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him of his sister. She certainly didn’t look like Jane, more like some scruffy tomboy.
    He glanced up into the rear-vision mirror and slowed to allow a group of bikies to screech past him on a bend, their leather-clad knees almost scraping the tarmac.
    Idiots. A bit too close for comfort.
    Tom had no intention of getting close to anyone right now, least of all an accident-prone tomboy. He had no idea what he was going to do beyond the next contract. He’d be pushing himself to survive, pushing just to keep up with the demands of the job. Then she’d want something, fall over something, and need something, and if he couldn’t be there—well, it would be just like Jane all over again, wouldn’t it? Expectations he wasn’t able to fulfill. And he wasn’t going there again, not ever. Safer to stay away from needy females and responsibilities he was unable to live up to.
    The road wound up a steep track and then branched off into the driveway running along the crest of the hill. The eucalyptus trees in the valley below shimmered in the afternoon heat haze. He pulled up outside the white timber house, cut the engine, and jumped down onto the crushed sandstone driveway.
    Stretching, Tom looked around at the half-finished gardens and piles of mulch. Now the advertisement started to make sense. There was more than enough work to keep a few “strong, fit young men” occupied for a month or two. He grinned, remembering the phone conversation earlier. It sounded as though he’d be working for a woman. It would certainly be different, not a problem as long as she was only interested in the finished product and didn’t keep telling him how to do things.
    And here she is .
    Tom walked up, offering his hand and a massive smile.
    “Hi, I’m Hillary, you spoke to me on the phone.”
    He laughed as she batted her mascaraed lashes at him. “Hello, Hillary, good to meet you.”
    ***
    Twenty minutes later, Tom climbed back into the car, his mind racing. Not being a great believer in fate, he still reeled from the coincidences literally throwing Georgina into his path. First the wretched flowers —he shook his head, still bemused by his ridiculous overreaction to a bunch of proteas—then there was the wombat escapade —and now it seemed as though she’d be one of his employers. When Hillary had started to explain their joint business venture, it hadn’t occurred to him she was talking about Georgina, not until she had dropped the fact they’d pick up the truck at the protea farm and he’d asked who her partner was. He’d never really entertained the idea of working for one woman, never mind two. Still it looked like a bit of fun, and it would keep him out of trouble for a month or so and prevent him from having to offer his nonexistent hospitality skills to his brother.
    For the first time in longer than he cared to remember, he was actually looking forward to something.

Chapter Seven
    Georgie rummaged around underneath the protea bush, pulling weeds and trying to ignore the scratches from the pruned branches. Something heavy hit her back, forcing the air out of her lungs. She squealed and then fell, and her face planted in the dirt. Breathing deeply, she settled her palms flat on the ground and pushed herself up with a groan.
    “Morning. What are you up to? Looking for fairies at the bottom of your garden?”
    Georgie spun around and smiled, wiping a grimy arm across her forehead. “Hi, Hill. How are you?” She brushed her hands down the legs of her cargos, ignoring the long black streak of mud. “I’m sorry I wasn’t at your Pilates class this morning, but I didn’t sleep too well.”
    Liar, liar. Pants on fire.
    The old playground taunt echoed in her ears, but she couldn’t really tell Hillary she had slept like a zombie and woken up fired with energy after a night of uncontrolled dreams concerning one tall, dark, and lithesome man with glittering green eyes and a body to put a Greek god to shame.
    “Oh, it’s