Needed: Her Mr Right

Perhaps her driver had already turned it in to the taxi company’s lost property. She could phone them, ask all their drivers to check their vehicles…offer a reward.

Excited by fresh hope, she rushed to her telephone.

Ryan piled his suitcases, snowboard and laptop in the middle of his living room and looked about him. It felt strange to come home to his flat after so long away.

Professional cleaners had been in and left the place super-tidy and smelling of artificial room freshener and disinfectant. Devoid of character.

Sad truth was, his home didn’t really feel like home without a fine layer of dust over the furniture and a scattering of newspapers, books and at least three dirty coffee mugs.

He yawned again—a jet lag induced yawn so huge he almost cracked his jaw.

He needed a coffee.

Damn. With a groan, he realised that his cupboards were bare. The tenants hadn’t left anything—even the sugar bowl was empty.

To add to his annoyance, his mobile phone rang.

Ryan almost ignored it but, a split-second before it rang out, he relented and answered.

“Hello?”

“So you’re home son.”

“Hi, Dad.” Ryan’s stomach sank. An interrogation from JD the minute he arrived home was the last thing he needed. “I’ve just walked in the door.”

“So, what are your plans now? Now that the London venture’s fallen through.”

Fallen through? The old man had such a sweet turn of phrase—and an incredible capacity for ignoring the facts. As if JD didn’t know that it was his insensitive interference from the other side of the world that had forced Ryan’s resignation.

“Uh—I haven’t made any definite plans yet, Dad. I’m going to take a little time out. To regroup.”

“Regroup? What kind of rubbish is that? You need a plan, Ryan. A business plan. That’s your problem, you know.”

You’re my problem, Ryan almost snapped. His father couldn’t leave him alone. But if he told JD that, he’d leave himself wide open for a tirade.

He got one anyway.

“It’s high time you did something about your lifestyle, Ryan. You’re still drifting aimlessly. No focus. No goal. You’re past thirty, son, and still a hack journalist.”

For crying out loud.

“You know you should be in management by now. Running budgets, hiring and firing.”

Ryan held the receiver away from his ear as his father rattled on.

“I’ve had an idea that might suit you,” JD said. “It’s time you used the money in the trust fund your mother left you. Use it to buy up a little country newspaper. You would get one for a song. Get it up and running and then knock off the other papers in the region. Build quite a good business.”

Ryan groaned softly. “Thanks for the suggestion, but I’ve no intention of burying myself in some sleepy country town.”

“But for—”

“Dad, I’m taking a short break and then I’m going to concentrate on specialist writing. Features. Human interest. I’ll look up some of my old contacts at The Sydney Chronicle.”

“Surely you’re not going to crawl back to the rag where you started?”

“I can and I shall. I’m very happy with my life.” Ryan’s voice rose several decibels. “OK?”

He disconnected, felt drained. In recent years, hanging up in mid-conversation had been the only way to avoid an almighty argument with his father.

I’m very happy with my life.

It was almost true.

And that was more than JD could claim. His father might be an Australian success story, but he was into his third marriage and was still obsessed with wiping out his business opponents. Ryan couldn’t imagine ever finding pleasure from that.

JD owned a string of iron ore and gold mines and several cattle stations, a mansion in Perth, an apartment overlooking Sydney Harbour, an island in the Great Barrier Reef and a villa on the C?te d’Azur, but his billions had never bought him the kind of contentment that Ryan longed for.

Nevertheless, in his father’s eyes Ryan would always be a failure. Christopher, the elder son, was the Good Son, the golden child. He’d followed in JD’s footsteps, had acquired a Ph.D. in mining engineering, a beautiful trophy wife and two fine sons.

Ryan was the black sheep.

Most of the time he didn’t let it bother him. And yet…

He felt strangely alone.

Like a congenital defect, loneliness had dogged him since childhood, since he’d first known he would never bask in the warmth of his father’s approval.

And right now he was tired. Physically and emotionally. But he knew from experience that it was best after a long international flight to grit it out until night time before hitting the hay.

He really needed coffee.

With not a coffee bean in sight, he opted for Plan B. He would head for Stratos’s cafе. He could spend the afternoon there, surrounded by Sydneysiders, drinking endless cups of coffee.

Picking up his coat, he felt the weight of the girl’s book in the pocket.

He felt the grain of the leather cover beneath his fingers and then, as he took the diary out and set it on the bookcase, he thought about its owner. Remembered her tentative smile, her lovely eyes.

He should do something about getting this back to her. But the conversation with his father had destroyed his sense of gallantry.

Maybe tomorrow. Right now, he needed coffee.

CHAPTER TWO

SIMONE couldn’t sleep for worrying about her diary, couldn’t believe she’d lost it. She’d called the cab company but there was no report anywhere of it being handed in. She was terribly afraid that the diary had disappeared for ever.

But where was it? Had someone found it? Would they bother to read it? Would they ever link it to her?

The cab company had asked her to leave her name and a contact number, but she’d been too afraid to reveal her identity. What if her story was leaked to the press?