A Trip with the Tycoon. Nicola Marsh

      CHAPTER ONE

      TAMARA RAYNE’S high heels clacked impatiently against the cobblestones as she strode towards Ambrosia, Melbourne’s hippest restaurant, a gourmet’s delight and the place where she was trying to get her life back on track.

      Her favourite butterscotch boots, patent leather with a towering heel—impractical yet gorgeous—never failed to invoke the stuff of her surname as plump drops splashed down from the heavens and lashed her in a stinging sheet.

      With her laden arms and no umbrella, she needed a mythical knight in shining armour. She’d thought she’d had him once in Richard. How wrong she’d been.

      Blinking back futile tears—wasted tears, angry tears—she pushed on Ambrosia’s door with her behind, staggering with her load, almost slamming into her knight.

      More of a pirate, really, a corporate pirate in a designer suit with rain-slicked dark hair, roguish blue eyes and a devilish smile.

      ‘Need a hand?’

      Definitely devilish, and used to great effect if the constant parade of women traipsing through Ethan Brooks’s life was any indication.

      ‘You’re back.’

      ‘Miss me?’

      ‘Hardly.’

      She hadn’t meant to sound so frosty but then, what was he doing? Flirting? She barely knew him, had seen him three times in the last year out of necessity, so why the familiarity?

      ‘Too bad.’ He shrugged, his roguish smile widening as he pointed to the bundle in her arms. ‘Do you want help with that?’

      Quashing the urge to take her load and run, she nodded. ‘Thanks.’

      He grunted as she offloaded the bag perched precariously on top of the rest. ‘What’s in here? Bricks for the new tandoori oven I’ve ordered?’

      ‘Almost as heavy.’

      Her voice wobbled, just a tad, and she swallowed, twice. It was the mention of the tandoori oven that did it.

      Her mum had loved tandoori chicken, had scored the chicken to let the spices and yoghurt marinate into it, had painstakingly threaded the pieces onto skewers before grilling, while lamenting the loss of her real oven back in Goa.

      Her mother had missed her homeland so much, despite living in Melbourne for the last thirty years of her life. It had been the reason they’d planned their special trip together: a trip back in time for her mum, a trip to open Tamara’s eyes to a culture she’d never known even though Indian blood ran in her veins.

      Thanks to Richard, the trip never happened and, while her mum had died three years ago and she’d come to terms with her grief, she’d never forgiven him for robbing her of that precious experience.

      Now, more than ever, she needed her mum, missed her terribly. Khushi would’ve been her only ally, would’ve been the only one she trusted with the truth about Richard, and would’ve helped her reclaim her identity, her life.

      Hot, bitter tears of regret stung her eyes and she deliberately glanced over Ethan’s shoulder, focusing on anything other than the curiosity in his eyes.

      ‘Can you take the rest? My arms are killing me.’

      She knew he wouldn’t push, wouldn’t ask her what was