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  Is it strictly business…?

  Laney Morgan may be blind, but she’s no pushover. When Elliot Garvey walks into her life wanting to globalize her family business, she plans to make him work for it.

  Work Hard, Play Hard may be Elliot’s motto, but being around the irresistible Laney, he starts to see a new world through her eyes. But he’s here strictly for business….

  Until Elliot guide’s Laney’s hand to his face. They can’t ignore the chemistry, especially the realization she’s about to be awakened to a world she never knew.

  She fluttered her right hand back down past his eye and along his cheekbone and—when she couldn’t delay the moment of truth a second longer—quickly traced her middle finger across his I’m told I have kissable lips.

  They parted just slightly before she could leave them, and breath heated her fingertips for half a heartbeat.

  “So there you go,” Elliott rumbled, then cleared his throat. “Now you’ve really seen me. You know how I sound, how I smell and how I feel. That’s pretty much all your available senses taken care of.”

  “Well,” she began, “I haven’t—”

  Stop!

  “You haven’t what?” His voice, his breath, seemed impossibly closer, yet he hadn’t moved the rest of his body one inch.

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “Were you going to say tasted?”

  “No.” The denial sounded false even to her.

  “Really?” His soft voice was full of smile. “Because it sounded like you were.”

  “No. That would be an inappropriate comment to make in the workplace.”

  “I agree,” Elliott murmured. “Then again, that ship sailed when I asked you to touch my face, so what else do I have to lose?”

  His lips, the ones she’d gone to so much trouble to avoid touching, pressed lightly onto Laney’s—half-open, soft and damp and warm—before molding more snugly against her. Sealing up the gaps. It took her a moment to acclimatize to the feeling of someone else’s breath on her lips, and he took full advantage of her frozen surprise to open farther and gently swipe the tip of his tongue over her hypersensitive and suddenly oxygen-deprived lips.

  Elliott Garvey was kissing her.

  Dear Reader,

  How awesome are bees!

  In the writing of this book I’ve become totally fixated on the extraordinary social structure and unique beauty of our furry, winged friends. I have read reams of research and watched hours of video on beekeeping, and while I didn’t want to slow the story down by waxing (ha!) about them too much, every bit I learned fed my heroine’s deep passion for her job as head apiarist at the fictional Morgan’s Apiary.

  Laney Morgan is an extraordinary woman and she has a special relationship with the bees that are her life’s work; the kind of relationship that comes from being more in tune with their vibrations and their sounds than distracted by their thronging mass. And it takes a very special woman to drag driven, career-focused Elliott Garvey from his surefire route to corporate success.

  I hope you enjoy meeting Elliott, Laney and the Morgan clan (two, four, or six-legged). I certainly enjoyed creating them.

  May love always find you,

  Nikki

  AWAKENED BY HIS TOUCH

  Nikki Logan

  Nikki Logan lives next to a string of protected wetlands in Western Australia with her long-suffering partner and a menagerie of furred, feathered and scaly mates. She studied film and theater at university, and worked for years in advertising and film distribution before finally settling down in the wildlife industry. Her romance with nature goes way back, and she considers her life charmed, given she works with wildlife by day and writes fiction by night—the perfect way to combine her two loves. Nikki believes that the passion and risk of falling in love are perfectly mirrored in the danger and beauty of wild places. Every romance she writes contains an element of nature, and if readers catch a waft of rich earth or the spray of wild ocean between the pages, she knows her job is done.

  Recent books by Nikki Logan

  SLOW DANCE WITH THE SHERIFF*

  THEIR MIRACLE TWINS

  A KISS TO SEAL THE DEAL

  SHIPWRECKED WITH MR. WRONG

  LIGHTS, CAMERA...KISS THE BOSS

  THEIR NEWBORN GIFT

  *The Larkville Legacy

  These and other titles by Nikki Logan are available in ebook format from www.Harlequin.com.

  Did you know that Nikki Logan also writes for Harlequin® KISS? Find out more by visiting the Harlequin website!

  For Jackie—Protector of all creatures great and small. (No bees were harmed during the making of this book.)

  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

  EPILOGUE

  EXCERPT

  CHAPTER ONE

  ELLIOTT GARVEY LEANED on the bleached timber boardwalk like a seasoned stalker, watching the woman frolicking with her dog where the coastal rock slid down into the aquamarine ocean.

  It didn’t matter that this lookout and the long, sandy path leading to it were public, the map in his hands and the occasional sign wired to the fence lining the gravel track in this remote, picturesque spot reminded him very clearly that the property all around him was upper-case P private. So, technically, was the beach below. In fact, it barely qualified as a beach since—private or not—it was only about twenty metres long. More a cove, really, eroded out of the hard rock either side of it, protected and quiet.

  Back home they’d have turned this into a boat-launching area, for sure. It was perfect for it.

  Then again, back home they wouldn’t have had anything even remotely like this. Where he was from, further north up the coast, the ruling landform was sand, not the stunning limestone rock forms of the Morgan property. The lookout under his feet ‘looked out’ over the cove about twenty metres away, as it happened, but its intended view was the spectacular Australian coastline beyond it. Rugged and raw and beaten to death by pounding seas in the off season.

  But today the sea was flat and gentle.

  His eyes dropped again.

  Judging by the very determined way the woman was not looking up at him, she was either trying very hard to pretend he wasn’t there, spoiling her serenity, or she wasn’t supposed to be there. A tourist, maybe? That would explain the long cotton dress that she’d hiked up her bare legs instead of the swimsuit a local would have turned up in. And clearly this was a tourist who liked to travel with her dog. The soggy golden retriever bounded around her, barking and celebrating life in a shower of droplets, and the size of the lead bundled in the woman’s right hand suggested her dog was a handful most of the time. But right now it just circled her excitedly as she danced.

  Danced? More flowed, really. She practically ebbed in time with the soft waves washing onto the beach and retreating again, her feet lightly skipping in the wet sand. The wet bottom of her long summer dress wanted to cling to her legs, but she kept it hiked up, out of the way, as she splashed in and out of the water with her movements. Dipping and twisting and undulating her whole body to music he couldn’t hear.

  Out of nowhere, a memory surged into his crowded mind. Of him and his mother, the only trip they’d e
ver taken away from the city when he was about eight. He’d hung his lean little body half out of the open window of the car she’d borrowed from a friend, overwhelmed to be doing something as exciting as leaving the city, hand-surfing on the wind that whipped past. Riding the current, rising and dipping on it with both hands. Dreaming of the places it would take him if only he were light enough to catch its updraft.

  Just as that woman was dancing. There was no wind to speak of down below in the protected little cove, but that didn’t seem to cause her the slightest trouble as she moved on air currents no one else could feel. Not him. Not the still coastal wildflowers lining the tiny sandy strip. Not the barely interrupted surface of the water.

  Just her, her dog and whatever the heck drugs she must be on to put her in such a sublimely happy place.

  Elliott used his camera lens to get a surreptitious look at her while pretending to photograph the bigger view. Her long hair was as wet and stringy as the golden retriever’s, and not all that different in colour, and the water from it soaked anywhere it touched: the fabric of her strappy dress where it criss-crossed her breasts like a bikini top, the golden stretch of her bare shoulders, her collarbones. It whipped and snapped as she circled in the retreating water, her head tipped back to worship the sun, staring right up into it for a moment.

  He adjusted the lens just slightly.

  The paleness of her skin and the liberal dusting of freckles across it fitted perfectly with the strawberry blonde hair. Maybe if she did this less often out in the harsh Western Australian sun she’d have fewer marks on her skin. But then, maybe if she did this less often she wouldn’t have that smile on her face, either. Blazing and almost too wide for the pointed shape of her jaw.

  He lowered the lens and stepped back, conscious, suddenly, of his intrusion into her private moment. As he did so, the weathered timber under his left foot creaked audibly and the retriever’s sharp ears didn’t miss it. Its sandy snout pointed up in his direction immediately, joyous barking suspended, and it crossed straight to the woman’s side. She stopped and bent to place her free hand reassuringly on the dog’s shoulder but—luckily for Elliott—she didn’t follow the direction of its intent stare.

  Not waiting to be busted, he retreated down the lookout steps and along the path to the gravel track where his luxury car waited. The only car here, he suddenly realised.

  Ah, well, if Little Miss Lives-Life-on-the-Edge liked to take that skin outside at noon, trespass on private property and stare directly into the sun, then she was probably illegally camped around here somewhere, too.

  Either way...? Officially none of his business. He was here to talk the Morgans into taking their company global. Not to police their perimeter security for them.

  He had one more shot at this. One more chance to eclipse bloody Tony Newton and his questionable success and get the vacant partnership. Being good—or even great—at your job was no longer enough. He needed to be astounding at what he did in order to win his spot on the partners’ board and cement his future. And Morgan’s was the brand to do it. Newton was too busy schmoozing his cashed-up tech and dot-com clients to notice what was right under all their noses—that Morgan’s was about so much more than honey. Whether the board realised it or not.

  And if they didn’t...?

  That was okay. That was what they had him for.

  * * *

  ‘What is a “realiser” exactly, Mr Garvey?’ Ellen Morgan asked him politely an hour later, studying his slick business card.

  Falling straight into his corporate patter was second nature. ‘Realisers are charged with the responsibility of identifying clients with potential and then helping them realise that potential.’

  ‘That’s a strange sort of job, I’d have thought,’ announced Robert Morgan as he marched into the living room with two cups of coffee to match the one his wife already cradled and handed one to Elliott.

  ‘It’s a speciality role. A different focus to my colleagues’.’

  Ellen didn’t quite bristle, but offence tickled at the edges of her words. ‘You believe we have unrealised potential here, Mr Garvey? We consider ourselves quite innovative for our industry.’

  ‘Please, call me Elliott,’ he repeated, despite knowing it was probably pointless. He wasn’t in with them yet. ‘You absolutely are innovative. You dominate the local market and you’re top three nationally—’ if they weren’t a company like Ashmore Coolidge wouldn’t touch them ‘—and yet there’s always room for growth.’

  And profit. And acclaim. Particularly acclaim.

  ‘We’re honey farmers, Mr Garvey. One of a multitude in the international marketplace. I’m not sure there’s room for us overseas.’

  As if that was all they were, and as if their operations weren’t perched on one of the most stunning and sought-after peninsulas on Western Australia’s ten-thousand-kilometre coastline.

  But it wasn’t the local market that interested him. ‘My job is to help you make room.’

  ‘By nudging someone else out?’ Ellen frowned.

  ‘By being competitive. And ethical. And visible.’ Currently they were only a twofer.

  ‘You think the enormous sun on our packaging fails to stand out on the shelf?’

  The new voice was soft, probing, and very much rhetorical... And coming from the doorway.

  Elliott turned as Helena Morgan walked into the room. Ellen and Robert’s daughter and reputedly the talent behind Morgan’s ten-year surge to the top—

  His eyes dropped to the sandy, damp golden retriever that galloped in behind her.

  —and also the woman from the beach.

  Of course she was.

  All the rapport he’d built with the parents since arriving suddenly trembled on whether or not Helena Morgan realised he was the one who had been watching her with her wet dress clinging to her body earlier.

  If she did he was dead in the water.

  But she didn’t comment, and she didn’t even glance at him as she crossed into the kitchen, trailing elegant fingertips along the benchtop until she reached the extra coffee mug Robert Morgan had left out. For her, presumably. As tactics went, her dismissal was pretty effective.

  ‘I’m not talking about shelf presence,’ Elliott said in his best boardroom voice, eager to take back some control. ‘I’m talking about market presence.’

  ‘Wilbur!’ Ellen Morgan scolded the dog, who had shoved his soggy face between her and her coffee for a pat. He wagged an unremorseful tail. ‘Honestly, Laney...’

  The woman made a noise halfway between a whistle and a squeak and the dog abandoned its efforts for affection and shot around the sofa and into the kitchen to stand respectfully beside Helena.

  Laney.

  The nickname suited her. Still feminine, but somehow...earthier.

  ‘Our customers know exactly where to find us,’ Laney defended from the kitchen.

  ‘Do new ones?’

  She paused—the reboiled kettle in one hand and two fingers of the other hooked over her coffee cup edge—and looked towards him. ‘You don’t think we do well enough on the ones we have?’

  One Morgan parent watched her; the other watched him. And he suddenly got the feeling he was being tested. As if everything hinged on how he managed this interaction.

  ‘All markets change eventually,’ he risked.

  ‘And we’ll change with it.’

  She poured without taking her eyes off him, and his chest tightened just a hint as steam from the boiling water shimmied up past her vulnerable fingers. That was a fast track to the emergency room. But it certainly got his attention.

  As it was supposed to.

  ‘But we’ve never been greedy, Mr Garvey. I see no reason to start being so now.’

  Her use of his name gave him the opening he needed as she walked back int
o the living room with her fresh coffee. ‘You have the advantage of me.’

  Half challenge, half criticism. And formal, but not out of place; she had a very...regal...air about her. The deliberate way she moved. The way she regarded him but didn’t quite deign to meet his eyes.

  ‘Apologies, Mr Garvey,’ Robert interjected, ‘this is our daughter and head apiarist Helena. Laney, this is Mr Elliott Garvey of Ashmore Coolidge.’

  She stretched her free hand forward, but not far enough for him to reach easily. Making him come to her. Definite princess move. Then again, the Morgans did hold all the power here. For now. It was a shame he had no choice but to take the two steps needed to close his hand over her small one. And a shame his curiosity wouldn’t let him not. Maybe her skin wasn’t as soft as it looked.

  Though it turned out it was. His fingers slid over the undulating pads of hers until their palms pressed warmly and his skin fairly pulsed at the contact.

  ‘A financier?’ she said, holding his hand longer than was appropriate.

  ‘A realiser,’ he defended, uncharacteristically sensitive to the difference all of a sudden.

  And then—finally—she made formal eye contact. As if his tone had got him some kind of password access. Because he was taller than her—even with those legs that had seemed to go on for ever down at the beach—her looking up at him from closer quarters lifted her thick lashes and gave him a much better look at deep grey irises surrounded by whites of a clarity he never saw in the city.

  Or in the mirror.

  Healthy, fresh-air-raised eyes. And really very beautiful. Yet still not quite...there. As if her mind was elsewhere.

  Some crazy part of him resented not being worthy of her full attention when this meeting and what might come out of it meant so much to him. Perhaps cautious uninterest was a power mechanism on the Morgan property.

  Effective.

  ‘I studied the proposal you emailed,’ she said, stepping back and running the hand that had just held his through her dog’s wet coat, as if she was wiping him off.