One

      Ten weeks ago, Katerina Jackson had spent one night in bed with her best friend. And it had been absolutely amazing.

      Now, as she drove down the Captain Cook Highway, just before she got into Cairns, she was confronted with an image of the man in question, naked and smiling seductively down at her.

      Kat’s foot instinctively tamped on the brake, and she only just managed to avoid the car in front as it stopped at the red light. The burn on her cheeks went all the way down her body, ending in her thighs, where it pooled annoyingly in her groin. She looked up at the familiar massive billboard featuring Marco Corelli, the golden boy of France’s premier futball league and Marseille’s highest goal scorer in the club’s entire history.

      Well, he wasn’t exactly naked. The stacked Y-fronts left little to the imagination, though, as did his splayed hands across his low-riding waistband and the caption “Come and Feel My Skins.” But it wasn’t his ridged abs, popping biceps and the seductive Adonis line of muscle that disappeared into the low-riding underwear that heated her blood. It was that familiar, tempting come-here-so-I-can-have-my-way-with-you grin, the curve of his overtly lush bottom lip and the forbidden promise in those dark, sensual eyes. The way the camera had captured his hypnotic charm as he looked up from behind artfully tousled, rakish black hair, one curl lying teasingly across his forehead and cheek.

      She’d had to pass that damn billboard every morning for the past ten weeks, his perfect face staring knowingly down, as if he remembered every single thing he’d done to her that night. How he’d made her sweat, how he’d made her moan. How he’d made her pant.

      She snapped her gaze back to the road, glaring at the taillights as the traffic finally began to move.

      “God, I am so stupid,” she muttered in the air-conditioned silence. It was Marco, her best friend since high school. The arrogant former-soccer-star-turned-sports-commentator, the underwear-endorsing charmer, Mr. Flirt with a dozen different girlfriends. She was his best mate, secret keeper, sounding board, partner in crime. His plus one when he needed a date to some swish function. He was also her boss’s on-again, off-again boyfriend.

      She cast her mind back, sifting through her and Grace’s many conversations about Marco. Yeah, they’d definitely been off for a while before that night, so there was one less moral dilemma to worry about. Which just left the main two.

      Oh, she couldn’t just have sex with her best friend, noooo. She had to end up pregnant, too.

      If you could see me now, Mum. All your pretty, shiny dreams of your daughter having a perfect life, a perfect career. A perfect husband surrounded by perfect, healthy children.

      The sliver of pain sliced through her, drawing blood, before she effectively sealed up the wound and pulled into Channel Five’s parking lot. After flashing her ID to the guard, she parked, gathered her bag and strode into the studio. Then she tossed her bag in her office and checked her phone.

      Four missed calls, one from her friend Connor, three from Marco, plus a text message. Back in town. We need to talk. Drinks on the boat? M x

      She sighed then finally replied. Sorry, snowed under at work. Can’t get away. Plus there’s a cyclone warning, in case you haven’t noticed. K x

      After she sent it, she scrolled back to their texts from two months ago, a painful reminder that only rekindled her inner turmoil.