HOT PURSUIT
HOT
PURSUIT
REBECCA FREEBORN
First published in 2018 by Pantera Press Pty Limited
www.PanteraPress.com
Text Copyright © Rebecca Freeborn, 2018
Rebecca Freeborn has asserted her moral rights to be identified as the author of this work.
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This is a work of fiction, though it is based on some real events. Names, characters, organisations, dialogue and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, firms, events or locales is coincidental.
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ISBN 978-1-921997-85-3 (Paperback)
ISBN 978-1-925700-96-1 (eBook)
Cover and Internal Design: Nada Backovic
Cover Images: © iStock
Editor: Lucy Bell
Proofreader: Desanka Vukelich
Typesetting: Kirby Jones
Author Photo: Welcome to the Fold, wttf.com.au
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For George, who loves a kick-arse
female lead as much as I do.
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Acknowledgements
About Rebecca Freeborn
CHAPTER ONE
The synthetic, metallic beat drove relentlessly into my head. I stared into the depths of my gin and tonic looking for the answer to the question that’d plagued me for the last three months: how does a smart chick in a committed relationship end up broke, single and sozzled in a pretentious South Yarra bar? The ice just glinted back at me in the half-light. The lime wedge, macerated by the vicious stabbings of my straw, floated on top.
‘You’re no help at all,’ I mumbled into my glass.
‘That must be some drink you’ve got there.’ The voice, with its lyrical Scottish accent, was an unwelcome interruption to my self-pity. I threw a heavy wave of my hair over my shoulder and frowned at the guy on the other end of the couch, ready to shut him down with a well-timed rejection.
But his face was open and friendly, and the smart retort I’d prepared died on my lips. ‘I’m not having a very good night.’
He shuffled along the couch towards me. ‘Why are you out if you’re not having a good time?’
I glanced at him in surprise. It’d been at least two years since a guy had tried to pick me up. Not since… well, the less said about that the better. Back then I’d been single and hot, before I fell in love with James and happily let myself go. Recent heartbreak had taken care of the few spare kilos, but I still wasn’t feeling quite on my game, despite the low-cut top and push-up bra my best friend Lana had insisted I wear.
I wasn’t looking for a rebound boy, but I had to admit, the attention of a cute Scottish guy could be a welcome diversion in my present circumstances. James dumped me, after all. I didn’t owe him my fidelity. And wasn’t picking up a stranger in a bar a mandatory part of the healing process?
‘My friends dragged me out to cheer me up,’ I said.
‘How’s that working out for you?’
‘They’re having a great time.’ I gestured across the room at my three friends, who were tearing it up on the dance floor. We watched as they writhed in time to the music, their arms above their heads, skirts riding up their thighs.
Lana looked over, checked out my companion, then gave me an exaggerated double thumbs-up. My face grew hot. Jeez, Lana, why don’t I just tattoo AVAILABLE! across my forehead? I shot an embarrassed look at him, but he just chuckled and threw back the last mouthful of his beer. An awkward silence followed and just as I was thinking my desperado status had put him off, he spoke again. ‘So why do you need cheering up?’
I snuck another look at him. His face was worn and tired-looking, but its angular lines, garnished with a generous layer of stubble, were striking in the bluish light of the bar. His dark blond hair was messy and stood straight up as if he’d sat with his head in his hands for a long time, and his leather jacket was cracked and old. He certainly didn’t fit the stereotypical image of the metrosexual men who usually haunted this kind of place.
‘My boyfriend dumped me,’ I said. ‘Not only that, but he left me with the mortgage on our house and pissed off interstate.’
He whistled. ‘Ouch, that’s harsh.’
This small expression of sympathy, combined with the copious amount of alcohol I’d consumed, dissolved the last of my resistance. And I was far from immune to a man with an accent.
‘We’d stretched ourselves to afford the house in the first place,’ I went on, ‘and now I’m trying to keep up with the
