Sarah Mayberry - Her Secret Fling

SARAH MAYBERRYis an Australian by birth and a Gypsy by career. At present she’s living in Auckland, New Zealand, but that’s set to change soon. Next stop, who knows? She loves a good department-store sale, French champagne, shoes and a racy romance novel. And chocolate, naturally.

Dear Reader,

What happens when a one-night stand becomes more than it should be? That’s the question that was the seed for Her Secret Fling. Two consenting adults have a good time and agree that’s all it was—then life intervenes and forces them to get to know each other. And, surprise surprise, they like what they discover—after some twists and turns along the way, naturally.

There’s a scene towards the beginning of the book that was in my mind from the moment I started imagining this story. I call it “man versus machine,” and if you’re reading this after finishing the book, you’ll know what I’m talking about. If you’re reading this letter first… well, you’ll know what I’m talking about pretty soon! I hope it tickles your funny bone as much as it did mine.

Most of all, I hope you enjoy reading about Jake and Poppy’s story as they work their way around to realising they need each other and that loving someone is a gift, not a burden. I love to hear from readers, so please drop me a line at sarah@sarahmayberry.com if you feel the urge.

Until next time,

Sarah Mayberry

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This one is for all my female friends—the passers of

tissues, the sharers of chocolate, the givers of hugs.

Having a laugh with my mates is one of the small,

perfect pleasures in life.

And, as always, no words would be written if it was

not for Chris cheering me on from the sidelines and

Wanda coaching me from the finish line. You both

rock—thank you for your endless patience.

Cover

About the Author About the Author SARAH MAYBERRY is an Australian by birth and a Gypsy by career. At present she’s living in Auckland, New Zealand, but that’s set to change soon. Next stop, who knows? She loves a good department-store sale, French champagne, shoes and a racy romance novel. And chocolate, naturally.

Title Page Her Secret Fling Sarah Mayberry www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedication This one is for all my female friends—the passers of tissues, the sharers of chocolate, the givers of hugs. Having a laugh with my mates is one of the small, perfect pleasures in life. And, as always, no words would be written if it was not for Chris cheering me on from the sidelines and Wanda coaching me from the finish line. You both rock—thank you for your endless patience.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Copyright

WHATEVER YOU DO, don’t throw up.

Poppy Birmingham pressed a hand to her stomach. The truth was, if her breakfast was destined to make a reappearance, that hand was hardly going to make a difference. She let her arm drop. She took a deep breath, then another.

A couple of people frowned at her as they pushed through the double doors leading into the Melbourne Herald’s busy newsroom. She was acutely aware that they probably recognized her and were, no doubt, wondering what one of Australia’s favorite sporting daughters was doing hovering outside a newspaper office, looking as though she was going to either wet her pants or hurl.

Time to go, Birmingham, the coach in her head said. You signed up for this. Too late to back out now.

She squared her shoulders and sucked in one last, deep breath. Then she pushed through the double doors. Immediately she was surrounded by noise and low-level excitement. Phones rang, people tapped away at keyboards or talked into phones or across partitions. Printers whirred and photocopiers flashed. In the background, huge windows showcased the city of Melbourne, shiny and new in the morning sunshine after being washed clean by rain overnight.

A few heads raised as she walked the main aisle, following the directions she’d been given for the sports department. She tried to look as though she belonged, as though she’d been mixing it up with journalists all her life. As though the new pants suit she was wearing didn’t feel alien when she was used to Lycra, and the smell of stale air and coffee and hot plastic wasn’t strange after years of chlorine and sweat.

The rows of desks seemed to stretch on and on but finally she spotted Leonard Jenkins’s bald head bent over a keyboard in a coveted corner office. As editor of the sports section on Melbourne’s highest circulating daily newspaper, Leonard was the guy who assigned stories and had final say on edits and headlines. He was also the man who’d approached her six weeks ago and offered her a job as a columnist.

At the time she’d been thrown by the offer. Since she’d been forced into retirement by a shoulder injury four months ago she’d been approached to coach other swimmers, to work with women’s groups, to sponsor a charity. A chain of gyms wanted her to be their spokesperson, someone else wanted her to endorse their breakfast cereal. Only Leonard’s offer opened the door to new possibilities. For years she’d known nothing but the black line of the swimming pool and the burn of her muscles and her lungs. This was a new beginning.

Hence the urge to toss her cookies. She hadn’t felt this nervous since the last time world championships were in Sydney—when she had thrown up spectacularly before her first heat.

She stopped in front of Leonard’s office and was about to rap on the open door when he lifted his head. In his late fifties, he was paunchy with heavy bags under his eyes and fingers stained yellow from nicotine.

“Ah, Poppy. You found us okay. Great to see you,” he said with a smile.

“It’s good to be here.”

“Why don’t I introduce you to the team first up and show you your desk and all that crap,” Leonard said. “We’ve got a department meeting in an hour, so you’ll have time to get settled.”

“Sounds good,” she said, even though her palms were suddenly sweaty. She was hopeless with names. No matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried to concentrate on linking names to faces, they seemed to slip through her mental fingers like soap in the shower.

She wiped her right hand furtively down her trouser leg as Leonard led her to the row of desks immediately outside his office.

“Righteo. This is Johnno, Davo and Hilary,” he said. “Racing, golf and basketball.”

Which she took to mean were their respective areas of expertise. Johnno was old and pock-faced, Davo was midthirties and very tanned, and Hilary was red-haired and in her early thirties, Poppy’s age. They all murmured greetings and shook her hand, but she could tell they were keen to get back to their work.

“This mob around here,” Leonard said, leading her around the partition, “keep an eye on motor sport. Meet our resident gear heads, Macca and Jonesy.”

“All right. Our very own golden girl,” Jonesy said. He was in his late twenties and already developing a paunch.

“Bet you get that all the time, huh?” Macca asked. He smiled a little shyly and ran a hand over his thinning blond hair. “Price of winning gold.”

“There are worse things to be called,” she said with a smile.

Leonard’s hand landed in the middle of her back to steer her toward the far corner.