Mistletoe Not Required (4 page)

But then the lady came and took the baby out of the room and his father told him that Jett couldn’t be a part of his new family. Ever.

* * *

Jett stirred, rasped a hand over his stubble but kept his eyes closed. Christmas—and the old bad still followed like a dark shadow.

But his sister—the baby who’d ousted him from his rightful place in the family—was a bright light and not what he’d expected. He was still amazed that Breanna had come looking for him after their father had died and she’d learned she had an older brother. She’d been the sole heir to their father’s estate but didn’t seem to want anything from him but his friendship.

‘You,’
muttered a curt female voice. Just sharp enough to cut through the air and ensure he was listening, followed by the sound of fingertips drumming impatiently on the balcony rail.

His lips curved but his eyes remained closed. ‘Hello, Trouble. Taking a few moment’s down-time. Didn’t get much sleep last night.’

‘It’s not your sleeping habits I’m bothered about.’

Her fresh apricot and cucumber scent wafted to his nostrils and he cracked open one eye. She’d showered; her gloriously red hair was damp and kissed elegant bare shoulders. A short black-and-white geometrically patterned dress hugged her curves. Curves he’d been getting intimately acquainted with not twelve hours ago. Curves he might have got even more intimate with if Breanna hadn’t phoned Olivia and cut his plans for the rest of the evening short.

Breanna had phoned him too. Checked up on him. Left messages of concern, then annoyance. Which he probably should have answered but simply hadn’t got around to.

Who the hell ever checked up on Jett Davies?

He caught Olivia glancing at him from beneath auburn lashes. She turned a pretty shade of watermelon pink when she saw him admiring her physical assets, then looked away and became preoccupied with counting the vehicles crossing the Harbour Bridge.

‘You sure about that?’ he said to her profile, his smile widening when he saw the increasing tension in her shoulders. ‘My sleeping habits could be a good conversation starter. Why don’t you sit down and we can discuss them?’

He’d half expected her to decline but she took a chair opposite him. ‘As I was saying...it’s your typical irresponsible male behaviour.’

‘I am male,’ he pointed out. ‘I thought you’d have noticed last night. And yes, I’m pretty sure it was typical male behaviour when in the company of a sexy woman who wants the same thing he does. What I’m not sure about is the word irresponsible. I
have
heard of safe sex.’

She inhaled sharply, poured herself a glass of water from the table beside her. ‘You really have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?’

‘But you’re going to tell me.’

‘Last night...’

‘Last night...’ He trailed off suggestively and the sultry images hung heavy in the air between them. He had an erection most men would be jealous of and nowhere to use it—damned if he was going to make it easy for her.

She cleared her throat, downed half the contents of her glass. ‘It never occurred to you that Brie would be waiting to hear if you were okay, did it.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘You never bothered to ring and let her know where you were.’

He flipped a hand. ‘See, that’s exactly why I don’t keep women around long-term.’ But he had to admit he saw her point.

‘Brie’s not just any woman, she’s your sister. And I don’t care what you do with your groupies, but you told Brie you were on your way to the party and that’s the last she heard. While you were getting it on with some random woman she was worried about what might have happened to you.’

His brows rose. ‘That woman was you.’

‘
And
she felt let down because she’d been looking forward to sharing the evening with her brother. The fact it was me is irrelevant, Jett. Just because you’re a famous chef-slash-food-writer-slash-critic—yes, Brie filled me in moments ago, and no, I didn’t recognise you, which must be a blow to your over-inflated ego—doesn’t mean you treat people who care about you that way. Accountability’s obviously not a word you’re familiar with and—’

‘You sure have a lot to say.’ Crikey, she was red hot when she was mad. Fiery. Filled with a vibrant energy to rival his own. It matched her hair and made him want to reach up, wind it around his fingers and pull her down so he could put that tongue to better use.

‘When necessary, yes.’

‘I get it.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘You’re feeling bitchy because I got inside your panties and you loved every delicious second of it and now it’s all over because you’ve decided that somehow it’s not politically correct to mess around with your best friend’s brother.’

Olivia blinked, her cheeks on fire. Because he had it so right. And she’d let her tongue run away from her. ‘I’m not going to respond to that.’

‘What, nothing to say now?’ His voice held both humour and frustration. ‘Or maybe it’s because you know what I said is true.’

Her chin lifted. ‘Plenty to say, but I’m resisting.’

‘Like you did last night?’ His expression was pained. ‘Do you have any idea how
I
feel?’

Hot as molten steel and hard
as concrete?
She kept her gaze well away from his shorts. ‘I said I was sorry.’

He nodded slowly, stared out at the harbour view. ‘I’ll apologise to Breanna.’

She nodded. ‘Good.’ She started to move to the balcony’s glass doors. ‘I think lunch is about ready. I’ll go and check.’ Escape.

‘Wait up,’ he said, and his hand shot out, curling around her elbow before she could blink. ‘We’ll check it out together.’ Still holding her, he rose, all long loose limbs and lazy grace.

She went to step back, away, but his grip held her in place. His chest grazed her breasts and her nipples tightened into hard little bullets. It felt as if he were pinching them between his fingers the way he had last night and she bit back a moan.

This wasn’t going her way at all.
Control, Olivia.
But his gaze was full of heated promises and she was already a devotee. She drew in a breath, her will dissolving like jelly.

Racing heart, throbbing lips. Arousal like lava spurting through her veins and lower. A little sound rose up her throat and her face lifted itself to his. Just a kiss, she told herself. She could allow him—just once more. It was Christmas...

‘Trouble,’ he muttered, his lips so close to hers she could almost taste him. But not quite.

And then he smiled his wicked Sinner-Santa smile and walked inside, leaving her to follow. Or not.

No!
She wanted to scream the word—and a few more explicit ones besides. To reach out and haul him back by his collar and give him a taste of real trouble. But she refused to let her personal problem with him interfere with a rare and happy family lunch.

The nerve of the man grated on her already tense nerves. Who was he to call
her
trouble? And in that sexual drawl that conjured up memories of when he’d called her that last night. Still, she only had to put up with him for a few hours.
So be nice a little longer. For Brie’s sake.
Tomorrow they’d be oceans away.

FOUR

‘Does the prime
rib beef with Yorkshire pud meet your professional standards?’ Brie asked Jett as the three of them worked their way through the scrumptious four-course silver-service luncheon served in their suite overlooking the famous harbour view.

Light reflected off water and danced across the ceiling and over crystal; a soft breeze fluttered the tinsel on the table decoration. The balmy air smelled of salt and roast dinner.

He topped up their champagne. ‘I’m on vacation. The beef’s tender, the pudding’s puffed, browned and crisp, that’s all I need to know.’

‘Surely your professional taste buds never take a holiday?’ Olivia suggested.

‘No, but on occasion I like to eat without having to do an in-depth analysis. Like today.’

‘Makes sense.’ She nodded. ‘Just indulge, enjoy and appreciate.’

Instant heat spurted up her neck. Wrong choice of words.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
She focused on the stem of her glass while she twirled it on the tablecloth, but she knew his gaze was stroking over her and that he was interpreting those words in the context of their recent up-close and personal. ‘I’m enjoying my grilled salmon,’ she managed, desperately, then turned to her friend. ‘How’s the duck, Brie?’

Brie slipped a delicate mouthful past her lips. ‘Perfection.’

Olivia mentally mimicked Brie’s indulgent sigh. The duck wasn’t the only perfection around here.

But was she the only one feeling the sudden lapse in conversation? Was it because they were too busy eating? Or maybe it was because the CD she’d put on earlier for just this possibility had come to an end...

Forcing herself to meet Jett’s eyes, she said, ‘So in your professional chef’s opinion what’s your most popular dish?’

He chewed a moment before answering. ‘My soufflé is to die for. So I’ve been told.’

By a woman, she’d bet, judging by the way his mouth quirked and the little lines around his eyes crinkled when he answered. Possibly being fed from his spoon or while flat on her back. Or both. Not a scenario she wanted to think about. But she couldn’t stop the tall, dark and delicious image flirting with her consciousness.

‘You like soufflé?’ Jett’s question, spoken in that deep husky voice, those midnight eyes focused on her as if he’d read her mind...

‘I tried to make it once. But it failed.’ Cooking was her weakest skill and least favourite thing to do.

‘You only gave it one shot?’

‘Once was more than enough.’

‘Persistence, Olivia,’ he told her with a wink in his eye. ‘Perfect timing’s the key to good soufflé.’ He regarded them both in turn while he chewed but Olivia sensed he was talking to her specifically when he said, ‘You’ll have to try my amaretto soufflé some time,’ in a subtle way that stroked over her nape like the warm liqueur it was named for.

Brie’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth. ‘You’re going to give us the famous Jettsetter Chef recipe? It’s not in his books,’ she told Olivia.

‘How about I come and cook it for you some time? Show you how it’s done?’

How about you do that?
Olivia swallowed, the response turning her cheeks hot.

She should have recognised him from the photo inside the dust cover of
Sundae Night
. How could she not have picked up on the perfect bone structure and classic dark handsomeness? ‘Brie gave me one of your books last Christmas.’ She’d thought it was Brie’s way to inspire Olivia’s interest in cookery—now she knew better. Her best friend had kept him a secret... She raised her champagne flute. ‘Now I know why it was a signed copy.’

‘Did you enjoy it?’ He added another dollop of horseradish sauce to his plate.

‘It’s got some delicious desserts.’ And the added bonus of some sexy photos of the chef at work, but nowhere near clear enough to recognise him in the flesh. ‘I do have to admit, though, that I’ve only tried out a couple.’ She studied him a moment over the crystal rim. ‘Do you ever get tired of cooking?’

‘We’ve just finished filming a TV series to be shown later in the year, and, with the restaurant critiques, it’s been full-on. I’m looking at some time-out so I’m working on ideas for themed cookbooks. Planning to start in Tasmania after the Taste Festival.’

At his mention of Hobart’s premier summer event on the historic docks where the yacht race ended, Olivia said, ‘If anyone can appreciate that particular festival, it’s a chef.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Where to, then?’

‘I’ve booked accommodation at Cradle Mountain.’

‘Admit it, you must have had at least one cooking disaster in your lifetime.’

His lips twitched in amusement and his sinner’s eyes teased. ‘I don’t recall.’

‘Tell me about it anyway.’ Olivia smiled back, and, awkwardness forgotten for the moment, she barely noticed Brie excuse herself and head out to the balcony with her glass of champagne.

Despite her earlier antagonism, she found herself drawn to him. The way he laughed with his eyes, his smooth way of talking, his hands. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off his hands, especially when he absently toyed with a miniature glass angel from the table centre-piece and she imagined those fingers toying with her—

Stop. Now.

He wasn’t here for her pleasure; he was here to see Brie and share Christmas.

Olivia’s family had always celebrated the day at home, with a tree and silly hats and enough food to feed an entire naval fleet. Even last year after her mother had passed away, she’d ensured they had a traditional day—her and Brie and a couple of single girlfriends from the health centre where they worked.

‘Are you into natural beauty therapy like Breanna?’ Jett asked, glancing at Brie as she sauntered back to resume her seat at the table.

‘I work in the field of natural medicine. I share a suite of rooms with Brie, a massage therapist and a kinesiologist. I’ve taken a month’s leave to participate in the race and focus on our fundraising.’

‘Livvie has an advanced diploma in Naturopathy,’ Brie boasted before Olivia could get another word out. ‘She’s also got a degree in Health Science. Now she’s halfway through a business course so she can set up a cancer retreat.
And
there’s her charity foundation, and—’

‘Brie...’
Olivia felt herself flush at Brie’s enthusiasm. She’d learned that guys weren’t interested in a woman whose academic achievements outstripped theirs. It had never bothered her before. It shouldn’t bother her now, but, for some reason she couldn’t figure out, it did. She wanted Jett to see her first and foremost as a woman. Which made no sense at all.

‘...And we’re going to be business partners when the centre’s up and running.’ Smiling, Brie sat back and crossed her arms.

Jett regarded Olivia a moment, thoughtful. ‘Are you going to fill me in on your charity? Does it have a name?’

‘You mean she hasn’t told you?’ Brie’s voice rose in astonishment.

‘We didn’t get around to it,’ he said, eyes still on Olivia.

‘That must be a first.’ Brie laughed. ‘She lives to talk about her Pink Snowflake Foundation. Jett, you must be the only one she hasn’t harassed—and I do mean that in the nicest possible way.’ When Olivia turned, Brie’s eyes were twinkling at her across the table.

Brie was right. Olivia had been so infatuated with Jett last night, she’d forgotten to talk his ear off about her work and convince him to contribute. ‘My mother died of breast cancer and I’m working on building a retreat for cancer survivors and those undergoing therapy to recuperate. It’s still not much more than a very expensive dream but we’ll get there eventually. Mum and I set up the foundation five years ago after she got sick the first time.’

‘She has an amazing vision,’ Brie said. ‘And I’m proud to say I’m going to be a part of it.
After
I survive the race.’

‘That’s the positive attitude I want to hear.’ But Olivia’s grin quickly sobered. She was honouring a pact she and her mum had made years ago—to race their yacht in the Sydney to Hobart. Not just in memory of her mother, but all the women in her family who’d died of breast cancer. All women with breast cancer.

‘This time tomorrow we’ll be heading down the New South Wales coast.’ Excitement and nerves were building and tangling in her stomach.

‘What’s the name of the boat you’re sailing on?’ Jett leaned back as the wait staff appeared to whisk away the plates.

‘Yacht,’ Olivia corrected. ‘
Chasing Dawn.
She may be small but she’s a real and classic beauty.’ They’d bought the old sea-craft together when her mum had been in remission and there’d been hope.

His gaze flicked between them. ‘So two females on the crew. Doesn’t that bring some sort of bad luck—women and boats?’

Oh, for goodness’ sake.
‘What about Aussie Jessica Watson’s record-breaking solo sail around the world at sixteen? And
did you know
that the only yacht to reach Hobart in 1946 was skippered by the first
woman
ever to take part? Would you call that
bad luck
?’

‘Your skipper obviously doesn’t mind the distraction,’ he went on, as if Olivia hadn’t spoken. ‘Does he ever get a little too up-close-and-
nautical
with his crew?’

The way he said that...in an entirely sexual way...made her want to slap him.

She should have expected it: the cocky grin, the sexual spark in his eyes. His sheer masculine arrogance. And to think they’d been having an almost pleasant conversation moments ago. She kept her cool, took a long, calming swallow of iced water. ‘Not at all. Everyone concentrates on their job. No one gets distracted.’

He raised his brows. ‘I bet.’

‘There are no
nauticals
on our yacht,
Mr
Davies. We’re a team—we work as a team, everyone’s equal.’

‘I’d like to see that.’

How he’d meant it was anyone’s guess but Olivia was inclined to think it wasn’t in a flattering non-gender-biased way. ‘Would you really?’ She snipped the words as if she were dead-heading roses. ‘I can easily accommodate you there.’

He grinned, even white teeth flashing like a toothpaste ad, anticipation in his eyes. ‘Yeah? You going to invite me aboard?’

‘Yeah.’ A plan was coming together in her head and she felt a grin to rival his spread over her face. ‘One of our crew had to pull out due to illness three days ago. And you would be the perfect person to fill the void. Snowflake needs publicity. A quick word to the media and you’d be doing me, us—my
foundation
—a huge, huge favour. Wouldn’t he, Brie?’

She glanced at Brie, who’d not said a word but seemed to be enjoying the moment as much as Olivia. ‘Yes,’ she said, slowly. ‘I reckon you’re right.’

When Olivia looked back at Jett, she noticed a little of his smugness had slipped.

‘On the boat?’

‘
Yacht.
You’d love it, Jett.’ Olivia lowered her voice an octave and added a husky purr. ‘The entire crew is female. Imagine. All those bronzed beauties in bikinis.’ Except they wouldn’t be in bikinis, but the word image begged to be painted for him all the same. ‘And I’m sure you’d enjoy hot-bunking.’

His eyes grew round, his brows raised. ‘Hot-bunking?’

She nodded. ‘You’ll find out if you join us.’

‘The entire crew? The skipper too?’ His smugness seemed to have disappeared altogether.

She tipped an imaginary cap. ‘Yours truly.’

‘But...’

‘I know. Unlucky for some, but
Chasing Dawn
’s had her fair share of women aboard and she’s not sprung a leak yet.’ She swore he blanched and she pressed her lips together to stop her enjoyment from showing too much. ‘Come on, Jett. Say yes. Please. We need you.’

‘Please, Jett,’ Brie chimed in. ‘It’s for a good cause and we’re having roast quail and veg on our first night at sea.’

Olivia knew they’d never win the race—it had never been about winning. The whole reason behind the motivation was to raise money and awareness, and a celebrity aboard would be just what they needed. A sexy celebrity chef even better.

A sexy celebrity chef out of his comfort zone the best of all—the media would
eat
it up.

Roast quail.
Was that supposed to be a deal maker? Jett detected the tiniest twitch at the corner of Olivia’s mouth and ground down on his back teeth. He’d been outmanoeuvred. His masculine pride was at stake, because he knew from bitter personal experience that seasickness could turn the toughest of the tough into a whimpering shipwreck of a man.

And that was before leaving the dock.

‘You’re right about the late notice. Too bad, I didn’t bring the appropriate gear.’

‘No worries.’ Her reassuring tone did nothing to alleviate his quickly burgeoning discomfort. Already he could feel the roll and swell beneath his feet.

‘We have caps and T-shirts with the foundation’s logo left over from last year’s charity run,’ she told him. ‘Rest assured, we’ll find one to fit you. And we have abundant spray jackets and oilskins on hand for when it gets rough.’

When
it gets rough.
Her gaze drifted down his body as she spoke, raising goose-bumps and questions he wasn’t game to ask. Like whether it was too late to check in. Or back out. Except quitting was never going to be an option.

‘Think about it over dessert,’ Brie suggested, giving him time to digest this new twist as a traditional flaming plum pudding was carried in and set on the table.

He helped himself to a second slice a few moments later. Olivia surprised him. Her drive and enthusiasm for a cause she believed in. Other girls her age were self-absorbed party princesses. When he’d first seen her he’d thought she was the same, but now he knew differently. And he wanted to help her.

But did it have to be on a boat?

He was still digesting the idea when they’d scraped their bowls clean, licked the last of the brandy sauce from their spoons and Breanna said, ‘Presents time,’ and pushed up from the table.

An uncomfortable sensation slid down Jett’s spine but Breanna was right behind him, her hands on his shoulders. ‘Relax, bro.’

Slipping a hand around his arm, she steered him to the Christmas tree with its glossy wrapped parcels beneath.