Know Your Heart: A New Zealand - Tracey Alvarez Page 0,19

a wide-eyed glance, and dragged out a sopping pair of yoga pants to hang in front of her lingerie. As if that helped to remove the image of Savannah wearing the white thong and nothing else.

By four, she’d finished wash-day and dragged out a folding lounge chair. She set it up beneath the wonky caravan awning facing his office window, of course, and stripped to a white string bikini. While spring in the sub-tropical Far North was warm, and today had proven to be a scorcher, he didn’t doubt that Savannah was working on more than a tan. Tilting up the brim of her enormous straw hat, she gave him a little finger wave and sat down, exposing a mile of smooth, creamy skin.

Glen fixed his gaze on the keyboard. If he only knew her as Savannah Payne, actress, he could combat this tug of attraction with the logic of knowing she was using her sexuality as a bludgeon to beat him into changing his mind. Problem was, he also knew her as Savannah Davis, a pretty seventeen-year-old who’d had her share of shitty family crises, and a girl who’d once looked at him with a my hero light in her eyes. But she clearly didn’t remember the night he’d saved her ass, and he didn’t intend to remind her of it since he’d never completely gotten over that girl.

The woman she’d grown into was proving just as troublesome to evict from his head.

By five, he’d given up any pretense of writing and elected to have an early dinner. He’d been cooped up inside, since the sun on the deck was too intense during the day, making it impossible to write out there. But by early evening, the sun would’ve sunk far enough behind the huge copse of kauri trees to leave the deck cool enough to work.

He uncovered the small gas grill and cranked it up, returning to the fridge to pull out a tray of marinated steak and a couple of locally made gourmet sausages. Nothing like barbecuing the hell out of some red meat to make a man forget his worries. Glen strolled onto the deck and set the sausages on the hot plate, the aroma of sizzling pork and spices causing his stomach to grumble. Picking up the tongs, he slanted a glance at Savannah’s eyesore of a caravan and in front of it, where she still lay stretched out on her chair.

He couldn’t see her face; the floppy sunhat and the pages of what he assumed was a script blocked his view. Her foot, crossed over her other ankle, tapped out a restless rhythm. His mind flicked back to her face as she’d watched him eat the muffin this morning. Was he cocky enough to think the desire in her eyes flared for him? No—though the heat of her stare when she’d stumbled onto him working shirtless that first evening was unmistakable. But add the lustful muffin drooling to her request for non-fat milk and her get-fit yoga hour…a little payback via temptation was in order.

Glen grinned—a somewhat evil grin, he imagined—and tossed the two fat steaks onto the barbecue. A hiss of garlic, Worcestershire sauce, and soy sauce marinade steamed into the air, drifting in the light breeze toward Savannah. The foot tapping got faster, and she squirmed on the thin seat cushion. For a fleeting moment he wished she was wriggling on his lap. A thought guaranteed to drive a man to the edge of insanity.

Thanks, but I’ll pass.

Savannah’s under-the-breath-muttering was audible even across the expanse of decking and lawn. She dropped the script and swung her long legs to the side of her chair, pouty mouth twisted into a grimace. Behind the over-sized sunglasses, he imagined her gaze hurled poison-tipped darts in his direction. She stood and stalked into the caravan. Moments later, the rattle of pots and pans drifted into his ears, and he turned his face toward the endless expanse of greenery so she wouldn’t see him smile.

Looked as if they were having a cook off.

Glen flipped the steaks then cracked open a beer. Sipping the cold brew, he ignored the noises coming from beyond his deck until the caravan’s squeaky axles alerted him to Savannah on the move. He turned his head in time to glimpse her with a salad bowl in one hand and flatware in the other, the long, floaty top thing she’d changed into swirling around her thighs. She fussed over her little outdoor table, setting