First Prize

By Lynn Jacobs

She'd won her dream date!

Tamsin has dreamed about Nick Sullivan for years. She'd had a teenage crush on him, and when he'd left their small hometown to become a successful international journalist, she never stopped wanting him .

Now Nick is back, more gorgeous than ever, and totally out of her league! Tamsin realises it's time she let go of her adolescent fantasies. She must forget Nick and get on with her life. Winning first prize in a raffle must surely be a good omen except that the prize is none other than Nick Sullivan!

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781460872079

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

‘YOU’VE offered what as a prize?’

Sprawled comfortably in the armchair opposite, Mary’s husband Jack warned, ‘You mean who. Don’t blame me. I’m as much the victim of this as the poor prize-winner will be.’

Tamsin King couldn’t repress a grin as Mary looked with equal disgust at her best friend and her husband. ‘I think you’re both being narrow-minded. Frances Matthews thought it was a real brainwave.’

‘She would,’ muttered Jack gloomily. ‘Besides, it’s not her husband who’s involved.’

The thought of Frances’s rather dapper and very conservative husband being offered as first prize in the carnival raffle was enough to make Tamsin’s fragile control over her mirth dissolve altogether, and even Mary couldn’t maintain the dignified expression she’d been trying to preserve in the face of the general amusement.

Eventually, however, Tamsin managed to wipe her eyes and regain enough control to demand to be told exactly what her friend was planning. Mary always seemed to be involved in every committee or charity event that the small south-coast resort of Dilmouth organised, and the annual carnival which celebrated the end of the season was no exception.

‘I thought we could do with something different as first prize this year—dinner for two at the Seafront Hotel is getting too predictable.’

‘I wouldn’t mind the dinner,’ interrupted Jack, with feeling.

‘You’d do anything for a free meal,’ Mary dismissed her husband’s views with cheerful scorn. ‘No. It’s about time we had a change—and, anyway, don’t we all some- times long for someone to come in and do those odd jobs we’ve been putting off for ages? I think it’s a brilliant idea,’ she ended complacently.

Tamsin, who was perfectly capable of putting up her own shelves and had recently redecorated her own showroom, chuckled and glanced affectionately at the small, plump, dark-haired woman a year older than herself who had been her friend and companion in mischief since early childhood. She and Jack had been married for five years now and it suited her. Tamsin had known the marriage would work from the moment the laughing couple had left the church. A moment’s remembered bitterness at the thought of that day clouded her eyes before she straightened automatically. She had no intention of living in the past. Now she looked at her friends and laughed again when Mary accepted the teasing but didn’t hesitate to demand that Tamsin be the first to buy a book of raffle tickets. ‘Or I won’t keep telling everyone that your shop’s the best in town and they’ll all stop buying your paintings,’ she threatened.

‘Good,’ Tamsin accepted cheerfully. ‘That’ll give me more time to work on the next book.’ Apart from the flourishing little art and craft gallery, she was acquiring a growing reputation as an illustrator of children’s books. She grinned at Mary. ‘Besides—what would you do if you couldn’t come over and work there?’

Mary threw up her hands in defeat. She helped out in the gallery for at least two days a week and Tamsin sometimes thought she’d like to do far more. Perhaps, if the demand for her illustrations became much heavier, she would be able to ask Mary to take over more of the daily running of the business. It was an interesting possibility.

‘Hello? You still there?’ Mary’s gentle sarcasm jerked her from her thoughts.

‘Sorry. I was miles away,’ Tamsin confessed. She had no intention of explaining.

‘With Bob Milner?’

‘With Bob?’ Her honest bewilderment must have been evident.

‘Well, he’s taken you out twice in the last two weeks— and you have to admit that that’s unusual,’ Mary pointed out, unapologetically curious.

Suddenly it wasn’t so easy to keep her temper, even with a friend. ‘Bob’s girlfriend is abroad with her firm for the next six months,’ she reminded Mary in an even voice.

‘So?’ her friend challenged.

‘So he likes someone to tell his troubles to occasionally.’ And I seem to be the only one around who doesn’t expect, or want, anything else from him, she added to herself.

‘His father may be a narrow-minded old bigot but he’s got the biggest farm in the area. He’s not that bad a catch,’ Jack pointed out, his voice coolly judicial. He hadn’t stirred from his relaxed fireside pose.

‘I don’t want to catch anyone,’ Tamsin snapped, conscious that she made it sound like a disease. What was wrong with her this evening? She should be used to Mary’s attempts at matchmaking by now. They were one of the reasons her friendship with Bob was working-he wasn’t the only one who needed protection. Determinedly she thrust her impatience aside, smiling apologetically and mentally putting it down to the sultry weather. She hated thunder.

‘All right,’ she agreed, and reached for the book of raffle tickets lying beside Mary. ‘I’ll buy your wretched tickets, but only on condition that you stop trying to make something out of nothing as far as poor Bob’s concerned.’ That ‘poor’ should effectively end Mary’s hopes about her feelings for Bob.

‘Can’t I buy the rest of the tickets?’ Jack demanded plaintively, but received a firm ‘No!’ from both women and the evening settled back into its familiar pattern of banter and reminiscence and everyday gossip. It was Tamsin who raised a topic that brought a touch of gloom to the evening.

‘Have you heard any more about that development proposal?’ she asked. Mary was usually fully informed of local gossip and Jack, as a solicitor in the nearby county town, might have heard something. They both shook their heads. They had all heard rumours of the possible sale and development of Arnfleet Cove, the little bay just outside the town, but nothing had been confirmed and no one even seemed to know who was behind it.

‘We can’t let them build on that land,’ Mary exploded. ‘Local kids have used that beach for years just because it’s small and safe and attracts no tourists. If they put in a proper road and start building holiday cottages…’ Her voice trailed off in distress at the thought of the inevitable damage to the secluded bay.

‘We can lodge a protest when it goes to the planning committee—they’ll have to submit detailed plans then.’ Jack’s attempt at reassurance sounded hollow to Tamsin.

‘By that time they’ll have managed to persuade enough people that it’ll benefit local trade—even if being quiet and unspoilt is exactly what makes people come back here year after year,’ she pointed out bitterly. ‘You know how hard it is to make people take action—they always assume someone else will do it.’

Jack’s nod was reluctant agreement. ‘A bit of publicity might do some good,’ he offered vaguely.

The trouble was that none of them knew where to start. In the end it was more comforting to turn back to the cheerful subject of the approaching carnival and Mary’s idea of a prize. An hour later Tamsin reluctantly decided she would have to leave if she was to open the gallery next morning.

‘I’ll give you a lift home,’ Jack told her, getting to his feet. ‘Just to be safe.’

Tamsin couldn’t help laughing. ‘Honestly, Jack, I’d rather walk. You’ve been watching too many police thrillers, or listening to too many overanxious tourists. You know nothing ever happens in Dilmouth—except the occasional drunk or someone losing their wallet when the fair’s in town. There are always a couple of break-ins in the summer.’

It was true, but Jack still looked unconvinced and only gave in reluctantly in the face of her determination. She wasn’t going to drag him out at nearly midnight just to drive her down half a mile of road she’d known since childhood.

As she walked home along the quiet, familiar streets in the warm night air Tamsin thought fondly of her friends. They were the nearest thing to family she had left here since her widowed mother had decided to return to her native New Zealand and she had surprised everyone by choosing to stay here in Dilmouth.

Perhaps she had once dreamed of travel and excitement and had found the seaside town’s predictable serenity a bit stifling; now, however, she valued its security. She had friends and a future here and was gradually beginning to believe she could rely on both. Jack’s suggestion that there was something unsafe in this sleepy town was unsettling but he always had tended to be cautious. It was one of the things that made him such a popular solicitor. Still, she couldn’t prevent a fleeting moment of uneasiness touching her as she turned off the main road into the steep, narrow street that led to her shop and home. Ridiculous. It was Jack’s fault. There was nothing at all to worry about in Dilmouth. If the street was quiet, what else did she expect? All the shops had long since shut and she was the only one who actually lived over her premises.

She unlocked the door of the shop and slipped through the office and up the two flights of stairs to her apartment, yawning contentedly as she kicked off her shoes and padded barefoot across the rug-strewn wood floor. Bright moonlight made it unnecessary to switch on the light and, despite the lateness of the hour, she was drawn to the french windows of the living-room, stepping out on to the wide balcony which gave her an uninterrupted view of the estuary, glinting now and tantalisingly half visible in the moonlight. The flat wasn’t particularly spacious or luxurious and all her furniture was old or second-hand, but it was hers and this view made it worth every penny she had had to borrow and save to buy the shop, with its office and store above and the bonus of accommodation on the top floor.

Stretching lazily, Tamsin lifted the undisciplined curls of her auburn hair to feel the night air, cooling at last as though the threatened storm had retreated, against her neck. That was better. She frowned, realising how tense she had been for the last part of the evening and wondering why. It couldn’t have been Jack’s absurd last-minute concern—she’d felt edgy before then. Her thoughts again flickered briefly to those random memories of Mary’s wedding and, inevitably, to the man who had given the bride away. Just as quickly, she dismissed them. The present had far more to offer. Business was thriving, the books were doing well, and she had the security and independence she wanted. There was nothing at all to lose sleep over.

By the middle of the next morning she had decided that any odd feelings the previous night could quite simply be put down to natural causes. Flu, to be precise. And of all weeks of the year to fall sick, Carnival week could hardly be worse chosen. This third week in September was the town’s last burst of energy before it began to settle slowly towards the quiet sleepiness of winter. And I can’t even manage to keep the shop open, Tamsin grumbled to herself.

She had given up when a combination of headache and nausea had made it clear even to her that she could not go on. Mary would usually have been delighted to help out; at the moment, however, she was far too involved in carnival organisation for that to be possible. There was no alternative but to turn the sign on the door to ‘closed’, lock up and climb what suddenly seemed an impossible number of stairs to her own rooms.

Staring at herself in the bathroom mirror, she decided morosely that she’d probably have scared off any potential customers if she had stayed open. Her usually exuberant hair hung lifelessly around her face, making her wide grey-blue eyes and angled cheekbones more dominant than ever. Her pale skin was blanched with ill-health so that the light scattering of freckles stood out harshly. I look like a waif from Orphan Annie, she decided in disgust, and turned away, shivering and aware of a vague sense of self-pity as she heard muted sounds of laughter from the street below.

The next two days passed slowly and uncomfortably. And alone. She had managed to persuade an anxious Mary that she neither needed nor wanted nursing before turning back to her rumpled bed. By early Wednesday afternoon, however, she was beginning to feel that she might soon be able to rejoin the human race. She dragged on a random assortment of clothes—a shapeless and baggy T-shirt over faded black leggings—but left her feet bare and her hair unbrushed. A quick glance at her face told her that there was nothing make-up could do to hide her reddened eyes and nose so she decided it was easier not to bother. At least her appetite was coming back.

Chicken soup was just beginning to simmer appetisingly when the phone and the doorbell rang simultaneously. Muttering something incoherent under her breath, Tamsin picked up the phone and heard Mary saying, ‘Tammy, have you heard…?’

‘I’ll call back,’ she promised hastily. ‘There’s someone at the door.’

‘Yes, but—’

Whatever Mary was going to say could wait. Any customer who wanted to see her urgently enough to keep ringing the bell as this one apparently did must also be willing to spend some money. Whatever she looked like.

‘OK, I’m coming!’ she called out hoarsely as the doorbell shrilled its imperative summons again.

She tugged the door open and whatever apologetic or irritated comment she had been about to utter died stillborn. Lounging in disgusting health in her entrance hall was a tall, lean, dark-haired man with hazel eyes, his eyebrows lifted at the moment in bored enquiry. It had been five years since she had last seen him and she recognized him as immediately as if it had been yesterday.

‘Nick Sullivan!’ she exclaimed. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

Mary’s brother looked, if anything, even more resigned. ‘You mean Mary didn’t manage to warn you? I’m afraid you’ve won me,’ he told her, the ironic amusement in his deep voice all too knowing as he added, ‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’ Then he was frowning down at her, his expression unreadable. ‘What have you done to yourself?’ His voice was hard now, demanding. ‘Mary said you’d had flu, but you look—’

She didn’t want to know how she looked. She particularly didn’t want to hear whatever blunt and unflattering comparisons he was about to make. She was all too aware of every ghastly detail of her appearance. When she had last seen Nick Sullivan she had vowed to herself that when they met again, if they ever had to meet again, she would be poised, cool and utterly in charge of the situation. Now all she wanted to do was scream in frustrated rage or slam the door in his face. Preferably both.

He didn’t give her the chance. Two steps brought him inside the shop and she backed away hastily when it seemed inevitable that he would brush against her. He glanced sharply down at her, one side of his sensual mouth lifting as though her reaction amused him by its predictability.

‘There’s no point in running. Besides, you’ve won twenty-four hours of my time—which is a lot more ex- pensive than you might think—so you might as well get used to the idea.’

It was a terrible idea and one she had no intention of accustoming herself to. ‘I don’t care what you’re worth,’ she spat back at him. ‘I’d pay not to have you here.’

His laugh lacked any humour. ‘I thought you’d say that. Too bad. You’ll just have to accept it. If you haven’t anything urgent for me to do—’ his disparaging glance took in the neatly organised displays ‘—perhaps we can reminisce about old times?’

‘No!’ It was too much. Even if he could overtake her with one lazy stride she couldn’t stay here a second longer. She whirled away, thinking only of escaping up the stairs to the sanctuary of her flat, but the weakness of recent fever combined with the shock of seeing Nick again was too much. Sudden dizziness swept her and she stumbled, putting out her hands defensively even as darkness swung sickeningly around her.

It wasn’t the sharp corner of a display case that broke her fall, nor even the hard wood of the floor. The cool texture of Nick’s leather jacket was under her hands, his arms steadying her as she sagged helplessly.

‘You idiot.’ There was more anger than concern in the oddly distant voice. ‘You shouldn’t be out of bed.’

If he hadn’t hammered at her door she wouldn’t have rushed downstairs. That was what was making her faint. His fault. She pushed weakly against him. ‘Let me go. I can stand on my own,’ she protested.

‘Can you? I doubt it.’ He relaxed his grip enough for her weak knees to betray her. Tears of humiliation and frustration stung her eyes as she slumped helplessly. Then the room swung dizzily again as he lifted her. No. She tensed. He couldn’t do this to her.

‘Let me go!’ Even to her the repeated demand sounded feeble.

Held against him she felt, as much as heard, his impatient sigh as his hands tightened, easily stilling her resistance. ‘Shut up.’ She froze into rebellious immobility.

Her blurred sight cleared. His face was nearer than she’d expected, its hard lines