From Paradise...to Pregnant!. Kandy Shepherd

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      Aftershocks. She knuckled her hand against her mouth to suppress a gasp; she didn’t want to appear too fearful. Not when Mitch seemed so laid back about the risk.

      He switched off the TV and turned to face her. Had he grown taller since she’d last stood so near to him? They were both in their bare feet. He seemed to stand about six-foot-one to her five-foot-five.

      Six-foot-one of total hotness.

      Mitch was an elite sportsman in his prime, and he had celebrity status with as many fans as any actor or musician.

      Her proximity to his bare chest was doing nothing to slow down her revved-up heartbeat. If she’d had a T-shirt big enough to stretch over all those muscles, she would have offered to lend it to him. But wouldn’t it be a crime to cover that expanse of buff body?

      She wanted to take a step back, but didn’t want to signal how disconcerted she felt by said buff body being so close to her. Instead she stood her ground and forced her voice to sound controlled and conversational.

      ‘So this region sometimes gets harmless tremors? That didn’t stop it from being frightening, though, did it?’ she said. ‘I huddled under the massage table, making all sorts of bargains with myself about what I’d do if I got out safely.’

      ‘What kind of bargains?’ he asked.

      ‘Spend more time with friends and less at work. Give more to charity.’ She shrugged. ‘Stuff that wouldn’t interest you.’

      His eyes were as green as she remembered them, and now they looked intently into hers. ‘How do you know they wouldn’t interest me?’ he said, in a voice that seemed to have got an octave deeper.

      A shiver of awareness tingled through her. Sexiest man alive, all right.

      ‘Our lives are so different. It’s like we inhabit different spaces on the planet,’ she said.

      ‘What do you think is my space on the planet?’

      ‘Spain? I believe you play for one of the top Spanish teams. I’ve never been to Spain.’

      ‘I live in Madrid.’

      ‘There you go. I still live in Sydney. Fact is, the air you breathe is way more rarefied than mine.’

      ‘I don’t know if that’s true or not. We’re both staying in the same hotel.’

      ‘My booking was a last-minute bargain on the internet. Yours?’

      He smiled. The same appealing, slightly uneven smile he’d had at the age of seventeen. ‘Maybe not.’

      ‘That’s just my point. You’re famous. Not just for being a brilliant football player but for being handsome, wealthy, and photographed with a different gorgeous woman on your arm every time you’re seen in public.’

      And they were all tall, blonde and beautiful clones of Lara, back in high school.

      ‘That’s where you have an unfair advantage over me,’ he said. ‘You’ve read about me in the media—seen me on TV, perhaps. That’s not to say what you’ve seen is the truth. But I know nothing about what’s happened to you since we were at Northside High.’

      ‘Because we occupy different space on the planet,’ she repeated, determined to make her point. ‘I went to another school after Northside, but I was still in Sydney. Away from school I hung out in the same clubs and went to the same concerts as other kids our age. But our paths never crossed again.’

      ‘Until now,’ he said.

      ‘Yes. It took an earthquake to shake us back into the same space.’

      He laughed, and she had to smile in response.

      ‘You’ve still got a quirky way of putting things. Seriously, Zoe, I want to know all about you,’ he said.

      His words were flattering, seductive. Not seductive in a sexual way, but in a way that tempted her to open up and confide in him because he sounded as though her answer was important to him. That she was important to him. Even aged seventeen he’d had that gift of being totally focussed on the person he was addressing.

      She realised it was highly unlikely she’d see Mitch again after today. He would go home to Madrid; she would fly back to Sydney. There was also a chance that a bigger earthquake might hit and the whole resort area would be wiped out. It was unnerving in one way—liberating in another.

      ‘How about we get that beer and then we can talk?’ she said.

      ‘About you?’

      ‘And you too,’ she said, finding it impossible not to feel flattered. ‘I’d like to hear about your life behind those media reports.’

      ‘If that’s what you want.’

      ‘I’m warning you: my life story will be quite mundane compared to yours.’

      ‘Let me be the judge of that,’ he said.

      ‘There are beers in the mini-bar,’ she said. ‘I’ve been on an alcohol-free detox since I’ve been in Bali and sticking with mineral water. Not that I drink a lot,’ she hastened to add.

      ‘I think getting out of an earthquake unscathed is reason enough to break your fast,’ he said, heading towards the fridge.

      He brought out two bottles of the local Indonesian beer, took off the caps and handed one to her.

      ‘Let’s take them out near the pool,’ she said, picking up one of the remaining glasses to take with her. The ceiling fans were circulating air around the rooms, but the air-conditioning didn’t appear to be back on yet. Besides, it felt too intimate to be alone in here with Mitch, and the king-sized bed was too clearly in view.

      It was only a few steps out to the rectangular lap pool, which was edged on three sides with plantings of broad-leaved tropical greenery. Two smart, comfortable wooden sun loungers with blue-striped mattresses sat side by side in the shade of a frangipani tree. A myriad of pink flowers had been shaken off the tree by the quake onto the loungers and into the water. The petals floated on the turquoise surface of the pool in picture-perfect contrast.

      In different circumstances Zoe would have taken a photo of how pretty they looked. Instead she placed the beer bottle and the glass on the small wooden table between the two loungers. She flicked off the flowers that had settled on one lounger before she sat down, her back supported, her legs stretched out in front of her. Thank heaven for all that waxing, moisturising and toenail-painting that had gone on in the spa yesterday.

      She felt very conscious of Mitch settling into the lounger on her right. His legs were lean, with tightly defined muscles, his classic six-pack belly hard and flat. Even she knew soccer players trained for strength, speed and agility rather than for bulky muscle. Come to think of it, she might know that from hearing him being interviewed on the subject at some stage...

      These villas were often booked by honeymooners, she knew. The loungers were set as close as they could be, with only that narrow little table separating them. Loved-up couples could easily touch in complete privacy.

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