A Kirribilli Christmas Read online

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek: Red Dirt Duchess

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was one in the morning, two days before Christmas. Shelby Collins’ boyfriend, Nelson Brandon III, finished making love with her, rolled across the bed and opened the drawer of his bedside table. The cool night breeze drifted up through the canyon into the hills above Los Angeles and whispered across Shelby’s heated and sated body. Moonlight washed the bedroom, playing over the broad planes of Nelson’s back and glinting on his tousled blond hair.

  Shelby closed her eyes and sighed. Life was perfect.

  When he turned back to her, a small black velvet box in his hand, her blood pressure spiked, anticipation thrilling through her. She pushed herself upright as he gave her one of his lazy, sexy smiles, the one that always got him out of trouble.

  ‘Merry Christmas, babe. I hope you like it.’ He didn’t open the box but simply handed it to her.

  Delight tangled with confusion. It was obviously a ring but why was he giving it to her now? Why not wait for Christmas Day? The box sat on her outstretched palm, beckoning her to open it, but she shifted her gaze to meet his, catching the edge of a cautious look.

  ‘Thank you. But a little early, isn’t it?’ She kept her voice light, trying to quell the thread of anxiety that snaked up her spine.

  He moved away then, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and reaching for his abandoned T-shirt on the floor. He pulled it over his head and Shelby could have sworn he kept it over his face a moment longer than necessary because his next words were muffled.

  ‘I won’t be here for Christmas.’

  She stared at his back, a sickening sense of deja vu washing over her. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I’m heading back east to see my folks in—’ He raised his arm and squinted at his watch in the dim light. ‘Nine hours.’

  When she didn’t respond he turned to her and continued, ‘They’re a little old-fashioned so, you know . . .’ He made a gesture with his hand, swinging it from his body to hers and back again, taking in their nakedness, the rumpled sheets and the scent of sex that lingered in the air. It said all too clearly that Shelby would not be acceptable to his family.

  It made her feel cheap, as though the relationship they’d been creating – at least she thought they’d been creating – was somehow tawdry. She closed her eyes, ignoring the ring box as she fought to control her emotions.

  ‘Besides, it will be boring. I’ll be bored but you don’t have to be.’

  She’d never met Nelson’s family but she knew the Brandons had a huge apartment in New York and a house in the Hamptons. They were like the Brooks Brothers, trust funds and charity events at the Met all rolled into one. East Coast old money who despaired of their only son’s LA lifestyle and treated his movie production company as a harmless but expensive phase he’d grow out of.

  No doubt they had a blue-blood heiress in mind as a future daughter-in-law, not a struggling part-time actress who wasn’t even American.

  When Shelby didn’t say anything he glanced at her, his lips tightening, as though she was being difficult when she hadn’t said a word.

  ‘Look, it’s only five days and then I’ll be back.’ His finger traced along her thigh in an erotic gesture that normally had her shivering with desire. Now it just felt tacky, an underhand ploy to sidetrack her.

  There’d been a problem at Thanksgiving too but he’d placated her then, alluding to the times they’d spend together in the future. Obviously Christmas wasn’t one of them.

  Shelby opened the box. Inside was a band of diamonds set in gold. Normally it would have thrilled her but it was an ambiguous design, the sort of flashy but non-committal ring a man might give a woman to keep her on the leash but without the promise of more.

  She’d been dismissed with diamonds.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said mechanically. ‘It’s lovely.’ But as the words came out of her mouth she realised that these days everything she said had this same rote flavour, as though she were a wind-up doll or a pretty bauble for his pleasure. She watched every word, testing it first in her mind to make sure it would please Nelson.

  She stared at the ring as the thoughts tumbled unchecked through her mind and Nelson turned back to the drawer and withdrew an envelope.

  ‘I thought you might like to see your own family while I’m away.’ He said it with an air of accusation, as though he had been particularly thoughtful and she was reacting badly. But how could she feel guilty? She had no family.

  They’d been together for nine months and for the last few she’d been hoping that she and Nelson might be heading that way, towards marriage and having a family. That’s all she’d ever wanted. A proper family, not like the one in which she’d grown up.

  She pulled the ticket out of the envelope with a dull sense of inevitability, noting that it was business class. Since meeting Nelson she always turned left when boarding flights.

  ‘Thank you.’ What else could she say? She could protest and argue, could cry or plead, but after months of evasive tactics, wrapped with silky words of love and lust, the dream that Shelby had carried in her mind was shattered. Her future was not with Nelson Brandon III. She was nothing more than a glossy accessory.

  She glanced at the ticket again. The destination was Sydney.

  CHAPTER TWO

  There was a woman in his garden.

  Dan Sayers climbed down from the ladder, laid the brush on the paint tray and swiped an arm across his sweaty forehead. He picked up a rag, wiping his hands as he moved closer to the window.

  She was at the bottom of the lawn, where the path that wound down through the steep front garden, snaking through dense foliage and vines, met the street. In the slanting, late-afternoon light her face should have been exposed but she’d stopped, shrouded in the deep shade of the arbour, as though uncertain whether to climb the path or run.

  Just like Dan had been when he’d first entered that garden as an eight-year-old boy, dirty, rebellious and unloved. He hadn’t known it at the time but that steep path had been the highway to a new life.

  Maybe she was just resting in the shade before moving on. He couldn’t blame her. The dense humidity that had made painting such hard work cloaked the afternoon, rendering it a hushed torpor. Even the birds and insects seemed too tired to stir. His gaze shifted to the suitcase sitting in the sun and he frowned. It was one of those glossy, expensive, hard-sided affairs, gleaming like an oyster shell.

  If she’d arrived by ferry and lugged that bag up the dozens of steps from Kirribilli wharf, she was probably exhausted. An easterly would come through later but right now Sydney wilted in the heat.

  He wasn’t expecting anyone, not until tomorrow when the old house would be full of people, none of them related by blood but the best kind of family, the sort cobbled together with love. He couldn’t wait.

  The clean, pungent smell of paint was overlaid by a honeyed floral scent that seemed crushed and distilled and carried on the warm afternoon air. He stepped through the French windows and onto the veranda as though drawn by the scent, but in reality he knew it was curiosity.

  A prickle of awareness shivered up his spine as he gazed down the garden. If it wasn’t for the defeated tilt of her head, the slightly bowed shoulders, he’d swear it was— He bit off that thought. Of course lots of people were on the move the day before Christmas, travelling to be with family and friends.

  The woman straightened her shou
lders and stepped forward, out into the sun. It glinted on the blonde hair that fell shimmering to her shoulders. Could he see or did he just imagine the deep breath she took, as though she were marshalling her reserves? Or maybe it was in preparation for a sigh.

  Then she tilted her face upwards, looking directly at the house, and Dan swore softly.

  Shelby Collins had come home.

  The house looked better than Shelby remembered. There was fresh paint on the timber frames of the windows, a blue-grey that was more sunny-day than stormy-sky. Against the honed sandstone it looked fresh, almost friendly. A new timber railing painted in the same jaunty colour ran along the upstairs balcony. It seemed that the old house was getting a makeover.

  The windows downstairs were all wide open, as though trying to catch any whisper of a breeze, but, unlike the old days, it was quiet. The peace of the afternoon wasn’t shattered by childish shouts and the thunder of running feet. Shelby took a deep breath and the heady fragrance of frangipani caught in her nostrils. It was the scent of her childhood, redolent of long hot summers and the occasional storms that broke the heat, when the crushed and bruised flowers would release their honeyed bouquet. The big old tree with its wide-spreading branches laden with clusters of white and yellow flowers had stood sentinel in the front garden for decades, giving the house its unofficial name, Frangipani House.

  The house belonged to Dan now but she still remembered him saying that she’d always be welcome. She wasn’t sure that turning up out of the blue was quite what he’d meant but the old landline had been disconnected and she’d never had his mobile number.

  There was nothing for it but to haul the suitcase up the path and knock on the front door of the house that used to be home. She grabbed the handle and started to pull the suitcase behind her.

  Moments later, the front door swung open – at least that old squeak was still the same – and a man walked onto the veranda. Shelby squinted against the glare, making out a set of large shoulders and the blur of white across an impressive chest.

  She took a few more steps, the wheels of her suitcase joggling on the bumpy path, but when he remained where he was she paused. As welcomes went it was hardly warm.

  His hair was longish, and stiffly mussed as though he’d been to the beach that morning and salt still clung to the strands. It seemed to have darkened too, matching the rough shadow that lined his jaw and the assertive eyebrows, one of which was now raised. His face had caught up with the large, hawkish nose that had made him the butt of jokes years ago. In fact, all of him had filled out. Old cargo shorts hugged powerful thighs and her gaze travelled over his tanned legs, his well-muscled calves, and ended at the large feet thrust into paint-splattered deck shoes. She lifted her gaze again.

  Dan? Disbelief almost bubbled into incredulous laughter. He was no longer the teenager she remembered, and something unsettling tilted inside Shelby, quelling the laughter and causing a startled recognition that things had changed and coming home might not be as easy as she’d imagined.

  He moved down towards her, his feet dropping from step to step in slow purposeful strides as his eyes remained fixed on hers.

  ‘Unbelievable. You made it for Christmas.’ His voice was deeper but the familiar Australian accent tugged, causing unwelcome nostalgia to wash over her. He stopped just below the last step and stared. They didn’t move towards each other to hug or trade welcoming kisses. Despite her mother’s utopian views, she’d never regarded Dan as anything more than one of her mother’s foster children.

  ‘Sorry?’ Shelby met his eyes, a light eucalyptus green with a dark ring around each iris. Against the deeply tanned skin with the wild, salty dark hair he looked half wild and incredibly attractive.

  ‘I sent you an email every year inviting you to come home for Christmas, saying you were welcome,’ he reminded her.

  Now she remembered those emails. She’d thought about responding to them but never seemed to find the right words at the time. And before long something else had happened and they’d filtered to the bottom of her email folder never to be answered. She grimaced a little, embarrassed by her lack of manners.

  ‘And the first time I don’t send one, you turn up,’ he continued, folding his arms across his chest.

  Shelby’s heart dropped and she took a step back. ‘You didn’t?’ She’d been so wrapped up with Nelson that she hadn’t even noticed.

  ‘Nope. You weren’t invited this year,’ he said with finality. ‘Three strikes and you’re out.’

  ‘Oh.’ She glanced away from him, embarrassed to be standing in the front garden like a waif.

  He took a few steps closer. ‘I finally got the message, Shelby. You no longer consider us family.’ His words were harsh, unjustly so, and anger spiked inside her. She no longer considered him family because he wasn’t. Just like Deb and Sharon and Gary and the hordes of children her mother had fostered. Mum had loved them as her own but to Shelby they’d been intruders.

  At twenty-six years old, in the prime of her life, she had nowhere to go. Perhaps she should have cashed in that airline ticket, instead of trading business class for economy, and spent Christmas holed up in her apartment. It was only one stupid day of the year after all.

  But from the moment she’d held the ticket in her hand, shaken by Nelson’s actions, the idea of returning to Sydney for Christmas had tempted her. She’d closed her eyes and remembered the heat, and the pellucid light that made the colours of the water and the trees sing. She’d tried, and failed, to recapture in her mind the elusive fragrance of frangipani.

  She’d wanted, for the first time in years, to go home.

  ‘I’d better decide what to do then. Can I at least come inside out of the heat while I make some calls and work out where to go?’ She straightened her shoulders and gave a toss of her head, channelling the old confident Shelby.

  He continued to stare at her, and then seemed to reach a decision. ‘You’ll stay here, just as Kate would have wanted. There’s no need to find a hotel.’ He stepped forward and picked up the suitcase, his strong, tanned arm lifting it as though it weighed nothing.

  She swallowed slowly, conscious that she was an unwelcome guest only tolerated because of the love Dan had for her mother.

  He started back up the steps before turning again and looking down at her, his green eyes glinting in the golden rays of the sun. ‘I don’t know why you’re here, Shelby, but you’re welcome.’

  ‘You can sleep in here.’ He pushed the door open and stood back while she entered the upstairs front bedroom. It had been her mother’s and Shelby held back the emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. But it was all different now. Mum hadn’t been one for decor. She’d been too busy with kids and social work. The old wardrobe, its doors hung with scarves and beads, had gone, as had the clutter on the mantelpiece and the chairs brimming with clothes she hadn’t had the time or inclination to put away. What would she have made of Shelby’s LA apartment, with its neat rows of designer shoes and the carefully maintained wardrobe?

  It needed children, that’s what her mother would have said.

  Now the room was painted cream. The old floral drapes had been replaced with floor-length plantation shutters in the same blue-grey as the exterior woodwork, and they stood open to the front veranda and the breathtaking view over the harbour. A bed covered in rumpled, charcoal-coloured linen protruded from the wall facing the windows and personal belongings were arranged along the mantelpiece. Shoes were lined up under the base of a clothes trolley neatly hung with shirts and trousers. It was a peaceful, masculine space without the carefully designed Rodeo Drive-style sophistication of Nelson’s bedroom. It smelled of deliciously warm, salty harbour breezes, as though the windows were never closed but open to the elements all day.

  She stopped short then turned, her pulse kicking up a notch. ‘This is your room. What about all the other bedrooms?’

  ‘No beds. I’m renovating the house and it’s easier without a lot of unused furniture in t
he way.’ He was waiting for her to enter but his proximity paralysed her, making her aware of him as she’d never been years ago.

  ‘I’m not going to —’ She broke off, embarrassed by what she’d almost suggested, but he grinned, clearly amused at where her mind had gone.

  ‘Relax. You’re safe. I’ll sleep on the boat.’ He started to move forward, giving her no option but to move as well.

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ she said, and as he passed her, rolling the suitcase to the far side of the room, he turned and arched a sceptical brow. ‘I just meant that I couldn’t put you out of your room.’

  He gave her a lopsided grin as though he could see her mind scrambling to find an alternative explanation for what she had clearly meant. She searched for another topic of conversation. ‘You have a boat?’

  ‘It’s moored down in Careening Cove.’ He moved towards the bed and with quick motions stripped the sheets from it, then dragged a pillow towards him and started tugging at the pillowslip. ‘Don’t get too excited, princess, it’s just an old 28-footer that needs a lot of work.’

  His movements were deft as he efficiently stripped the bed. He finished with the other pillow and crossed to the dresser, opened a drawer and pulled out a set of clean sheets. He tossed them on the bed then gathered the pile of discarded linen and started towards the door.

  ‘You know where the bathroom is. Fresh towels where they always are. Settle in and come down when you’re ready. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  And just like that, Shelby was home.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Well, this was a turn-up for the books. Dan spooned tea into the pot and waited as the kettle boiled. Out of the blue, after six years of deafening silence (apart from a fleeting, ghost-like appearance at her mother’s funeral), Shelby was home.

  Or was she? Annoyed by the whisper of doubt that already had him by the throat, as if he cared, he jammed the lid of the tea caddy down and huffed out a breath.

  It didn’t matter. It had nothing to do with him. She had nothing to do with him or the family. She’d made that clear when she’d hightailed it out of Sydney, heading for the big time. She’d written to her mother, of course, but the rest of them had meant nothing to her.