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      CHAPTER ONE

      AT LEAST SHE was going to die in spectacular fashion.

      Chloe Montgomery clenched her fingers around the tacky tar-smelling rope and tried to imagine that she wasn’t suspended who knew how high? above the pitch-black auditorium in one of Melbourne’s finest entertainment venues.

      A rough knot below her feet scratched her bare soles. The way-too-small-barely-there costume dug into her ribs, making breathing almost impossible—especially when every shallow gasp could be her last.

      ‘You’ll be fine, Chloe,’ the guy behind her whispered as he made a final adjustment to the slim safety harness at the back of her waist. ‘Trust me, you’ll be the highlight of the evening’s entertainment.’

      ‘Trust you …’ Her voice came out reed-thin, a touch hysterical and barely audible above the rushing sound in her ears. How was she going to get one note of Happy Birthday out when her throat was closing over? She was no singer at the best of times.

      ‘Ready?’ the guy murmured.

      ‘Mmm-hmm,’ she managed between tightly pressed lips. What insane reasoning had convinced Chloe that she was up for this—in any way?

      Because she wanted—needed—to prove to her new boss that she was an asset to her event-planning business. No task too hard, no unforeseen circumstance she couldn’t handle.

      So when the artist booked for the event was involved in a car accident on the way here, Chloe had stepped up to the plate—or, in this case, the rope. And if everything went as planned, she’d be lowered onto the birthday boy’s lap, kiss him on the cheek, someone would be there to unfasten her harness and she could escape to the venue’s kitchens, challenge met and dignity intact. Dana would be only too grateful and impressed and desperately keen to take on such a valuable, flexible employee full-time.

      A single spotlight exploded into life, blinding her with its brilliance and holding her captive in its hot white light. The audience’s hushed murmur of anticipation rose into the stratosphere and she could feel every pair of eyes focused on her. Chloe, who’d spent her life trying and mostly failing to be someone people noticed, was finally the centre of attention.

      A pity she was going to be remembered for all the wrong reasons.

      Thought fled as the rope shuddered and began its descent. You’re supposed to sing, she reminded herself. Find the target, focus on him. She squinted through the glare to the table directly beneath her. The cake, flickering with candles amongst champagne flutes, red foil stars and silver-ware, marked her destination.

      A man was staring up at her with a faint smile—or was it a smirk?—on his lips. Hard to tell in the spotlight’s dazzle but there was enough candle-glow to make out that they were, indeed, very nice lips. Forget the lips—imagine him naked—wasn’t that what people afraid of public speaking were supposed to do? It couldn’t hurt here either.

      Except that his wife had organised this surprise. Which reminded her she had a job to do …

      Clearing the constriction from her throat, she launched into a wobbly, out-of tune rendition of Happy Birthday, keeping her eyes pinned to his as she descended. Not imagining him naked. Much.

      Brilliant timing; she sang the last note as she reached table height and safety. She had to manoeuvre herself and the rope a little to ensure she landed on his lap. Her body prickled hot and cold all over when her barely covered bottom came into contact with a pair of rock-hard thighs, and she had to shift slightly to keep from falling off. Which would be easy to do because her whole body was trembling.

      Warm palms slid firmly to her waist to steady her and she stifled a gasp at the electrifying contact. How embarrassing. How wrong. She lifted her chin and met his gaze. Up close his eyes were blue. A piercing, blinding blue that, to her shame, melted her insides to mush. ‘Happy Birthday …’ she finished in her best Marilyn Monroe voice, then came to a breathless pause. What the heck was his name again? Oh, my, he was …

      Not available, Chloe.

      She leaned in to brush the expected kiss over his cheek, caught the whiff of his enticing masculine skin before his head turned and his lips were somehow on hers. Warm, firm. Friendly. Too friendly. Appalled, she peeled her lips away to stare at him. He stared back, those fascinating blue orbs sending all the wrong signals for a married man.

      ‘I’m not the birthday boy,’ he told her,