Man About The House. Alison Kelly

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      PROLOGUE

      THE customs officer who’d welcomed the previous passenger into the country with minimum fuss, despite grubby jeans, a bare chest and tatty leather waistcoat, was becoming more and more pedantic in his inspections of Brett’s Louis Vuitton luggage. And on the tail-end of a delay plagued flight from LAX Brett was becoming more and more anxious to get it over with.

      ‘Fair go, mate,’ be said irritably. ‘Do I look like a sleazebag drug courier?’

      ‘I couldn’t say, sir,’ the man informed him, his face expressionless as he flicked his eyes over Brett’s crumpled designer sports coat. ‘But the sniffer dogs didn’t seem to think so.’

      Despite himself, Brett grinned at the subtle, ironic humour of the man’s response. He’d missed the Australian trait of blending dry, cheeky wit with a perfectly straight face during the four years he’d been in the ‘let’s-do-lunch’ capital of the world. The small, unexpected dose of it now reminded him he’d re-entered the pretention-free zone of home.

      After the hectic pace of his LA existence as producer of a cable TV lifestyle show, in a business climate that worshipped over-achievers and workaholics, Brett was more than ready to embrace the more laid-back attitude of his home country. For all that the television and film industries in Australia operated on only a fraction of the budgets available to their North American counterparts, the commitment of those involved seemed more, not less, professional. There was no way the star of an Aussie television series would arrogantly not turn up for work until his salary was doubled, because there was no way network executives would cop for that kind of prima donna behaviour.

      Okay, so coming home meant he was going to be earning less, but conversely he’d be less stressed and in a better position to re-evaluate the current state of his life and what was important to him. Thirty-four seemed like a good age to do this, especially since he’d wasted the last three years of his personal life on a live-in relationship with a former-model-wannabe-TV-presenter who’d cared more about what he could do for her career than she had for him.

      He groaned mentally when the image of Toni Tanner popped into his head, vowing that in the wake of the pouty, manipulative, china-smashing shrew he’d stupidly imagined himself in love with the only women he wanted in his immediate future were his twin sister, Meaghan, her daughter, Karessa, and his mother.

      When the customs clerk finally cleared СКАЧАТЬ