CHAPTER THREE

      JESS WAS GLAD to get out of the house the following morning before her parents were up and about. Her mother had started going on and on the night before about her taking a risk, driving some stranger all the way out to Mudgee and back.

      ‘He might be a serial killer for all you know,’ she’d said at one stage.

      She hadn’t stopped with the doomsday scenarios till Jess had told her everything she knew about Mr Benjamin De Silva, including his being the son of a super-rich American businessman whose company had taken over several Australian firms, including Fab Fashions.

      ‘He’s not a serial killer, Mum,’ she’d informed her mother firmly. ‘Just a man with more money than sense.’

      To Jess’s surprise, her sometimes pessimistic father had taken her side in the argument.

      ‘Jess knows how to look after herself, Ruth,’ he’d said. ‘She’ll be fine. Just give us a call when you get there, love, and put your mother’s mind at rest. Okay?’

      She’d happily agreed to do so, but hadn’t trusted her mum not to start up again this morning, so she’d packed an overnight bag the night before, then risen early, giving her time to take some extra care getting ready. Under the circumstances, she didn’t want to look like a dag. Or a chauffeur, for that matter—so she’d already dismissed the idea of wearing her usual driving uniform of black trousers with a white shirt which had Murphy’s Hire Car emblazoned on the breast pocket.

      She did wear black trousers. Rather swish, stretchy ones which tapered in at the ankles and made the most of her long legs, combining them with a V-necked white T-shirt topped with a floral jacket which she’d made herself. Jess was an excellent dressmaker, having been taught how to sew by her gran. She dithered a bit over how much make-up to wear, opting in the end to play it conservative, using just a bit of lip gloss and a light brushing of mascara. Her clear olive skin did not really need foundation, anyway. She then scooped her thick, black hair back up into a ponytail, wrapping a red scrunchie around it which matched the red flowers in the jacket. Finally, she pulled on a pair of very comfy black pumps before bolting out of the house by six-thirty, a good twenty minutes before she needed to leave.

      The drive from Glenning Valley to Blue Bay would take fifteen minutes at most. Probably less at this time of day. She filled in some time having breakfast at a local burger bar, after which she drove leisurely towards the address she’d been given. Jess knew the area well. Whilst there were still lots of very ordinary weekenders around, any property on the beach front was worth heaps. Most of the older buildings which had once graced the shoreline had been torn down, replaced by million-dollar units and multi-million-dollar homes. Over the last decade, Blue Bay had become one of the places to live on the coast.

      It wasn’t till she turned off the Entrance Road into the long street which led down to Blue Bay that Jess felt the first inkling of nerves. Though normally a confident and rather outspoken girl, she suddenly realised it wasn’t going to be easy bringing up the subject of Fab Fashions with the man responsible for taking over the company. If truth be told, he would probably tell her to mind her own business. He also wouldn’t be pleased with the fact that she’d looked him up on the Internet.

      Maybe she should forget about the probably futile idea of trying to save Fab Fashions and just do what Mr De Silva had hired her to do—drive him out to Mudgee and back. Alternatively, maybe she would wait and see what kind of man he was; if he was the kind to listen or not. He hadn’t sounded too bad over the phone. Maybe a little frustrated, which was understandable, considering he’d just had a car accident and all his plans had gone awry. And he had asked her to call him Ben, which was rather nice of him. She almost felt guilty now that she hadn’t asked him to call her Jess in return.

      Jess wondered how old he was. Probably about forty, she guessed. If he looked anything like his father—there’d been a photo of Morgan De Silva on the Net—then he’d be short, with a receding hairline and a flabby body from a sedentary lifestyle and too many long business lunches.

      ‘Oh, dear,’ she sighed.

      Jess was no longer looking forward to today in any way, shape or form.

      After letting out the breath she’d been unconsciously holding, she started scanning the numbers on the post boxes, soon realising that the number she was looking for would be on the left and right down the end of the street. Truly, what else had she expected? The son of a billionaire wouldn’t be staying anywhere but the best.

      The sun was just rising as she approached a block of apartments which carried the right number and which, yes, of course, overlooked the beach. A man was already standing on the pavement outside the building. Beside him sat a black travel case on wheels, across which was draped a plastic zip-up suit bag.

      Jess tried not to stare as she pulled into the kerb beside him. But it was difficult not to.

      He wasn’t short with a receding hairline and flabby body. Hell, no. He was anything but. He was very tall and slim, with broad shoulders and the kind of well-chiselled face you saw on male models in magazines advertising aftershave or expensive watches. High cheekbones, a strong, straight nose and a square jawline. His hair was a light sandy colour, cut short at the sides and slightly longer on top, brushed straight back from that oh, so handsome face. His skin was lightly tanned, his eyes blue and beautiful. His clothes were more what she’d been expecting. Sort of. Dark-grey trousers and a long-sleeved blue business shirt which was open at the neck and which had a pair of sunglasses tucked into the breast pocket.

      Jess dragged her eyes away from him, switched off the engine, then climbed out of the car, her thoughts somewhat scattered. Who would have imagined he would be so good-looking? Or so young? He couldn’t be more than early thirties. Maybe even younger.

      ‘Mr De Silva, I presume?’ she asked as she stepped up onto the pavement less than a metre from him.