New Year, New Man. Laura Iding

       CHAPTER TWO

      SARAH’S positive attitude towards Christmas lasted till she pulled her white car into the driveway the following morning and saw Nick’s bright red sporty number parked outside the garages.

      ‘Darn it,’ she muttered as she pressed the remote to open the electronic gates.

      She’d presumed Nick would be out playing golf, as he always did every Saturday, come rain, hail or shine. Come Christmas Eve as well!

      If she’d imagined for one moment that Nick would be home, she’d have put on one of her sexy new sun-dresses this morning—probably the black and white halter-necked one that showed off her slender shoulders and nicely toned arms. Instead, she was sporting a pair of faded jeans and a striped yellow tank-top. Suitable clothes in which to decorate a Christmas tree. But not to impress a man, especially one who had a penchant for women who always looked as if they’d just stepped out of a beauty salon.

      Still, with a bit of luck, she might be able to sneak up to her bedroom and make some changes before running into Nick. The house was, after all, huge.

      Built in the 1920s by a wealthy mining family, Goldmine had been renovated and revamped many times since then. Its original stone walls were now cement-rendered white, with arched windows and lots of balconies, which gave it a distinctly Mediterranean look.

      Because of the sloping site, the house looked double-storeyed from the road, but there was another, lower level at the back where the architecture incorporated a lot of glass to take advantage of the home’s harbourside position.

      Actually, there weren’t many rooms in the house that didn’t look out over Sydney Harbour, the view extending across the water to the bridge and the opera house in the distance. On the upper floor, all the bedrooms had individual balconies with water views, the master bedroom opening out onto a walled balcony that was big enough to accommodate an outdoor table-setting.

      The enormous back terrace had the best vantage point, however, which was why it was always the place for Christmas lunch. Long trestle-style tables would be brought in, shade provided by huge canvas blinds put up for the day. Only once in Sarah’s memory, when the temperature soared to forty degrees, had the lunch been held inside, in the family room, the only room large enough to accommodate the number of guests who swamped Goldmine every Christmas Day from midday onwards.

      The tradition had been started by Sarah’s father and mother soon after they’d bought the house nearly thirty years ago, a tradition her father continued after her mother’s death, and which Nick seemed happy to honour in the years he’d been living there.

      Of course, the cynic in Sarah appreciated that Christmas lunch at Goldmine was more of a business lunch these days than a gathering of family and long-term friends. Most of the guests at the table would be the people Nick did business with, valuable contacts whose priorities were where the next few million were coming from.

      Sarah was under no illusion that Nick was any different from the types he mixed with. He liked money as much—possibly more—than they did.

      This last thought reminded Sarah of what Derek had implied over drinks last night: that Nick was taking advantage of his position as her guardian to live, rent-free, in her harbourside home. Although she’d defended Nick in this regard, Sarah had to concede that living in Goldmine was a huge social advantage. Not so much because of its size—some of the neighbours’ homes were obscenely large—but because of its position. There was no doubt that having such an address had benefited Nick no end in the business stakes. Which was why he wanted to buy the place.

      The gates finally open, Sarah drove through and parked next to Nick’s car. She frowned over at it, still perplexed that he hadn’t gone to golf today.

      Thinking about golf, however, reminded her of the Christmas present she’d bought him. It was a set of miniature golf clubs, with the club heads made in silver, the shafts in ebony and the bag crafted in the most beautiful red leather. She’d bought it on eBay and it had cost several hundred dollars, more than she usually spent on him.

      The moment she’d seen it, she’d known Nick would like it.

      But would he think it odd that she’d bought him something so expensive?

      She hoped not.

      Sarah grimaced when she realised he might think it even odder that she hadn’t bought her new ‘boyfriend’ anything at all. Which she hadn’t. She and Derek had discussed when he was to arrive tomorrow and what to wear, but they hadn’t thought of presents.

      Sarah sighed, her confidence about this subterfuge beginning to drop.

      Not that it mattered all that much. She couldn’t seriously expect to achieve the miracle of having Nick suddenly look at her and be carried away on a wave of uncontrollable desire. Why should that happen now, after all these years? It wasn’t as though she hadn’t dolled herself up for him before. She had. With absolutely no results at all.

      The truth was she obviously wasn’t his type. Even with her normally lush curves pared down to the bone, she’d never look or act like the kind of girlfriend Nick inevitably chose and obviously preferred: not only super-slim, but also super-chic and super-sophisticated.

      A kindergarten teacher just didn’t cut it with Nick, even with a future fortune attached. If anything, that she was her father’s heiress was probably a turn-off for him. Nick would not like any reminders that he wasn’t entirely a self-made man. Or the fact that she’d known him when he was a nobody.

      With every new girlfriend, Nick came with a clean slate.

      Sarah had no doubt he hadn’t told this latest girl, Chloe, that he’d ever been in jail. Or that his ward’s father had been a very generous benefactor. She felt sure Nick always represented her father these days as a long-term friend, thereby explaining his guardianship of her.

      Sarah accepted these brutally honest thoughts