, but it happens in real life too. My parents and in-laws have been married for 110 years between them. It’s a huge achievement and a shining example of the commitment marriage and relationships (in whatever form they might take) require. So this book is dedicated to Frank and Rose and Mel and Elsie for showing us, and our children, how it’s done.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Excerpt

ONE

Rowan Dunn sat in the hard chair on one side of the white table in an interrogation room at Sydney International Airport and reminded herself to be polite. There was no point in tangling with this little troll of an Immigration Officer; she looked as if she wanted a fight.

‘Why have you come to Australia, Miss Dunn?’

As if she hadn’t explained her reasons to the Immigration Officer before her—and the one before him. Patience, Rowan. ‘I bought these netsukes in Bali...’

‘These what?’

‘A netsuke is a type of miniature carving that originated in the seventeenth century.’ She tapped one of the fifteen ivory, wood and bone mini-sculptures that had been stripped of their protective layers of bubble wrap and now stood on the desk between them. Lord, they were beautiful: animals, figures, mythical creatures. All tiny, all perfectly carved and full of movement and character. ‘These are uncommon and the owner knew they had value.’

‘You bought these little carvings and yet you have no money and no means of income while you are in Australia?’

‘That’s because I drained my bank account and maxed out my credit cards to buy them. Some of them, I think, are rare. Seventeenth, eighteenth-century. I suspect one may be by Tamakada, circa 1775. I need to get into Sydney to get Grayson Darling, an expert on netsuke, to authenticate them and hopefully buy them from me. Then I’ll have plenty of money to stay in your precious, I mean, lovely country.’

‘What are they worth?’

Rowan tipped her head. ‘Fifteen at an average of two thousand pounds each. So, between twenty and thirty thousand, maybe more.’

The troll’s jaw dropped open. ‘You’ve got to be...joking!’ She leaned across the table and her face radiated doubt. ‘I think you’re spinning me a story; you look like every other free-spirited backpacker I’ve seen.’

Rowan, not for the first time, cursed her long, curly, wild hair and her pretty face, her battered jeans, cropped shirt and well-used backpack. ‘I’m a traveller but I am also a trader. It’s how I—mostly—make my living. I can show you the deed of sale for the netsuke...’

Officer troll flipped through her passport. ‘What else do you sell, Miss Dunn?’

‘You’ve gone through my rucksack with a fine-tooth comb and I’ve had a body search. You know that I’m clean,’ Rowan said wearily. She’d been here for more than six hours—could they move on, please? Pretty please?

‘What else do you sell, Miss Dunn?’

God! Just answer the question, Rowan, and get this over with. ‘Anything I can make a profit on that’s legal. Art, furniture, antiques. I’ve flipped statues in Buenos Aires, art in Belize, jewellery in Vancouver. I’ve worked in construction when times have been lean. Worked as a bar tender when times were leaner. But mostly I buy low and sell high.’