Cinderella's Lucky Ticket. Melissa James
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rush of pleasure—someone outside my head called me Lucy!—left her in a crazy tangle of emotions. “How could you think I’d—” She slammed her mouth shut and turned to stare at the bright, sunshiny day through the window in the open-plan timber kitchen. “No. I won’t swim. Thank you.”
He sighed. “I was afraid of that. I’ll have a shower then.”
She frowned. “Why not have a swim?”
“I wasn’t born yesterday. You lock me out and your four and a half tenths turns to nine…and breaking windows isn’t my speed.”
“I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t dream of it!” she gasped.
“Sure you wouldn’t,” he agreed, looking her over with open cynicism. “You look like a meek little bookworm, not a crazy home invader who’d push your way into my house or sue a kids’ charity. I seem to be a bad judge of character where you’re concerned. I’m not taking chances. I’m not losing my winnings that easy.”
“I wouldn’t sue a charity! It was a ruse to—” She sputtered to a stop, tangled inside a guilty half conviction that she might have done just that, until with a few words he’d shown her how low, how immoral that would be. “I have the right to—”
The roaring of a car motor snapped her out of her garbled outrage. “Mr. Hill—?” She bolted for the door. “I—he’s gone!”
“It appears he got out while the going was good.” The amused voice came from behind her, a rich, sexy baritone. “Can’t say I blame him. Do you always half finish your sentences? And I wouldn’t advise stepping through the door like that. Too easy for me to lock it in your face, Miss Four-and-a-half-points.”
She jumped back inside the door, and fell right against him.
Oh, help. This primitive reaction must be more ingrained in her genetics than she’d feared. The scent of maleness and musky sweat filled her senses; the rocklike muscles holding her up seemed to force her most yielding feminine softness to come out of hiding. And looking up into those dark, laughing eyes made her pulse pound—storm, crash, hammer….
Surely she was further up the evolutionary scale than this! Such a typical female response to a handsome man was so unlike her. I used to love this with Hugh. Hugging him after a run or a game, feeling so feminine.
Yeah—how many years has it been since you got one of those hugs? The imp inside her muttered. Two, three?
“Could—could you move back, please?” she asked, but the cool dignity she’d hoped for came out as rushed breathlessness. She closed her eyes. Oh, no—what if he thought this coded genetic response was something more than a proven scientific fact? What if—what if he—and what if she—?
He stepped back.
The delicious chill in her spine died. He didn’t even try to make a pass at her. No man ever found her irresistible. Especially not rugged, sexy cavemen like Ben Capriati.
She peeped up at him. He was grinning, as if he knew about what Hugh called her “Lucy kick”: that hiding beneath her no-nonsense scientific facade lay a B-grade Hollywood fantasy life. Dreaming of a hero, a handsome, swashbuckling pirate to rescue her from her empty, boring life, and always being so alone…
Lifting her chin, she walked past him to the kitchen. After opening and shutting cupboards, she frowned. Most of them were empty, or held only crockery. “Where do you keep the coffee?”
Silence.
When she turned he was standing behind her, biting his lip. “What? It’s not a hard question, is it?” The fridge told the same story: aside from jugs of water and juice, and some cans of beer, it was empty. “You don’t have any food at all!”
“I know.” He grimaced. “Well, you see, I—”
“You don’t drink coffee?”
“Sure. I—”
“You ran out of everything at once?”
Ben shook his head. “No. I never had any food. I—”
“Did you just move in, and haven’t had time to shop yet?”
He pulled up a high-backed stool from the breakfast bench, sitting backward on it. “I’ve been here a week.”
“Then why don’t you have food? Where are you eating?”
Cupping his chin on propped elbows on the bench, he winked at her. “Where do you think? This is the Gold Coast, Lucy. Fun in the sun, seductive pulse of the night. I eat out, I drink out.”
Unable to comprehend it, she blinked. “Even at breakfast?”
“Yup.” Straddling the stool, wearing only those skimpy shorts and that lazy grin, he looked like a model in GQ. “Don’t sound so scandalized. Think about it. Sitting at an open-air café across from the sexiest beach on the planet. Coffee and croissants in the sun, watching the world stroll by.”
His voice was warm, caressing. A vision blossomed in her mind: sitting at an open-air café with fresh croissants and caffe latte, and every woman who passed them gazing wistfully, wishing she was the woman with Ben….
No! The man is Hugh, and we’re on our honeymoon, after our wedding, her mind yelled at that rebellious imp. Well, after the experiment’s over. Stop envisioning yourself with this man!
This was a ridiculous momentary confusion, all the fault of her thesis and bad genetics. All she wanted was to marry Hugh, but a silly female in her ancestry had passed on a weakness for strong, muscled outdoor men like Ben Capriati, with a crooked grin, and twinkling dark eyes that made her insides slowly melt.
Did Hugh ever make you melt, or was it just gaining the approval of Mother and Father that mattered so much?
No! This thing she felt for Ben Capriati was passing, only physical. She’d stay here, win her prizes and sell them to pay for the wedding and fund Hugh’s research. And if she had to cohabit with a rough, sexy Mediterranean Adonis—platonically, of course!—until she was declared the winner, so be it.
She was a woman of science. She had self-control. She could resist temptation—and within a week, she’d have everything she’d ever dreamed of.
She sighed and leaned on the cool fridge, feeling the world tilt back on its proper axis.
“You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders,” he said, watching her with curious gentleness.
“Lack of caffeine,” she murmured, locked in visions of bridal splendour. “I slept in the car last night.”
Even lost in glorious daydreams of tulle and lace and white carriages, she could hear a frown of concern in his voice. “Why didn’t you get a room? There’s hundreds of ’em to spare before summer. High-school graduation isn’t for three weeks.”
She snapped to attention, frowning. “What business is that of yours, Mr. Capriati?”
“Ben.”
Hmm. Nice, masculine name. “Okay,” she murmured, with only a little reluctance. “Mind your own business, Ben.”
His eyebrow lifted. “Did you at least have breakfast?”
“I won’t even dignify that with an answer.” Yet, as if in rebellion with her pride, her stomach growled. Loudly.
He laughed and hauled himself off the stool, his six-pack and shoulder muscles rippling with the movement. “No wonder you’re cranky. Come on, let’s eat. We’ll take the convertible. You might as well enjoy our disputed prizes while you can. Give me a couple of minutes to shower.”
He bounded up the stairs two and three at a time. She gulped, watching him from behind…okay, so I’m watching his behind—so what? It’s a coded feminine reaction. And those shorts made him look so strong and athletic, so perfectly proportioned—