Why Resist a Rebel? Read Online Free Page A

know where he was going.
    He’d been micro-managed quite enough. He could damn well walk into town and get a drink without having to ask anyone’s approval.
    So he did.
    Walking felt good. For once he wasn’t on the lookout for the paparazzi, as, for now, no one knew he was here. His unexpected arrival in Australia would have been noticed, of course, and it wouldn’t take long before the photographers descended. But they hadn’t, not just yet.
    He had no idea what time it was, just that it was dark. Really dark—there were certainly no streetlights, and the moon was little more than a sliver.
    His boots were loud on the bitumen, loud enough to disturb a group of sheep that scattered abruptly behind their barbed-wire fence. Further from the road nestled the occasional house, their windows glowing squares of bright amid the darkness.
    Soon he’d hit the main street, a short stretch of shops, a petrol station, a library. He hadn’t paid much attention when he’d arrived—a mix of jet lag and general lack of interest—but now he took the time to look, slowing his walk down to something approaching an amble.
    Most of the town was silent—blinds were drawn, shops were certainly closed this late. But the one obvious exception was the pub, which, like much of the town, was old and stately—perched two storeys high on a corner, complete with a wide wooden balcony overlooking the street. Tonight the balcony was empty, but noise and music spilled from the open double doors. He quickened his pace, suddenly over all this peace and quiet.
    It was packed. Completely—people were crammed at the bar, around the scattered tall tables and also the lower coffee tables with their surrounding couches and ottomans. It was the cast and crew, obviously, who’d taken the pub over. He’d seen for himself that Lucyville didn’t exactly have a happening restaurant strip. This was the only place to drink—and eat—so here they all were.
    The pub didn’t go quiet or anything at his arrival, but he noticed that he’d been noticed.
    It was a sensation that had once been a novelty, had later annoyed him to the verge of anger—and now that he just accepted. He could hardly complain...he was living his dream and all that.
    Right.
    He found a narrow gap at the bar, resting an arm on the polished surface. The local bartender caught his eye and did a double take, but played it cool. In his experience, most people did, with the occasional crazy person the exception rather than the rule. The paparazzi were far more an issue than Joe Public—no question.
    He ordered his drink, although he wasn’t quick to raise the glass to his lips once it was placed in front of him. Maybe it wasn’t the drink he’d needed, but the walk, the bite of the crisp night air in his lungs?
    Mentally he shook his head. Veronica would love that, be all smug and sure she was right to send him to Australia—while Dev wasn’t so certain.
    What was that saying? Same crap—different bucket.
    His lips tightened into a humourless smile.
    He turned, propping his weight against the bar. As he took a sip of his beer he surveyed the large room. It was a surprisingly eclectic place, with funky modern furniture managing to blend with the polished ancient floorboards and what—he was pretty sure—was the original bar. Not quite the backwater pub he’d been imagining.
    The lighting was soft and the atmosphere relaxed, with the dress code more jeans than cocktail.
    One particular pair of jeans caught his eye. Dark blue denim, moulded over elegantly crossed legs—right in the corner of the pub, the one farthest from him.
    Yet his attention had still been drawn to her, to Ruby.
    Only when he saw her did he realise he’d been looking for her—searching her out in the crowd.
    He watched her as she talked to her friends, wine glass in hand. To all appearances she was focused completely on the conversation taking place around her. She was quick to smile, and quick to interject