Just One Last Night...

His voice flowed over her like warm butterscotch sauce oozing into long-forgotten places and Grace’s heart banged like a bongo in her chest. It had no right to betray her. It should be sinking in her chest, not thumping merrily along like it wasn’t aware of the implications of Brent’s words.

What hope in hell did she have of getting the job if there was already someone acting in it?

She groped around for another subject. ‘Have you stayed in Melbourne all these years?’

Brent nodded, keeping his face neutral. ‘Some of us don’t consider that a hardship, Grace.’

It had been twenty years but the slight clench of his jaw still gave him away. She’d pissed him off. She raised her chin and forced herself to shrug.

‘It wasn’t meant to be a criticism.’

Brent, oh, so familiar with that little chin lift, regarded her for a moment. She’d changed. And yet she hadn’t. Her hair was shorter. Her hips were even curvier. She wore trendy glasses instead of contacts. And fashionable clothes. Her make-up had been artfully applied.

But her grey eyes still looked at him the same steady way they always had. The same old frankness was there. And her full lips still parted softly the way they always had, as if silently begging to be kissed.

Her lip gloss was the same too, he noticed absently. It still glistened like dew on cobwebs and its heady vanilla essence curled delicious fingers around his gut. He didn’t have to try it to know it would still taste like honey.

But he wanted to.

He wondered how many years apart it would take to erase that tantalising aroma from his memory cells. The one that occasionally drifted elusively through his dreams.

Brent stared at her mouth for what seemed an age and Grace felt heat build everywhere as she ruthlessly suppressed the nervous—or was that wanton?—urge to trace the outline of her lips with her tongue.

But even more dangerous to her equilibrium was the storm surge of emotions welling inside her. Feelings she’d long since buried spluttered to the surface. The sense of rightness and belonging he’d always stirred inside her. The feeling of completeness when he’d held her.

All of which she’d rejected twenty years ago.

Maybe emotions like that were just too strong to ever truly forget?

She shook her head, fighting to wrest back control.

This was crazy.

Certifiable!

It had to stop …

And then the door behind Brent opened abruptly and John Wilkie was smiling and calling her in, before disappearing back into the room.

‘Coming,’ she said, dragging her gaze from the searing heat of Brent’s.

She turned back to her bag, the contents still strewn over the table, stuffing it all back in, shutting her laptop lid and shoving it in too. Aware of Brent’s heavy stare the entire time—feeling it in her breasts and her belly and her thighs.

But mostly in her heart.

Items slipped through her useless fingers, dropped to the floor, rolled out of reach. Grace wanted to weep she felt so clumsy and …

Out of control.

Chaos reigned again.

Damn it!

She forced the last item in and stood, taking a couple of deep, calm breaths. This interview was important. And she was the best one for the job. She needed to be composed. Prepared. In control.

She drew in three more cleansing breaths before turning to face Brent again. ‘It was … nice … seeing you again,’ she said politely, before gathering all her bravado and walking past him, her head high.

And her knickers twisted into the mother of all knots!

Nice? Nice! Brent stared after her until the softly shut door completely obscured her.

Nice?

It had been surprising. Shocking. Startling.

Cataclysmic.

He sat down on the nearby lounge and shook his head.

Nice? Damn, it was anything but nice.

Even now his body was stuck back in first-year uni, skipping class to stay in bed with her all day. It was a wonder the two of them hadn’t contracted a vitamin D deficiency. Or turned into vampires.

They’d certainly had insatiable appetites!

Brent absently rubbed his jaw as the memories played like an old film reel in his head. He’d never quite managed to erase the images of her. Not through twenty years of distance or even two impulsive marriages and their subsequent fallouts.

And here she was. At Melbourne Central Hospital.

Déjà vu.

Confounding him again. Making him feel things again. Challenging all his assumptions about her being firmly in his past.

He dropped his head in his hands and shut his eyes. For some reason he’d been so sure they’d never cross paths ever again. Her goodbye had been so final—he’d never doubted she meant it even when he’d wasted two years harbouring secret fantasies about a reconciliation.

Meeting her today had been a huge jolt.

And very far from nice.

Dear God. What if she got the job? His job. What if he had to see her every day? Hear that laugh he’d loved so much. Watch that sway to her hips.

Smell that damn lip gloss?

Brent opened his eyes on a silent groan, his gaze falling on an object near his foot. He reached for it, realising it was a photograph. Grace must have dropped it from her bag when she was stuffing everything back in.

He stared at the image for a long time, trying to comprehend what he saw. Two children, a boy and a girl. The girl looked about twelve. The boy four, maybe five. Brother and sister?

They were laughing at the camera, their arms slung around each other’s necks. Trees and a clothesline could just be seen in the background. They looked happy and loved.