‘When?’ she asked.

‘Just before I left Dubai. Don’t ask me what time it was. I’ve crossed so many time zones in the last twenty-four hours I don’t know what day it is.’

She didn’t bother to enlighten him, but opened the door to her apartment, dropped the keys on the table, kicked off her shoes and tossed her coat over a chair. The red light on her answering machine was flashing, giving credence to his story. She ignored it.

‘It wouldn’t have made any difference what time you called. I haven’t been home since six-thirty-’

‘Jeez, Lou, what kind of bloke do you think I am?’ She found the energy to raise an eyebrow. ‘No, honestly,’ he protested, ‘it was earlier than that. You might have had a hot date or something.’

‘It was the or something,’ she assured him. ‘When I said six-thirty, Cal, I meant six-thirty this morning.’

‘You went to work dressed like that?’

He didn’t wait for her denial, but whistled appreciatively at the clinging ankle-length dress she was wearing, chosen solely because it didn’t wrinkle, even when it had spent all day rolled up in the bag she used to carry the essentials when she had to change on the job.

‘You’re welcome to stay,’ she said, because he was family, sort of, ‘but whatever you want, I’m afraid you’re going to have to fend for yourself. I’m going to bed.’

‘I’ll take that,’ he said, grinning broadly.

She finally cracked and laughed.

‘No, really,’ he assured her. ‘I’m happy to share. I can see you’re too tired to make up the spare bed.’

‘In your dreams, Cal.’

‘I’ve brought you a comfort package from Jodie,’ he said, fishing out a padded envelope from his backpack.

‘Jodie? How is she?’ She missed her sister so much. Would phone her in the morning. ‘And Heath?’

‘Good.’ Then, ‘Double chocolate Tim Tams?’ he said, waving the package temptingly in her direction.

‘Really?’ But no, she was not going to encourage him. ‘Sorry, I’ve found a local supply.’

‘You’re kidding? Who’d have thought the Poms were that bright? What about DVDs of the latest episodes of Beach Street? I’ll bet you can’t get those two for the price of one at your local supermarket. Jodie tells me that you’re an addict.’

While it was true that she had become…engaged…by one of the Aussie soaps while she was staying with her sister, she wasn’t prepared to admit it.

‘It’s the spare room or nothing. If you want the bed made, you’re going to have to do it yourself.’

‘Fair enough,’ he said, grinning. Totally unashamed. ‘You can’t blame a bloke for trying.’

Wrong bloke, she thought.

‘You know the way, Cal. Don’t disturb me before noon unless the building is on fire.’

An insistent ring on the doorbell dragged her from a dream in which Max had been kissing her. He’d started at her toes and it was just getting interesting…No, that was an understatement. It was already interesting. It was just getting…

‘All right, all right…’ she muttered as the doorbell rang again, pulling on a wrap, staggering to the door to press the intercom.

‘Yes?’

‘Louise, it’s Max.’

‘Max?’ She felt herself blush from the toes up.

‘Didn’t you get my message?’ he asked, while she was still trying to get her brain around the fact that he was here, at her door, when her subconscious was telling her that he was in her bed…

‘What message?’ Then, rubbing her hands over her face in an attempt to wake herself properly, ‘No, don’t tell me, just come up.’ She buzzed him up, blinking the sleep out of her eyes as she checked the time. Eleven-thirty?

She was half an hour short of dream time, but on the other hand she did have the reality.

She yawned, eased her aching limbs, filled the kettle, switched it on. ‘I’m in the kitchen,’ she said, when she heard the door.

‘Ah.’

She turned and was for a moment transfixed.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Max in anything but a dark suit, or dinner jacket. Wearing a pair of washed-out jeans, an open-neck shirt, soft leather bomber jacket, he looked so much more like the boy she’d once worshipped.

They’d been such friends, had always had such fun until her hormones had got in the way.

She’d missed that so much. Missed him.

Her life, she realised, had never been quite so joyful, quite so sunny, since she’d fallen in lust with him and, too young to hide her feelings, had destroyed something truly special. She ached for that lost innocence. Ached for his friendship…

She swallowed. ‘Ah?’ she repeated.

He grinned. ‘The answer is clearly no. You didn’t get my message.’

‘Er, no.’ She glanced at the answering machine, its red light winking. Frowned as something nudged at her memory.

‘Did I get you up?’

‘What?’ Then, realising how she must look-not so much Saturday casual, as Saturday slob in an old Chinese silk dressing gown hanging open over the baggy T-shirt she favoured for sleepwear, no make-up and her hair standing on end-she belatedly pulled the wrap around her for decency’s sake and tied the belt. Ran a hand self-consciously over her hair in an attempt to smooth it down.

‘I had a late night,’ she said, unhooking a couple of mugs from the rack. ‘It’s Saturday, for goodness’ sake!’

What she did in her own time was none of his business.

Unlike what she did in her dreams…

‘Don’t be so defensive, Lou. You’ve had a long week. How did the launch go last night?’

‘Defensive?’ Yes, defensive. When had that become her default mode when dealing with Max? She shook her head. ‘Sorry. Why don’t you just tell me what you said?’ she suggested.

‘Something along the lines of “Why don’t we have lunch at the Chelsea restaurant tomorrow to discuss how we’re going to handle the Meridia trip? I know you’re busy so don’t worry about calling back unless the answer’s no…”’

He opened his hands, inviting her response.

Thoughtful, fun…

‘Ah,’ she said.

‘Maybe we could make that brunch? If we have it here you wouldn’t have to get dressed.’

Brunch in bed…

No, no, no…

‘Um, maybe,’ she said, brushing at her cheek as if she could somehow rub away a rerun of the blush. ‘I don’t know what I’ve got in. I’ve been too busy to shop.’

‘Eggs?’ he suggested, apparently oblivious to her heightened colour, more interested in the egg basket hanging from the overhead rail. ‘Why don’t I whip up something while you take your time and wake up?’ he suggested, apparently catching on to the fact that she wasn’t quite with it.

One of the perks of coming from a family in the restaurant business; everyone had to put in some time in the kitchens and the men didn’t think it beneath them to cook.

She found herself smiling. Really smiling. ‘That would be nice,’ she said. And realised that she meant it.

‘Scrambled do you? Coffee?’

‘That sounds good,’ she said, then, afraid that she was grinning like an idiot, she ducked away, reached for the basket, then yelped as pain shot through her scalp as Max had the same idea.

‘Oh, damn! Hold on, your hair is caught in my cuff. Don’t move,’ he said, unnecessarily, as he lowered his wrist to unravel it, making things worse.

‘Don’t pull!’

‘Sorry. Here…’ He lifted his arm, leaned into her, pinning her against the table with the weight of his body as he eased the tension on her hair.

Off balance and held fast, her face pressed into his shoulder, she had no option but to keep still while he tried to work it free, forced to breathe in the scent of leather, freshly laundered linen, something else-nothing that had come from a bottle. Something indefinably male. Memorably Max.

‘What’s taking you so long?’ she mumbled into his shoulder, in danger of drowning in Max-scented air.

‘What?’ Then, ‘Hang on, I’ve nearly got it…’ And then she was free, except that his arm was round her now. And he hadn’t moved. ‘Okay?’ he asked, looking down at her.

Your call, her inner temptress murmured. Go for it.

‘What?’ She shook her head. ‘No, I’m very far from okay,’ she snapped, pulling free and gasping in sufficient fresh air to wash out the scent of him, rubbing her hands over her arms as if to free herself of the memory of his touch. Then, nursing her tender scalp. ‘What kind of idiot are you?’

‘The idiot who offered to make you breakfast? As opposed to the idiot with half a yard of hair flapping about in the kitchen.’

‘Half a yard of…’ Words failed her, but not for long. ‘This isn’t one of your restaurant kitchens, Max-’

‘Our restaurant kitchens.’

She’d started off angry with herself, but this miserable attempt to wrong-foot her just made her mad at him.

‘This is my kitchen, my space. I don’t have to tie back my hair and put it in a net. When I’m here I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to.’

For a moment their eyes were locked in a combat of wills, the air crackling between them. Despite all the resolutions she’d made that week to be good, to be mature, if she’d had anything to hand other than the egg basket she’d have crowned him with it. Fortunately for him, she knew from experience just how much she hated cleaning up raw egg.

Maybe Max saw her dilemma, remembered the time she’d flung first and thought later, because without warning he began to laugh.

For a moment Louise couldn’t decide whether she was outraged or wanted to join him, but while she was thinking about it her mouth took off on its own and a hiccup of laughter escaped before she could slap a hand over her mouth to keep it in.

‘Just remember that I’m not some wet-behind-the-ears sous chef you can order around,’ she finally managed.

‘No?’

Without warning Max was not laughing, but reaching out for her, pulling her close, wrapping his arms around her, enfolding her in his warmth. Not taking his eyes off her as the heat of his athletic body began to seep into her bones.