It was only as she slipped on sandals and left the bedroom armed with sun cream and a hat that she realised Conall could have washed his hands at the kitchen sink.
Maybe rich people don’t like to dry their hands on kitchen towels.
The idea made her smile. Conall might be rich, but despite his privileged background, she’d always found him down-to-earth.
‘Ready?’
There he was, near enough that she felt the sharp drag of air into tight lungs, her heart leaping before settling into a steadier beat.
‘Of course.’
She ignored the voice warning that spending time outside the office with Conall Abercrombie was asking for trouble. At least until she worked out a way to inoculate herself against her unwanted feelings for him.
‘Okay, I’ll play. What are we doing here, Conall?’
Here being the exclusive marina tucked deep into the curve of Rushcutters Bay on the south side of Sydney Harbour. She might be from the other side of the country but Greer recognised the yacht club from countless news reports. It hosted the launch of the world-famous Sydney-to-Hobart yacht race each year.
The landward end of the bay was green parkland, the sides all expensive houses and apartments. The other end of the bay was open to the broad expanse of harbour.
‘I told you. We’re here to view a possible investment.’ He gestured for her to walk with him. ‘This way.’
Greer’s eyebrows rose asthis waybecame a pier between vessels. What was he up to? She couldn’t imagine any business investment here.
Still, the warm sunshine and salty air were invigorating. The gentleding, dingsound from the rigging of moored yachts seemed almost welcoming, even to someone who knew nothing about sailing.
Finally he stopped beside a white yacht that looked streamlined and sleek. He looked from it to her. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think it’s not an investment that will give you a solid return on your money.’
He chuckled, the sound trickling through the hidden barriers she’d erected to keep herself safe from his charm. ‘Ever the pragmatist, eh, Greer? That’s one of the reasons I value you so highly. But we both know not all investments are about financial returns.’
Slowly she nodded. A small but increasing amount of his funding went to what he called his conscience projects, supporting communities.
But a boat couldn’t be one of those, could it?
She frowned. ‘What are you planning? A sailing school?’
There’d been a couple of schemes to help unemployed people, particularly young ones, develop job skills. Was there a need for yacht crews? Greer had no idea.
‘You know, I hadn’t thought of that.’
He led the way aboard, then stopped to reach out his hand for hers as she stepped onto the boat.
Something skittered along Greer’s senses as his hard, warm hand closed around hers. She was unaccustomed to his touch. That must be why it felt so momentous.
Drawing air into cramped lungs, she fixed on a smile, nodding her thanks but not meeting his eyes as she stepped onto the deck. She turned as if to survey the vessel but in reality the movement was an excuse to slide her hand free.
Because she’d had the bizarre urge to return his firm grip and keep holding.
‘Would I go down too far in your estimation if I admitted I’m interested in buying it for myself?’
‘A personal investment then?’
Her brow knitted. As far as she knew, all his investments were about delivering results, usually financial, though sometimes charitable. She couldn’t remember Conall ever making a major purchase as an indulgence. For a rich man he lived a fairly simple life. He worked long hours and from what she gathered, much of his social life related to business.
‘You don’t approve?’
Greer surveyed the gleaming yacht. Even to a landlubber it looked beautiful. Her gaze went to Conall, feet planted wide on the deck, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners in the hint of a smile that made her breath hitch.
