Sarah Mayberry - All They Need

Flynn’s gaze was intent on her face as he closed the distance between them. He stopped a scant few inches away. Mel could feel his body heat. His beard was starting to grow through and shadowed his chin.

Her gaze slid to his mouth, tracing the sensuous curve of his lower lip. She’d been too scared to allow herself to even think about kissing him before, but now she let herself go there, wondering how it would feel to press her mouth to his, to feel his tongue inside her mouth, to taste him.

The thought alone made her knees weak. Hot desire unfurled inside her, foreign and familiar at the same time.

He cupped her face, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone, his fingers cradling her jaw. She swallowed, awash with nerves and lust and anticipation and fear.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

“I do. I think it’s the best idea I’ve had for a long time.”

Dear Reader,

I’m not going to lie to you—this was a tough book to write. I’m not sure exactly why, but it took me a while to work out what Mel and Flynn both needed in life and from each other—but I’d like to think I got there in the end. By the time I’d finished writing, these people had become very real to me, and I hope that you feel the same after you finish reading.

I did a lot of research into Alzheimer’s disease for this book and read some incredibly heartwarming and moving stories written by both sufferers and their caregivers. I’d like to acknowledge the people who have shared their time and stories, and if this is something that is or has affected you or your loved ones, my best wishes go out to you—it’s a sad, tough road to travel.

The Summerlea Estate as imagined in this book does not exist in Mount Eliza, although there are a number of homes on the Mornington Peninsula that open their gardens to the public as part of the open garden’s scheme. I have been to one of them and could only marvel at the owners’ dedication to their six acres of beautifully landscaped and maintained gardens, complete with bridges, lily ponds and topiary. Edna Walling was a real person, and her gardens are still celebrated in Australia. As described in the book, her style was very “English,” with rustic stone fences and rambly pathways and lovely vistas.

I love hearing from readers, so drop me a line via my website, www.sarahmayberry.com.

Until next time, happy reading,

Sarah Mayberry

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Sarah Mayberry lives in Melbourne with her husband in a house with a large garden by the sea. She loves to cook, read, go to the movies, shop for shoes and spend time with her friends and loved ones. She’s starting to love gardening, which is just as well, and she’s hoping to begin a major renovation on her house in the near future. Exciting times!

This one is for Wanda and Chris, the two best

hand-holders in the business. Thank you for the

long phone calls, the patience, the humor, the

meals, the tissue-passing and for your faith in me.

There were times when I was ready to sink rather

than swim, but you two were my lifeline.

Bless your little cotton socks!

Special mention also to Lisa

for brainstorming over the fence and

listening to my rambling monologues.

Go the steam press!

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

FLYNN RANDALL SWALLOWED a mouthful of champagne as he stepped through the French doors onto the terrace.

It was February and even though it was nearly ten o’clock at night, it was still warm. Sweat prickled beneath his arms and he tugged at the collar of his shirt as he surveyed the sea of people. Like him, the men were all in formal black and white, the perfect foil for the women in their colorful gowns. There must have been close to two hundred people congregating on the wide, long terrace and the sound of their laughter and chatter drowned out the jazz band playing on the lawn below.

He searched in vain for a familiar face but everyone looked the same in their penguin suits. He shrugged. The perils of arriving late.

He was about to start down the stairs to the lawn when someone called his name. He glanced over his shoulder. A tall redheaded man was waving at him.

“Tony. Good to see you,” Flynn said as he joined his friend.

“Bit late, aren’t you?” Tony said, tapping his watch.

“I’m a popular guy,” Flynn said, deadpan. “Gotta spread the love around.”

“I bet.”

Flynn kissed Tony’s wife, Gloria, before turning his attention to the tall, blond man standing next to her.

“This is a bit of a coincidence,” Owen Hunter said as Flynn shook his hand. “I’ve been trying to get an appointment to see your old man all week.”

It was said with a grin, but Flynn could see the glint in the other man’s eyes. What was that Shakespeare line his mother was always quoting? Cassius has a lean and hungry look.

In Flynn’s experience, Owen always looked hungry, despite the fact that there was nothing lean about him. He was as tall as Flynn and built like a football player. Flynn guessed women probably found him attractive, with his square jaw and very white teeth.

“Well, you know, my father’s a busy man.” Flynn raised his glass to his mouth.

“Don’t I know it,” the other man said ruefully.

Flynn smiled but didn’t pursue the subject, well aware that Hunter was waiting for Flynn to offer to set up an appointment. Owen Hunter had political ambitions; no doubt he planned to ask Flynn’s father for a donation.

Maybe Flynn was getting cranky in his old age, but he couldn’t help thinking that Hunter could have waited a few minutes before hitting him up for a favor. A little civility never hurt anyone.

A cry rose over the general hubbub, drawing people to the balustrade. Flynn drifted over with the rest of his group, idly curious. The lawn was six feet below, a lush green carpet dotted with yet more people. A large marble fountain sat in the center, decorated with cavorting cherubs and nymphs, many of whom spouted plumes into the wide, deep basin. The thing had to be well over ten feet tall, easily dominating the formal garden. Flynn winced, wondering where his hosts had found the monstrosity, before he shifted his attention to the source of the scream.

A couple he recognized as Andrea and Hamish Greggs were standing at the edge of the fountain, Andrea gripping the edge with both hands as she peered into the bubbling water. In their fifties, they were old friends of his parents and regulars on the social circuit. Towering over them both was Melanie Hunter, wearing a blush-colored gown, her hair in a sophisticated updo. Her face was creased with concern as she talked to the older couple.

She was easily the tallest woman at the party—at least six feet tall—with broad shoulders that would put a lot of men to shame. Her breasts were full and round, her hips curved. As much as Flynn was wary of Owen’s naked ambition, he’d always liked the other man’s wife. There was something about Mel Hunter that always made him want to smile. Maybe because she was often smiling herself.