Deserted Island, Dreamy Ex

‘Which part? The part where you help Endorse This score the biggest client this year? Or the part where you’re virtually assured a promotion because of it? Discounting the chance to win a hundred grand, of course.’

Kristi shot Rosanna a death glare that had little effect, Ros’s smugness adding to the churning in the pit of her stomach.

She had no choice.

She had to do this.

If the promotion wasn’t incentive enough, the chance to win a hundred grand was. Meg deserved better, much better. Her sweet, naïve, resilient sister deserved to have all her dreams come true after what she’d been through.

Forcing an enthusiastic smile that must’ve appeared half grimace, she shrugged.

‘Fine, I’ll do it.’

‘Great. You’ve got a meeting with the producer in a few hours. Fill me in on the details later.’

Rosanna thrust the flyer into her hands, glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll get back to Channel Nine, let them know the latest.’

As Rosanna strutted towards the door Kristi knew she’d made the right decision, despite being shanghaied into it.

She’d worked her butt off the last six months, desperate for a promotion, and landing Channel Nine as a client would shoot her career to the stars.

As for the prize money, she’d do whatever it took to win it. No way would she accept anything less than Meg using every last brass razoo of it.

The promotion and the prize money; sane, logical reasons to go through with this. But a week on an island with a stranger? Could it be any worse?

As she rifled through the paperwork, Rosanna paused at the door, raised a finger.

‘Did I mention you’ll be stranded on the island with Jared Malone?’

CHAPTER TWO

Stranded Survival Tip #2

Be sure to schedule your mini-meltdown for off-camera.

JARED strode into North Bondi’s Icebergs and headed for Elliott’s usual table, front and centre to the glass overlooking Sydney’s most famous beach.

His mango smoothie was waiting alongside Elliott’s double-shot espresso, his mate nothing if not predictable.

When he neared the table, Elliott glanced up from a stack of paperwork, folded his iron-rimmed glasses, placed them next to his coffee and glanced at his watch.

‘Glad you could eventually make it.’

Jared shrugged, pointed at his gammy knee. ‘Rehab session went longer than anticipated.’

Elliott’s eyes narrowed. ‘Hot physio?’

‘Hot cruciate ligament, more like it.’

The familiar pinch of pain grabbed as he sat. ‘The cruciate healed well after the reconstruction but the ongoing inflammation has the medicos baffled.’

Elliott frowned. ‘You’re seeing the best, right?’

Jared rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, Mum.’

‘Putz.’

‘The putz that’s going to win you another of those film gongs you covet so much.’

Jared jerked a thumb at the pile of documents in front of him.

‘Let me guess. The usual disclaimers that anything I say or do on TV, you won’t be held responsible.’

‘Something like that.’

Elliott pulled the top document, slid it across the table towards him.

‘Here’s the gist of it.’

Jared barely glanced at the fine print, having already heard Elliott extol the virtues of his documentary at length.

Stranded on an island with a stranger for a week was the last thing he felt like doing, but if it convinced Sydney’s disadvantaged kids the Activate recreation centre was the place for them, he’d do it.

He’d spent the bulk of his life in the spotlight, his career and private life under scrutiny, providing fodder for the paparazzi. He’d hated it. Time to put all that intrusion to good use, starting with a week’s worth of free publicity money couldn’t buy.

Elliott’s award-winning documentaries were watched by millions, his cutting-edge work discussed by everyone; around water coolers, at the school gates, on the streets, everyone talked about Elliott’s topical stuff.

With a prime-time viewing slot, free advertisements would cost mega bucks so when Elliot had proposed his deal, he’d jumped at it. He’d much rather spend a billion on the centre and equipment than publicity.

Millions would see the centre on national TV, hear about what it offered, and hopefully spread the word. That was what he was counting on.

It was a win-win for them both. Elliott scored an ex-tennis pro for his documentary; Jared scored priceless advertising to tout the kids’ rec centre he was funding to the entire country.

‘So who’s the lucky lady?’

Elliott glanced towards the door, his eyebrows shooting skywards.

‘Here she comes now. And wow. You always were a lucky dog.’

Jared turned, curious to see who he’d be stuck with on the island. Not that he cared. He’d socialised on the tennis circuit for years, could fake it with the best of them. Easy.

But as his gaze collided with a pair of unusual blue eyes the colour of the cerulean-blue ocean of Bondi on a clear day, their accusatory gaze cutting straight through him, he knew spending a week on a deserted island with Kristi Wilde would be far from easy.

‘I’ll deal with you later,’ Jared muttered at a confused Elliott as Kristi strutted towards the table on impossibly high heels.

She’d always had a thing for shoes, almost as much as he’d had a thing for her.

‘Good to see you—’