My contemporary novella for the Authors of Main Street summer collection wants to be a romantic comedy, I think. I’ve interviewed the hero and heroine. I’ve charted their ‘hero’s journey’. I’ve run a heap of dialogue through my head.  And now I’ve written the first scene of what is tentatively called ‘Beached’. Actually, it might be the third or fourth scene, after Zachary Henderson and Nikki Watson meet again. The story will be mostly set at a beach resort in New Zealand, where my heroine has invented a summer residence that needs fixing up and my hero is working as a builder.

Eighteen months ago, New York

Nicola Watson scanned the crowd in the coffee shop. No sign of Mr Michael ‘I’m-Too-Sexy-For-A-New-York-Courtroom’ O’Neal. It was the last straw.

Yes, she was five minutes late. Okay. Eight minutes. Which was totally not her fault, and another reason why she was irritated.

But O’Neal had asked for this meeting, so he should have waited. If he turned up at all.

Ever since she’d received his note, she’d been second guessing what he might be up to. Third, fourth, and fifth guessing. That was the primary reason for her mood. She shouldn’t be here, and yet here she had not been able to resist.

She and Mr Designer-Suit-Fits-Like-A-Glove were not currently on the opposite side in litigation, and last time he had won. But she hadn’t given up. The O’Neals might have been innocent of the particular charges World Watch had brought against them, but somewhere their global chains of hotels were breaking environmental laws for short term profit. And one day she expect to face Bedroom-Eyes O’Neal again, and win.

His note said he had information she might find useful. Yeah, right. She wouldn’t trust an O’Neal as far as she could throw one of them, and every single one of them was six foot plus and built like a lazy bookworm’s wet dream.

Lots of money for gym equipment and personal trainers, her grumpy self pointed out. At that moment, something in the crowded room hooked her roving gaze and dragged it back. That man. The one with the beard. The one waving a greeting.

The scruffy denim jacket over a coloured t-shirt was a far cry from O’Neal’s usual crisply tailored suits and shirts, and the pirate beard was a further disguise, though something in her gut purred its approval. It was a fiery red, shades brighter than his auburn hair, currently tousled as if he’d been out in a strong wind. Or just risen from bed.

The eyes hadn’t changed. A bright blue, currently levelled at hers as she crossed the room and took the seat opposite him.

“Ms. Watson. Thank you for coming.” The voice was the same, too. North Eastern United States Preppie, with a touch of low gravel.

Nicola inclined her head in greeting. “Mr. O’Neal.”  He called the meeting. Let him start it.

“Coffee?” he asked, and performed the magic of attracting a waitress from the other side of the crowd so he could place her order.

The t-shirt featured a sailing ship, with a motto written across it. “A smooth sea never made a skilled sailor.”

“Expecting storms?” Nicola asked.

O’Neal smiled. “I’d be a fool if I didn’t.” The smile vanished and he leaned forward, dropping his voice as if the crowd was full of spies with recorders. “I’m leaving, Miss Watson. But before I go, I wanted to redress the balance a little.”

“Leaving?” What did that mean? “Leaving New York?”

“Confidentially? Just between you and me?” He must have caught her slight withdrawal, because he added, “Nothing unethical or illegal, but I’d rather it remained a private matter. At least for a few weeks.”

Nicola nodded, her curiosity overriding her caution.

“I’m leaving it all. New York. The practice of law. The hotel business. The O’Neal family.” He chewed at his upper lip in a moment of indecision, then held out his hand. “Miss Watson, allow me to introduce myself. Zachary Henderson, deck hand on… it doesn’t matter. You get the idea.”

She was floundering to keep up. “Zachary is your second name.”

“And Henderson was my mother’s, so not a big leap.”

The coffee arrived, and Nicola grabbed a handful of coins to give the girl a tip before O’Neal, no, Henderson. He waited while she added some low-Cal sweetener. “Redress the balance?” she asked. “What does that mean, exactly?”

Henderson let those gorgeous blue eyes roam around the room before answering. “Remember in court, when I pulled out the information that proved the hotels you named in your suit were all compliant with international treaties?”

Nicola nodded. She didn’t need reminding. She still wondered how World Watch had got it so wrong.

“I saw your reaction. You were taken by surprise. But your colleague wasn’t, and that got me thinking. And checking.” He looked around again, then pulled a plastic sleeve from inside his jacket. “Here. I’ve printed enough to get you started, but most of what I found is on the thumb drive. Conversations. Emails. Enough to show that the law suit you and I fought was a set up by the O’Neal hotel chain and World Watch.”

No way! But on the heels of denial came belief, as pieces that had never fitted fell into place. And her unsurprised colleague Tyler — her fiance — he was at the heart of it.

Henderson was silent, allowing her time to absorb his claims. “Thank you,” she managed to say. “If what you say is true, I am pleased to know.”

“I figured I owed you.” He stood, and held out his hand, gripping hers firmly. “It has been nice knowing you, Miss Watson. Good luck.”

“And to you, Mr. Henderson,” she replied. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Another fleeting grin. “I have to figure out what that is, first.”

Nicola sat and finished her coffee after he had left. If Henderson was right, she’d been played for a country rube. She might be a country girl from little New Zealand, but she was not a complete fool. As they would find out. She slipped the thumb drive into an inner pocket of her jacket, and put the plastic sleeve into her hand bag. First, home to read the evidence. Then a conversation with Tyler.