From Paradise...to Pregnant!. Kandy Shepherd
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For a long, still moment their eyes held.
The intensity of his gaze reminded her of Mitch as a student, determined to understand the subject she was helping him to master. Back then he’d been reading a page in a poetry book; right now it felt as if he was reading her face as his gaze searched her eyes, her mouth.
In turn she explored his face. His chiseled face. His strong jaw. The knowing glint in his green eyes framed by those too-expressive eyebrows. And his mouth, which lifted to a half-smile that gave a promise of pleasure and that made her own lips part expectantly, her breath quicken.
Her eyes locked with his and a thrill of anticipation tingled through her.
Mitch Bailey was about to kiss her. And she was going to kiss him right back.
From Paradise…to Pregnant!
Kandy Shepherd
KANDY SHEPHERD swapped her fast-paced career as a magazine editor for a life writing romance. She lives on a small farm in the Blue Mountains near Sydney, Australia, with her husband, daughter and a menagerie of animal friends. Kandy believes in love at first sight and real-life romance—they worked for her!
Kandy loves to hear from her readers. Visit her website at www.kandyshepherd.com.
To my husband, James, for the trip to Bali and the answers to my endless questions about “The Beautiful Game.”
Contents
ZOE SUMMERS KNEW she wasn’t beautiful. The evidence of her mirror proved that. Plain was the label she’d been tagged with from an early age. She wasn’t ugly—in fact ugly could be interesting. It was just that her particular combination of unruly black hair, angular face, regulation brown eyes and a nose with a slight bump in the middle added up to pass-under-the-radar plain.
After a particularly harrowing time in her life, spent at the basement level of the high school pecking order, she’d decided to do something about her unremarkable looks. Not a makeover, as such—rather, she’d aimed to make the best of herself and establish her own style. Now, at the age of twenty-seven, Zoe Summers was known as striking, stylish and smart. She couldn’t ask for more than that.
As a consequence of her devotion to good grooming she’d spent some time every day of her vacation on the beautiful tropical island of Bali in the spa of her luxury villa hotel.
Back home, fitting in beauty treatments around running her own accountancy and taxation business could be problematic for a self-confessed workaholic. Here, a programme that included facials, exfoliation, waxing, manicure and pedicure fitted right in with her mission to relax and replenish. And all for less than half the price of what it would cost in Sydney.
Late on the fourth and final afternoon of her vacation, she lay face-down on a massage table in the spa and let the masseuse work her skilled magic on the tight knots of tension in her shoulders. Bliss.
As she breathed in the soothing scents of sandalwood, frangipani and lemongrass her thoughts started to drift. She diverted them from anything to do with her business and the decisions she still had to make. Or from the very real concern that her cat had gone on hunger strike at the cat boarding place.
Instead she pondered how soon after her massage she could take a languorous swim in the cool turquoise waters of the hotel’s lagoon pool. What to choose for dinner at one of the many restaurants in Seminyak. Should she buy that lovely batik print sundress in the nearby boutique? Or the bikini? Or both? The price tags bore an astonishing number of Indonesian rupiah, but in Australian dollars they were as cheap as chips.
She sighed a deep sigh of contentment and relaxed into that delicious state somewhere between consciousness and sleep.
When the massage table began to vibrate she thought at first, through her blissed-out brain, that it was part of the treatment. But then the windows rattled and the glass bottles of scented oils and lotions started to jiggle and clank. When the bottles crashed to the stone floor she jumped up from the table in alarm.
She knew before her masseuse’s cry of, ‘Earthquake!’ what was happening.
It was an effort to stay on her feet when the floor moved beneath them like the deck of a boat on choppy waters. No use trying to hold on to the walls, because they seemed to flex inward. The masseuse darted under the protection of the wooden table. Zoe did the same.
She