Nicola Marsh - Deserted Island, Dreamy Ex

Her mouth twitched before she returned her attention to Elliott, who was more than comfortable to elaborate on his favourite topic.

‘While it’s basically a competition for the prize money, which will go to the participant who nails the challenges and gains the most hits on their Internet networking sites, I want this documentary to make a social statement on our TV viewing and the way we network today.’

While her heart sank at the conditions imposed on winning the prize—she’d always been lousy at sports and no way could she beat Jared in the popularity stakes on the Net—Elliot continued.

‘There’s a glut of reality TV at the moment. Cooking, dating, singing, dancing, housemates, you name it, there’s a reality show filming it. I want Stranded to be more than that. I want it to show two people interacting, without social distractions, without direct interference, without the fanfare, without judges, and see how they get along. I want honest feedback.’

She nodded, gestured to her folder. ‘That’s where the daily blog and Twitter updates come in?’

‘Uh-huh. It’ll give the public instant access to your immediate feelings, build anticipation for when I screen the documentary a week after you return. Building hype and viewer expectation makes for more interesting viewing.’

‘So we’re filmed all the time?’

She screwed up her nose, as enthralled with the idea as he was.

Elliott steepled his fingers like a puppet master looking forward to yanking their strings.

‘No, the cameras are motion-activated, and only situated on certain parts of the island. If you want privacy or time out, there are designated areas.’

Her relief was palpable, as Jared wondered what would make her desperate enough to do this. Sure, she’d said the money, but she’d never been money-driven so there had to be more to it. Then again, it had been eight years. How well did he really know her?

It was different for him. His life had been laid out for public consumption the last seven years, what he ate, where he went, what car he drove, all open to interpretation.

He’d learned to shut off, to ignore the intrusion, was now using it to his advantage for the rec centre.

But what did she get out of this apart from a chance to win the money?

‘Good to know.’ Jared tapped the side of his nose, leaned towards her. ‘Just in case you feel the urge to take advantage of me, you can do it off camera.’

‘In your dreams, Malone.’

‘There’ve been plenty of those, Wilde.’

To his delight, she blushed, dropped her gaze to focus on her fiddling fingers before she removed them from the table, hid them in her lap. He gave her five seconds to compose herself and, on cue, her gaze snapped to his, con fi dent, challenging.

‘You really want to do this here?’ he murmured, grateful when Elliott jerked his head towards the restrooms and made a hasty exit.

‘Do what?’

She was good, all faux wide-eyed innocence and smug mouth. Well, she might be good but he was better. He’d always lobbed back every verbal volley levelled his way, had enjoyed their wordplay as much as their foreplay.

She stimulated him like no other woman he’d ever met and the thought of spending a week getting reacquainted had him as jittery as pre-Grand Slam.

‘You know what.’

He leaned into her personal space, not surprised when she didn’t flinch, didn’t give an inch.

‘You and me. Like this.’ He pointed at her, him. ‘The way we were.’

‘Careful, you’ll break into song any minute now.’

‘Feeling sentimental?’

‘Hardly. I’d have to care to want to take a stroll down memory lane.’

‘And your point is?’

She shrugged, studied her manicured nails at arm’s length. ‘I don’t.’

He laughed, sat back, laid an arm along the back of his chair, his fingers in tantalisingly close proximity to her shoulder.

‘You always were a lousy liar.’

‘I’m not—’

‘There’s a little twitch you get right here.’ He touched a fingertip just shy of a freckle near her top lip. ‘It’s a dead giveaway.’

She stilled, the rebellious gleam in her eyes replaced by a flicker of fear before she blinked, erasing any hint of vulnerability with a bat of her long eyelashes. ‘Still delusional, I see. Must be all the whacks on the head with tennis balls.’

‘I don’t miss-hit.’

‘Not what I’ve seen.’

‘Ah, nice to know you’ve been keeping an eye on my career.’

‘Hard to miss when your publicity-hungry mug is plastered everywhere I look.’

She paused, her defiance edged with curiosity. ‘Is that why you’re doing this? Publicity for your comeback?’

‘I’m not making a comeback.’

The familiar twist low in his gut made a mockery of his adamant stance that it didn’t matter.

He’d fielded countless questions from the media over the last year, had made his decision, had scheduled a press conference. And while he’d reconciled with his decision months ago the thought of leaving his career behind, turning his back on the talent that had saved him, niggled.

Tennis had been his escape, his goal, his saviour, all rolled into one. While he’d originally resented being dumped at the local tennis club by his narcissistic parents, he’d soon found a solitude there he rarely found elsewhere.

He’d been good, damn good, and soon the attention of the coaches, the talent scouts, had made him want to work harder, longer, honing his skill with relentless drive.

He’d had a goal in mind. Get out of Melbourne, away from his parents and their bickering, drinking and unhealthy self-absorption.

It had worked. Tennis had saved him.

And, while resigned to leaving it behind, a small part of him was scared, petrified in fact, of letting go of the only thing that had brought normality to his life.

‘You’re retiring?’

‘That’s the plan.’

He glanced at his watch, wishing Elliott would reappear. Trading banter with Kristi was one thing, fielding her curiosity about his retirement another.

‘Why?’

Her gaze, pinpoint sharp, bored into him the same way it always did when she knew he was being evasive.

He shrugged, leaned back, shoved his hands in his pockets to stop them from rearranging cutlery and giving away his forced casual posture.

‘My knee’s blown.’

Her eyes narrowed; she wasn’t buying his excuse. ‘Reconstructed, I heard. Happens to athletes all the time. So what’s the real reason?’

He needed to give her something or she’d never let up. He’d seen her like this before: harassing him to reveal a surprise present, pestering him to divulge the whereabouts of their surprise weekend away. She was relentless when piqued and there was no way he’d sit here and discuss his real reasons with her.

‘The hunger’s gone. I’m too old to match it with the up-and-coming youngsters.’

‘What are you, all of thirty?’

‘Thirty-one.’

‘But surely some tennis champions played ‘til they were—?’

‘Leave it!’

He regretted his outburst the instant the words left his mouth, her curiosity now rampant rather than appeased.

Rubbing his chin, he said, ‘I’m going to miss it but I’ve got other things I want to do with my life so don’t go feeling sorry for me.’

‘Who said anything about feeling sorry for you?’

The relaxing of her thinned lips belied her response. ‘You’d be the last guy to pity, what with your jet-set lifestyle, your homes in Florida, Monte Carlo and Sydney. Your luxury car collection. Your—’

‘You read too many tabloids,’ he muttered, recognising the irony with him ready to capitalise on the paparazzi’s annoying scrutiny of his life to boost the rec centre’s profile into the stratosphere.