Book one in the His Bodyguard Series

In guarding Yves de Saint Nerin’s delectable body, Helen Collier is in severe danger of overstepping the agreed business arrangement…and losing her heart.

Yves de Saint Nerin is a man in trouble. Hounded by a vengeful business associate who has no qualms about attacking his family, he visits Australia in a bid to escape Leonid Alexandrov’s ruthless tactics. But, not leaving things to chance, he also hires a bodyguard and gets more than he bargains for in the form of accomplished martial artist, Helen Collier.

Restricted–18+ only

PUBLISHER: Total-E-Bound
LENGTH: Novel
ISBN: 978-1-907010-30-9
COVER ARTIST: Lyn Taylor

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.: Chapter One :.

This is the first chapter from GUARDING HIS BODY, available NOW! in E-BOOK and PRINT from Total-E-Bound!

“Was anyone hurt?”

Yves de Saint Nerin looked across the glossy expanse of his mahogany desk to his personal assistant. His expression grim.

“Non,” Guy Aubrac replied.

Yves’ blue eyes glittered. “Small mercies.”

He swivelled in his chair and looked out the glass wall that separated his study from the cold air outside. Below him, the street lights of Grenoble twinkled serenely, snaking through the small city like festive decorations, while almost all of the buildings’ lights remained dark. And why not? It was two o’clock in the morning after all.

He should be back asleep, Yves thought, not sitting here brooding and impotently planning revenge. Upstairs, his warm and rumpled bed beckoned, the only spot of relaxation in a day that had suddenly turned chaotic with the potential of a meltdown in his Amsterdam office. That was why he was still here in Grenoble, instead of Lyons where he had promised to be. He had averted disaster in the Netherlands only to court it back in France.

“Where are they now?” he asked of the glass, confident that Guy was still standing nearby. The young man had been his assistant for two years and was well used to how he ran his business and his life. Although, he conceded blackly, this urgent, early morning wake-up call was a bit unusual even for him.

“Your sister and family have moved to her husband’s chateau in Verneuil.”

Yves grunted. That was something else he was not entirely happy with. Surely Adrienne knew she could have come to him—after all, he was her elder brother. But instead, she and her twin babies had no doubt acceded to her husband’s wishes and sped their way to Theron’s extensive estate in the Champagne region.

This was yet something else for his brother-in-law to hold over his head. As if it wasn’t bad enough that he had already been accused of being aloof, boorish, and notably absent from his sister’s upbringing since the death of their parents, now Theron was going to accuse him of putting his sister and children at risk. Yves steepled his fingers and gazed out into the darkness. The problem was Theron was right.

He was due to spend the weekend with Adrienne and her toddler twins down in Lyons. But the emergency at Amsterdam had sprung up. Then this. He would get everything sorted out as quickly as possible then spend the weekend with Adrienne and the children, trying desperately to make amends. All under the cynical eye of her husband, Theron Dauzat, no doubt. Just the thought of it made Yves grit his teeth.

“What do the police say about the fire?”

“The accident investigation team is still on site,” Guy replied, his tone apologetic. “I’m sure they won’t come to any initial findings until later this morning.”

“It was arson,” Yves bit out. “The scoundrels know they can’t get me here, so they try for where they think I will be. Someplace a little less secure.”

“Oui, monsieur. That sounds, most probable.”

Yves spun the chair until he was once again facing the timber-faced warmth of his inner sanctuary. His icy blue gaze bored into the hazel depths of his assistant’s.

“It was Alexandrov, wasn’t it?”

Guy shrugged, a typically Gallic gesture, and opened his hands wide. “Monsieur, we can’t know for sure until–”

“It was Alexandrov, wasn’t it?” Yves interrupted, repeating his question more insistently this time.

The younger man admitted defeat with a tired nod of his head. “So it would seem.”

“And now, not content with accepting defeat on its own merits, he seeks to sway me by attacking my family.”

“As you say, monsieur.”

“And who will be next?” Yves wondered bleakly, more to himself than Guy. “Now that he has failed again, what other innocent will he target? Will he go after Theron’s vineyards, or the villages that surround them? My businesses in Paris and Grenoble? The charities I support? How can anyone remain safe while Alexandrov roams free?”

“If I may, monsieur, I doubt Leonid Alexandrov will go after your other interests. I believe this is personal.”

Yves frowned. “What makes you think so?”

“He only targeted your sister’s house in Lyons at a time when you were supposed to be there. If he was interested in hurting your interests or those close to you, he could have attacked Madame Dauzat’s at any time since you refused him your assistance, two months ago.”

Two months ago, when he thought he’d seen the last of that cunning businessman. He had been sure to have their final meeting in the heart of Paris, where there were lots of witnesses around, in case Leonid Alexandrov tried anything. But, even though the stocky Russian was angry, Yves thought the man had managed to control his obvious disappointment. After all, as he had told the other man at the time, a businessman couldn’t win every battle. Even he had lost deals in the past. Dealing with the loss had been a way of making himself stronger. Obviously, Alexandrov was not of that same opinion.

He hadn’t heard from the Russian in two months and thought the man must have moved onto other, greener pastures. He should have known better. Alexandrov didn’t like to lose. Well, Yves didn’t either.

“So you’re saying he’s after me, in particular?”

“It would seem so.”

Still, where did that leave him? Was he always going to have to look over his shoulder, wondering if the Russian would target him while he visited his family? Or his latest mistress? Was this all part of a bigger plan, to deprive Yves of his quality of life—his business, his family and female companionship?

Yves tapped his fingers impatiently on the smooth lacquered wood of his desk, while his gaze swept his study. This was his inner sanctum, where only Guy and the cleaning staff were allowed entrance. Tall, handcrafted timber shelves reached almost to the ceiling, crammed with books. In one corner, a large freestanding globe rested, looking magnificent in its carved oak frame. Persian rugs dotted the floor, bringing muted jewel colours to the room.

Ten years ago, when he bought the hillside property on the rocky slopes near La Bastille, the entire building could have almost fitted into the study. It was a humble hut with a magnificent view. And it was also extremely difficult to get to. The workmen and materials for Yves’ magnificent hideaway had to be brought in by helicopter, and they had toiled away for two years, building his vision of what a home should be.

Besides his study, the main building also contained the formal and living areas. Two wings sprouted on either side of the house, enclosing a courtyard with an elaborately hedged garden in front of a heated swimming pool. One of the wings belonged to Yves, the other was for his sister’s visits.

The house should have been pale and ornate, dominating the rocks next to the notorious La Bastille and the city of Grenoble, but Yves left such ostentations for other men. He made sure the stone used to construct his house came from the local region, so his home blended into the slopes of the mountain. With the exception of the lights that sometimes blazed from the windows, and the occasional helicopter that thumped overhead, the inhabitants of that French plateau could live their lives in complete ignorance of the wealthy man who lived on the treacherous incline above them.

Leonid Alexandrov knew he couldn’t strike at Yves while he stayed in Grenoble, or when he was surrounded by his security phalanx in Paris, so he had waited until opportunity presented itself, via Yves’ only sister, Adrienne, and the weekend he was scheduled to spend with them.

Yves eyes darkened as he remembered the past two hours—two of the longest he had ever lived through. The fire had sped through his sister’s house in Lyons in minutes, it seemed, but the smoke detector system had done its duty, and Theron, Adrienne and the twins had rushed to safety, while their home burnt to ashes.

Theron Dauzat had no doubt on whose shoulders blame fell, and it had been a little past midnight when the chirping of Yves’ mobile phone woke him from sleep. Only a handful of people knew his private number, and Yves had snapped to full wakefulness in a second, flinging the sheets to one side and picking up his phone. He’d pressed the talk button and heard Theron’s angry voice blasting down the line at him.

Yves didn’t even try to defend himself as his brother-in-law had vented every ounce of resentment and frustration at him.

“I don’t care who you are, Yves, but the spill-over from your life must stop,” Theron had finally told him, after stopping to draw a much-needed breath.

Yves had sat on the edge of the bed and let the other man give voice to his fears. Usually, nobody—man or woman—dared talk to him like that. But this was family, and family always had that right.

“Isn’t it enough that you neglected your sister for years–”

No, that had been too much, and Yves had been stung into a reply.

“Adrienne had the best education in Switzerland,” he’d shot back. “She was safe and secure, and she wanted for nothing.”

“Nothing, except for some affection from her rich brother. Besides the car, and the clothes and the jewellery, what else did you give Adrienne, Yves? Tell me.”

“I will not have this argument with you again, Theron,” Yves had answered grimly. “Have you called the police?”

Theron’s laugh had been slightly hysterical. “Rest assured that the fire-fighters and the police arrived long before I decided to make this call.”

“That’s good. I’m glad that Adrienne and the children are safe.”

“You’re not slipping off the hook that easily. If your sister isn’t confronted by salacious rumours of your mistresses—a different one each month—then she’s at the mercy of your unsuccessful business dealings. You may think your glib words of sympathy for my family mean something, but I know you better than you think.”

That, too, was an old jibe, made worse by the fact that Theron Dauzat, indeed, knew how men like Yves thought…because, until he’d married Adrienne, he had been one of those men himself. During the months of their courtship, it had been Yves who had repeatedly warned his sister to be cautious. He’d sent Guy on numerous errands to dig up the worst information on Theron so he could present his sister with inconvertible proof of the man’s unsuitability to be within a few feet of her, much less conversing, and dining—and other things—with her. Had Adrienne listened? No, of course she hadn’t, and Yves had grimly prepared himself for the worst. But, much to his surprise, Theron had proposed marriage and now, five years later, they seemed a very contented couple with two energetic sons. Yves still couldn’t believe how he had miscalculated that situation, much as he was doing now.

He had fully expected to hear from Theron that they were headed to Grenoble, and he’d even thought of putting his brother-in-law on hold while he made the necessary transport arrangements, but it looked like—once more—Adrienne had outmanoeuvred him, heading for her husband’s extensive estate in Champagne rather than coming to him. It had hurt to be presented with his sister’s obvious preference and that, too, had been the reason he’d allowed Theron to bluster. It was his fault. Much as he hated to admit it, his sister really was safer with her husband than she was with him.

The call had ended on an unsatisfactory note, but that hadn’t stopped Yves. Dressing quickly in a pair of loose pants and a casual linen shirt, he’d used the intercom to call Guy, who lived in a small self-contained chalet next to the main house when they were at Grenoble. Within half an hour—before the clock struck one o’clock—both men were in the study, reviewing what had happened.

Despite Theron’s assurances, Yves hadn’t rested until he had the head of the Lyons police department on the phone and had listened to what was being done while his sister’s house still smouldered. Part of him had wanted to rush to the city, even though there was nothing more he could do. The blaze was already a few hours old, Theron had removed his family to Champagne and the emergency services seemed to have everything well in hand. But Yves still hadn’t been satisfied and was about to call for a helicopter, when Guy had suggested that was perhaps what Leonid Alexandrov would have wanted.

“If he failed to get you in the fire, perhaps he has some thugs waiting for you, in case you decide to visit the scene in person.”

And so here he was at two o’clock in the morning, wide awake and staring morosely around his exquisitely decorated study while his sister headed for safety away from him.

“The chief of police knows my suspicions,” Yves told his assistant.

“They can’t do anything until the accident investigation team confirms the cause as arson,” Guy remarked.

“And in the meantime, Alexandrov is free to roam around and make my life a misery.” Yves’ drumming fingers turned into a fist that hit the desk’s surface. “Am I to remain hermetically sealed until this man is put behind bars?”

“That would be the safest,” Guy murmured, then grimaced as he saw the thunderous expression on his employer’s face. “Although not very practical.”

“Wherever I go, I will continue to be targeted, until this matter is taken care of.” He pushed back his chair with impatience and got to his feet, pacing the length of the study in his bare feet. “I could stay and conduct business from here in Grenoble, but that would be like admitting defeat. On the other hand, any visit to a friend or a charity event, has the potential for disaster. Damn him! He has me just where he wants me.”

Guy said nothing.

“But I refuse to give in.” He strode over to the tall glass wall. It was still so early that dawn hadn’t touched the horizon yet. “I will not remain cooped up,” he told the darkness, “but neither will I be where he expects me to be.”

Yves didn’t have to look at his assistant to hear the puzzlement in his voice. “I don’t think I understand.”

“At the moment, I’ve been spending most of my time in France, but I have business interests elsewhere, do I not?”

“Oui.”

Yves’ voice strengthened as he warmed to his theme. “Of course, going to Russia would be asking for trouble, but there are other destinations besides Europe.”

“America, you mean?”

Yves walked over to the world globe, flicking it nonchalantly with a lean finger. “America.” The sphere twirled silently. Asia.

His eyes narrowed as he stopped the spinning, gazing at the spot right under his fingers. “Didn’t we get a proposal from an overseas software company? Tech-88 or something similar?”

“Yes, we did.”

“Where are we at with that deal?”

“As per your instructions, I sent the proposal packet to our departments to vet.”

“And…?”

“They appear to be everything they say they are. Their business case is sound, their financials are solid, but they lack capital for expansion.”

“While I have the capital but no foothold yet in that region.”

“I was going to go over all those proposals with you next week, monsieur.”

“Perhaps that’s not going to be necessary, Guy,” Yves remarked, still looking at where his hand rested. “Where did you say Tech-88 was based?”

“Er, Australie. One of the northern cities, I think.”

Yves smiled at the globe, and at the blue of the Great Barrier Reef, right next to his hand.

“Guy, there are some travel arrangements I’d like you to make.”

* * * *

Helen knew she stank. She must. She let out a breath and got to her feet, reaching for the towel that was beside her workout mat. Her legs ached, but it was a delicious feeling, satisfaction from the cool-down at the end of a strenuous session she had just completed. She wiped runnels of perspiration from her face with the towel and headed for the large open window.

The sounds of traffic—cars mixed with trucks—assailed her ears from three floors down. Even though she was tucked in a side-street, Fortitude Valley in Brisbane was always bustling, a large arterial road cutting straight through it from the northern to southern suburbs, across the busy Story Bridge, carrying vehicles at every hour of the day and night. She had found it comforting being lulled to sleep by the sounds of movement, and waking up to it. It reminded her that she was alive and there were still things she needed to do.

Alive. Her hand stilled as she rubbed her hair, the tendrils dark with perspiration and curly at the ends. But as much as she loved living in the centre of a thriving metropolis, reality had a way of cropping up when she least expected it. Just as it had three months ago.

No, she wouldn’t think about that. Not now.

Helen grimaced and turned away. Brisbane had been a home to her for all of her twenty-six years. And, until a few months ago, it had treated her well. Her gaze roamed the expanse of her loft apartment, where walls existed only to enclose a goods elevator, two bathrooms, a kitchen, and suggest a minimal attempt at privacy. The large mullioned windows let the sub-tropical sun stream through and caught the rich texture of the polished pine floors, looking warm and comforting against the brilliant white of the tall walls and high ceiling.

The whole floor was hers—the top storey of an old warehouse right in the middle of Brisbane’s liveliest inner city suburb. By the time she bought the apartment shell, the idea of warehouse living had taken off in the city, but buyers were still reluctant to purchase a residential property in one of its most notorious locations. Helen, on the other hand, had seen the location’s potential more as an opportunity and had signed a contract on the place as fast as she could pull a pen into her hand. Now, in the late afternoon, a pleasant breeze blew through the open windows, airing the large space completely and lifting the gauzy white curtains so they resembled birds’ wings fluttering in the wind. It was October, and the chill of winter had well and truly disappeared, bringing with it a balmy warmth and the promise of more heat to come.

At the thought of another humid summer, Helen started perspiring again. She turned and was about to head for the bathroom when her phone rang. Normally, she let the answering machine take it, but she was close enough to the low, teak coffee table to reach down and pick up the receiver herself.

“Hel,” she said succinctly, using her nickname. Now that she stood still, she thought she could detect the aroma of sweat and exertion on her body. She sniffed experimentally at her underarm and wrinkled her nose. It was lucky for everybody concerned that nobody shared the apartment with her.

“Hel, it’s Ryan.” The welcoming voice of Helen’s sometime employer filled her ears, and a smile instinctively curved her lips.

“Hello Ryan. What can I do for you? Do you have another workshop you want me involved in?”

“Ask not what you can do for me,” he replied with a laugh. “Ask what I can do for you.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Nothing I can really discuss over the phone. Would you care to meet me for a coffee? I can be in the Valley in about twenty minutes.”

“That sounds perfect. How about I meet you at Carlo’s?”

“Carlo’s it is. See you then.” And he clicked off.

Helen replaced the receiver thoughtfully and continued her walk to her bedroom, a roughly rectangular section of floor that was partitioned off with carved timber screens. Behind them, closets lined part of one wall, ending at a corner, behind a large futon bed.

She had been expecting a call from Ryan—they hadn’t spoken for almost a week now—but she hadn’t been expecting anything more from him, especially when she already knew his workshop and training schedule. He certainly had her intrigued.

Helen entered her bathroom, expertly flipping the damp towel into the laundry basket, and following it up in quick order with her shorts, T-shirt and underwear. Even though the bathroom was enclosed with walls, light still illuminated the space, thanks to a skylight she had installed when she first began refurbishing the warehouse floor. The other bathroom was the same—walls of small white tiles, separated by lines of iridescent blue glass squares, with the skylight illuminating everything from above.

She showered under the cool water, letting the massaging streams carry away the sticky sweat and tiredness from her body. When she was done, she towelled herself dry with a marine-toned bathsheet and padded to the bedroom to look for something to wear.

Ten minutes later, she traipsed down the small flight of steps at the front of the building and walked up the street to Brunswick Mall, less than a five-minute stroll away. Her hair, unruly at the best of times, was kept back from her face with a dark, stretchy barrette. She thought it was a simple and easy solution, unaware of how the accessory showed off the delicate angles of her cheekbones and emphasised her large, candid, blue-grey eyes. Her denim capri pants only partially covered lithe, muscular calves, and the scooped neck T-shirt outlined a feminine figure that could easily be swamped in more bulky clothing.

She walked happily down the mall, unaware of several covert and appreciative masculine gazes, her long limbs swinging freely and her bearing confident.

Fortitude Valley had always been a haven for immigrants to Brisbane, starting with the Scottish in the mid-1800s. Since that time, other communities also started businesses there—Italians, Chinese—and it was now a dynamic and cosmopolitan part of the city’s life. Carlo’s was one such example of a migrant’s small cafe that had morphed into a landmark for the suburb. It was named after the current owner’s father, who had worked the small coffee shop for more than twenty-five years, before passing it on to the next generation. Vinnie, Carlo’s son and a shrewd businessman in his own right, had extended the premises, creating a separate dining area for the evening restaurant goers, but also not forgotten the cafe’s original customers. Small round tables and wicker chairs jostled for space in the paved area outside, and it was here that Helen settled herself, after calling out her usual order to the smiling wait staff. Vinnie, a cheerful man with a smile as wide as his head, waved to her before moving to the large, chrome coffee machine that dominated the area behind the long counter, to prepare her order.

It was a nice time of the day, late afternoon before the workers in the city finished for the day, and Helen watched the grandmothers trundle along with their wheeled trolleys full of groceries. It was a time to relax, with the heat from the sun gone, and just its light left, slanting across the buildings, and throwing the elaborate sills and decorations of the mall’s historic facade into myriad lines of light and shadow.

Later on, the children and shoppers would disappear, and the Valley would be home to a different population completely—couples looking for a restaurant or bistro, and people looking to enjoy themselves at one of several bars that dotted the area. If only they restrained themselves to just enjoying themselves, she thought bleakly, and shivered despite the warmth. The partygoers wouldn’t leave the district until the early morning, and then the Valley would settle down to one or two hours’ peace, before the bakers arrived, heading for their shops, and the cycle would begin all over again.

She didn’t want to think about that. Not about dark nights, and not about what happened that had turned her entire life upside down, but her memory was relentless. She remembered Pete, tall but a little too skinny to pass for a bouncer at one of the city’s nightspots. She remembered how he’d smilingly agreed to help out a friend. And she remembered–

“I see you got here before me.” Ryan’s gruff voice boomed close to her, and she looked up at him with startled eyes. She hadn’t even seen him coming. At the same time, their coffees arrived—a latte with no sugar for Helen and a long black with two sugars for Ryan Greenwood. Vinnie had obviously spotted him long before Helen had.

She smiled and waved him to a chair to her left. “Sorry, Ryan, I must have been miles away.”

“That’s what bothers me,” he muttered as he sat down.

Ryan was a quintessential Queenslander, from his tall and broad build to the freckles that dusted his skin. His hair was a sun-bleached brown mixed with emerging grey, and his eyes were blue. The tip of his nose always looked like it was on the verge of sunburn, a redder hue than the rest of his ruddy complexion, and his hands were broad and meaty. Creases radiated outwards from the edges of his eyes, matching the frown on his forehead—a permanent reminder of decades of squinting into a bright and unforgiving sun. He was a man who had seen and done things most people only imagined, and Helen considered him her best friend.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, although she knew very well what he was getting at.

He harrumphed and turned his attention to the coffee, stirring it carefully with a spoon and popping the sliver of accompanying biscotti into his mouth, dry.

“You know you’re supposed to dunk it first, don’t you?” Helen asked with patient amusement.

“I like it like that,” he replied, crunching through the nuts and hardened pastry. He drank deeply from his cup and, when he put it back on its saucer, half of the coffee was already gone. “So how are you bearing up?”

Helen shrugged and dropped her eyes, taking a more demure sip of her latte. “Okay.”

“That’s a pile of bullshit.” He paused. “Pete is gone, Hel. I know you were close, but he’s not coming back.”

“You know,” she said, still looking at her glass, the coffee within it the colour of pale milk chocolate. “I think I’d come to grips with it better if it hadn’t been such a senseless death.”

Peter Dodd had been a good friend and fellow martial artist. He worked for Ryan as an instructor at his martial arts academy, much as Helen herself had done before she branched out into her own business. In such a profession, it was only natural that the three of them should know, and befriend, the bouncers that worked in the city. While Helen kept the relationships light and friendly, Peter had ended up sharing a house in one of the northern suburbs with Alan, a muscled, burly man who kept order at one of the most exclusive nightclub venues right in the centre of the city. There was usually no trouble at that club—more rowdy elements stayed away from the higher prices and restrictive dress codes. Maybe that was what convinced Peter that a night covering for his friend, who had food-poisoning, wasn’t going to be a problem.

Except it had been.

A group of young men—sons of the rich cattle-farmers that dominated the interior of the state—had come down to Brisbane for a night of fun. Their parents had enough money to ensure thick wallets all around, and they chose the nightclub as the place where they were going to dance and drink away the night. When they got rowdy, the security staff inside the club walked them—quietly but insistently—to the door, and that was where all hell broke loose.

“He was so good,” Helen murmured. “The best tae kwon do instructor around.” She shook her head.

“It could’ve happened to anyone, Hel.”

She looked up at him then and her eyes blazed. “That’s just it though, isn’t it, Ryan? Despite his training, it happened to him—just one drunk teenager thinking he was on a rugby field.”

The reports afterwards had been chaotic and contradictory, but the police eventually had sorted it all out. After being ejected from the club, the group of young men had started a loud argument with the two bouncers outside. Peter had talked to two of them, trying to get them to calm down, when a third had barrelled into him from the side, knocking him to the kerb. Pete’s head had hit the concrete edging next to the road and he’d died instantly.

If Ryan thought she was taking Pete’s death hard, he obviously hadn’t spoken to Alan recently. Through friends, Helen had learned that Alan was inconsolable over a death he could do nothing to prevent. He’d blamed himself, quit his job and headed back north to his hometown of Townsville. Helen could understand how Alan felt. She was thinking of doing the same kind of thing herself.

“You still thinking of leaving?” It was as if he picked up her thoughts.

She sighed and a sad smile curved her lips. “When I bought my place here, I was so happy. I liked being lulled to sleep by the sound of life and laughter, and didn’t even mind being woken up in the morning by the occasional drunk stumbling around outside. It was all part and parcel of living in such a dynamic part of the city. But now, when I hear raised voices or people laughing, it doesn’t sound like anyone having fun. It sounds more like how I imagined it must have felt for Pete—just before he got killed. I’m thinking that maybe I’ve had my fill of Brisbane.”

“And where would you go? That place down at Byron?”

Her parents, when they died, had left their holiday home at Byron Bay to Helen and her brother, Nick. Nick, filled with wanderlust as he was, wasn’t too interested in maintaining the property. When Helen offered to buy him out of his share, he jumped at the opportunity. He used the money as a launching pad for his travels and now lived happily in northern Italy as a computer programmer. He had come back to visit and spend some time with her once, but admitted that the life of Italian coffee, fresh croissants in the morning, and cobblestoned streets was one that suited him much better than the sea, surf and open spaces of south-east Queensland and northern New South Wales. Maybe, if she could scrape together enough money—and the will to do so—she might pay him a visit.

“Byron Bay has really expanded since my parents bought the property,” she countered, knowing Ryan thought of the place as being little more than a hippie commune. “It’s a large artist hub, and there are lots of shops, restaurants, and festivals almost year round. I think I could keep myself busy in a place like that.”

Ryan snorted. “And what about your business?”

He was referring to Total Defence, the company she started after she left Ryan’s academy. Seeing a niche for a mostly female-oriented view of martial arts and self-defence, Helen had started Total Defence as a venture aimed more at companies and groups. In the three years since she’d started, she had already conducted workshops and seminars for a wide range of institutions and women’s groups. Occasionally, she also gave private tuition but, although one-on-one sessions were lucrative, they were also physically draining.

“I’ve spoken to you before about partnering with me,” she chided softly. “There’s more than enough work. You could take over the Brisbane operation, and I might set up a Byron Bay branch.”

“So it’s not the work itself that bothers you,” he asked, eyeing her intently, “it’s just being in Brisbane?”

That wasn’t what she’d first told Ryan. In the week following Pete’s death, she’d been adamant that she wanted nothing to do with martial arts—after all, if it couldn’t save Pete, what good was it? But that was the result of shock and grief. Since then, Helen had taken careful stock of her situation and realised it was the environment itself that caused her the most pain. She loved the work, loved seeing self-confidence blossom in her classes and tracking the progress of her more promising attendees. She also liked the idea of helping men and women protect themselves. Of course, there were always the burly types, who took one look at her slight frame and laughed themselves silly. But those types, she thought with an evil grin, didn’t last all that long.

No, teaching people how to protect themselves was in her blood. She could more easily stop breathing than stop her work. Which meant that, despite her love for her hometown, she was going to have to leave it, at least in the short-term.

“Just Brisbane,” she agreed. “I’m not saying I won’t consider coming back. It’s just that I think I need some distance right now.”

“And how are your finances?”

Helen frowned as she gazed at him. Her coffee, untouched since that initial sip, was growing cold. It was unlike Ryan to discuss the topic of her moving away with such calm. He hated the idea of her leaving. She had been one of his best students, one of his most personable instructors, and he didn’t begrudge her success—in fact, he often drummed up business on her behalf. But if there was one thing he usually point-blank refused to discuss rationally with her, it was her relocating interstate. Whenever the topic came up, he was abrupt, restless and irritable in his remarks and responses. Yet, here he was now, an open expression on his face, asking her on his own initiative about how her plans were going.

“I had to mortgage the apartment to the hilt to get enough money together to buy out Nick’s share of the Byron house,” she said slowly. “Business is going well but is just paying the expenses at the moment. And I know it’s a rising property market, but it would be nice to have a bit of a nest egg to take with me when I move.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why are you so interested in my finances all of a sudden?”

He sat back and looked at her smugly. “Because I think I have a way out of your problems.”

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