Kiss It Better
Kiss It Better
Jenny Schwartz
Jenny Schwartz
Revisit gorgeous Jardin Bay with Jenny Schwartz’s fabulous new novel. The town may look like paradise, but for one nurse it represents only broken dreams.
All Cassie Freedom wants to do is save the world, and she could, if only she were able to. But her dream of nursing in Africa is shattered, and she returns home to Jardin Bay, where familiarity, security, and a sense of her own failure threaten to drown her.
Dr. Theo Morrigan knows a thing or two about responsibility, leaving his own medical practice to take over a family business. He knows his mind, his future, and how he wants to live his life – until an old secret resurfaces and rocks his whole world.
Suddenly, the man who needed no one needs a broken-hearted nurse, and a nurse who thinks she’s too weak will find her own strength.
Jenny Schwartz is an Australian author of coastal romance. She has a degree in Sociology and History (people watching and digging into the past), a passion for books, and a varied publication history that includes everything from contemporary romance to steampunk, with a detour into the mysterious world of angels and djinn. Her website is
http://authorjennyschwartz.com/
Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…
The familiar warmth of her dad’s ugly sheepskin coat failed to touch the coldness inside Cassie Freedom. She drove her fists deep into the pockets.
Why they called it ‘burnout’ she didn’t know. She didn’t burn. Instead, a wall of ice shut her off from the world and from her own heart. She couldn’t even grieve for her lost dreams. Anger, bitterness and a corrosive sense of failure tore at her.
She glared at the horizon. The wind blew in off the Indian Ocean, whipping her hair off her face and taunting her with its travels.
Africa was out there. She’d dreamed of it for so long. She’d sat on this very bench, often with a textbook, listening to the waves break on the beach below the headland and knowing that across the endless expanse of sea lay Africa.
Behind her was her dad’s factory, the headquarters of Jay Bay Beautiful with its range of health and beauty products; all organic, all carefully researched, tested, produced and housed in a unique and stunning building. One hundred per cent Australian owned and made, the postcard-perfect setting ideally expressed the brand’s lifestyle ethos.
She’d come home to a factory for comfort.
Pathetic.
Rage at her own uselessness propelled her off the bench. She needed to move, to do something that gave her an illusion of living.
She hitched at the waistband of her old trackies. She’d lost weight and now they dragged at her hips.
‘Nice day.’
‘What?’ It was less a question than a snarled warning to back off. The last thing she needed was to be polite to a stranger, a tourist. She let her messy brown hair fall over her eyes and glowered at her toes. Okay, so maybe part of the reason she felt cold was that although she’d grabbed her dad’s coat before leaving the house, she hadn’t thought of shoes.
‘Or maybe it’s not a nice day?’
Damn him. The stranger sounded amused.
She lifted her head to give him the benefit of her best scowl.
Holy hell.
Cue the rock music and the low, deep-throated roar of a motorbike. Black leather jeans hugged muscled thighs, leading down to killer boots and up to a white T-shirt beneath an open black leather jacket over wide, wide shoulders. Up higher was a strong, tanned throat, a rugged chin, a mouth made to sin, and dark brown eyes faintly crinkled at the corners with amusement. He looked to be early thirties, and making every year count.
The man was a sex god. He didn’t even have helmet hair, despite the motorbike helmet held in one large hand. His hair was jet black and just long enough to hint at curls. Hair that begged a woman to lose control and — wow!
He put the helmet down on the bench and stretched.
Cassie moaned, then slapped a hand over her mouth, horrified that such a sound had escaped her.
Not that he’d noticed. He was luxuriating in working his muscles. It was like watching a big cat wake up: all power and effortless control. Soon he’d be looking for lunch.
Knees that had staunchly held her up through gun-pointing, life-threatening incidents, wobbled.
But she wasn’t impressed. She definitely wasn’t ogling. It was just that he stood between her and the view. You know, if she angled her body sideways. She reminded herself that she was a woman notoriously indifferent to sex appeal. Give her a good book and a…Heaven have mercy. He was taking off his jacket.
Tight, white T-shirts ought to be illegal. Or maybe it was bodies like his that ought to be outlawed. She sat down on the bench to think about it.
He sat down beside her, far enough away not to be creepy, but still way too close for her body to resume normal functions. Beneath the sheepskin coat and flannel shirt, her skin flushed. She eased the collar away from her throat, hoping the flush wouldn’t crawl up her throat and betray her the way her knees had. Treacherous bastards.
He stretched out his legs. ‘It’s a long ride from the city.’
She looked away from where the black leather lovingly contoured his muscles and deep breathed. She had friends who were vegans. They wouldn’t approve of all that leather at all. Unfortunately, in trying to summon some disapproval, she imagined him without the leather.
Winter was only three weeks past, but perhaps she’d go for a swim in the cold ocean, just dive right off the headland and splash around till she felt normal.
‘Good ride, though,’ he said.
She glared at him through the tangle of her hair, but no, there didn’t seem to be any innuendo in his words. It was all her fault, hearing ‘ride’ and thinking of sex.
Evidently some neurons were misfiring in her brain. Or maybe this overwhelming sexual attraction — good grief! She was finger-combing her hair. Preening for him. She sat on her hands. It had to be some weird side effect of burnout. Distraction. That was it. Her body had seized — not literally, thank the gods — on the first sexy man to cross her path as a way to stop her churning, self-despising thoughts.
Her body had good taste.
Mental slap. But her eyes still treacherously peeped sideways and yummed up the vision beside her. If she slid a few inches closer, she’d be able to smell him. His scent would be motorbike and road travel, leather and male pheromones.
Desire squirmed in her tummy. It shocked her. Those muscles had been tight with anxiety for months. To feel them melting, then twisting, tensing with a whole different hunger, literally stole her breath.
She gulped the fresh sea air.
The stranger leaned back and tipped his face to the sun. ‘Do you work here?’
All those lovely, squirmy, disconcerting emotions froze. ‘No.’
But she had worked in the factory, and maybe she would have to again, if she couldn’t get past the smothered, panicked feeling that enveloped her whenever she thought of her nursing.
It was burnout, just burnout. She would deal with it. She would not be a failure.
‘You’re a tourist?’
She glanced at him and saw the raised brow as his gaze travelled from the sheepskin coat, down the faded trackies to her bare feet. She scrunched her toes. ‘I live next door.’
‘Ah.’ He stared out at the ocean.
The high back of the limestone bench hid the factory from them, and them from the factory. It made for an odd sense of isolation, almost intimacy, except that the stranger had suddenly withdrawn into his own thoughts. There was a stillness to him, a tension that hadn’t been there before.
A lot of weekend bikers took the winding road along Australia’s southwest coast, although not many stopped in her hometown, Jardin Bay. Its holiday accommodation favoured families. And this was Wednesday, midweek, not a weekend.
‘Is your girlfriend in the shop?’ She loved JayBay Beautiful, her dad’s company, but it wasn’t a usual stopover for a single guy.
‘Girlfriend?’ The sexy stranger hauled his thoughts back from the devil knew where and frowned at her. Then his eyes widened.
Oh, nice. She read his horror easily and it wasn’t complimentary. So what if she was a mess and he was a god. She wasn’t hitting on him. ‘Get over yourself. I just meant you’re not the sort of person who normally visits a beauty products shop.’
‘I’m more interested in the production side,’ he said. ‘The factory.’
‘Agnes Li designed it.’ Her response was automatic. He wasn’t the first person to be caught by the building’s distinctive appearance. Agnes was a friend of her dad’s and an internationally acclaimed architect. She’d designed the factory specifically for the site. The northern and western walls were strengthened glass, allowing the workers inside views of the Indian Ocean, and enabling visitors to see the factory’s operation from the safety of the encircling veranda. A shop welcomed tourists on the eastern side, facing the road, where Cassie’s Aunt Gabby nurtured a wildflower garden.
Agnes had even designed the bench they sat on, although a local stonemason had been the one to chisel out the shape. The use of limestone acknowledged the stunning caves of the region.
‘It’s a unique building. Would it be possible to check it out?’
‘Help yourself. The veranda windows act as a view screen.’
I meant that I’d like to see inside.’ The hint of impatience in his voice gave the comment an edge of command.
Cassie responded badly to orders. ‘No.’
‘That’s hardly your decision to make, is it?’
Retorting, ‘It’s my dad’s factory’, would make her sound about six years old. She stood, ready to leave. ‘Visitors stay on the veranda or in the shop. The design keeps troublemakers out of the way.’
His smile was slow and easy. ‘Darlin’, you have no idea how much trouble I can make.’ The drawled endearment was anything but endearing. It sounded more like a challenge. He sprawled on the bench. Despite the motorbike gear, he was clean-shaven with no visible tattoos. Not a biker, but dangerous in his own way. All her instincts told her that.
Then again, her instincts were currently going haywire. Even as she fumed, her body seemed to have been taken over by an incubus shouting ‘jump him’. She was so not listening to her body. It was clearly crazed, emotionally confused and sexually voracious. It was assessing the bench and the man, and considering sexual positions! That was not her.
He stood, taller than her by several inches, all arrogance in black leather. She could have backed up, but that would have been sensible. She hitched up her drooping trackies.
‘I’d like you to show me around the factory,’ he said.
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because your dad’s not here to show me around himself. You are Mick’s daughter, aren’t you?’
It shocked her, because that meant he wasn’t a stranger. ‘Who are you?’
‘Bare feet, so you can’t have walked far, and you said home is next door. I know Mick lives near the factory and that he has one kid, about your age.’
‘I’m twenty-seven. Not a kid.’
‘Plus, you sounded proprietal about the factory. Only thing that made me doubt it is that Mick said you were in Africa.’
She crammed down all her broken dreams and fears, and put the garbage bin lid on them. They were not for public consumption. Especially not to be paraded before this condescending, far-too-confident male. ‘I came home.’
‘And I’ve come to visit. So, you can show me around.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Theo Morrigan.’ Which told her nothing. ‘Mick told me your name, but I’ve forgotten.’
‘Cassie.’
‘Cassandra, bringer of trouble.’