Книга - Cinderella’s Lucky Ticket

Cinderella's Lucky Ticket
Melissa James


TWO WINNING TICKETSLucy Miles was outraged when a sexy playboy claimed her precious jackpot–a beautiful vacation home. It was a sweepstakes slipup. The company had accidentally issued two winning tickets. Now she'd have to share her beach bungalow–until the real winner was announced–with a hunk that made her heart beat faster…ONE EXTRAORDINARYPRIZE!Ben Capriati had intended to outlast his competition, but then his challenger, Lucy-the-Librarian, changed out of her charity-bin duds and got under his skin. The former little mouse was drop-dead gorgeous and Ben could feel himself falling. Suddenly, the tables were turned and now Ben had just one week to convince his winsome housemate to make their temporary living arrangement permanent…







No! It can’t be!

Not the Capriati Curse!

All Ben’s life he’d seen the effect of this ridiculous curse on the men in his family. In 150 years none had escaped their fate—to fall in love with their exact opposite, and remain hopelessly in love for the rest of their lives.

Capriati men lost their heads and any semblance of control when they lost their heart. And Ben vowed that his would stay intact, thank you very much. If this instant attraction was the Curse acting on him, he’d fight destiny with a smile, defy fate with a laugh.

He grinned devilishly at Lucy Miles as she stood angrily on the doorstep, eager to claim his—her—their?—sweepstakes prizes. “Then I guess it’s showdown or standoff, Miss Miles. We’ll just have to find out if this house is big enough for the both of us.”




Cinderella’s Lucky Ticket

Melissa James







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This book is for Katie, who suggested the plot; and long overdue thanks to Barbara and Peter Clendon, without whose knowledge (and magnificent contest) I wouldn’t have been able to write this dedication. Thanks, as always to All of Us—you know why; and to Maryanne and Diane, for being there…again.




Books by Melissa James


Silhouette Romance

Cinderella’s Lucky Ticket #1741

Silhouette Intimate Moments

Her Galahad #1182

Who Do You Trust? #1206

Can You Forget? #1272

Dangerous Illusion #1288


MELISSA JAMES

is a mother of three living in a beach suburb in county New South Wales. A former nurse, waitress, store assistant, perfume and chocolate (yum!) demonstrator among other things, she believes in taking on new jobs for the fun experience. She’ll try almost anything at least once to see what it feels like—a fact that scares her family on regular occasions. She fell into writing by accident when her husband brought home an article stating how much a famous romance author earned, and she thought, “I can do that!” Years later, she found her niche at Silhouette Intimate Moments. Currently writing a pilot/spy series set in the South Pacific, she can be found most mornings walking and swimming at her local beach with her husband, or every afternoon running around to her kids’ sporting hobbies, while dreaming of flying, scuba diving, belaying down a cave or over a cliff—anywhere her characters are at the time!




Contents


Prologue (#u6608a163-6322-5785-835c-fd2d163c8ba4)

Chapter One (#u1427daf6-0f88-5eb9-bfcd-ed6bb695b6af)

Chapter Two (#ud1345018-b542-56ae-bbb8-c366dccbd51e)

Chapter Three (#uc728920f-a5a7-50ee-9966-2cea5d553ded)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue


Trapani, Sicily, 1853

“Look at him, Patrizia,” one woman commented to her neighbor over coffee, pointing at the object of her disgust: a young man sauntering down the cobbled road with a group of his friends. “He walks—no, he swaggers. Like one who knows he will have all the girls clamoring for his attention tonight. He thinks he is the most handsome, charming young man in all of Sicily.”

“Well, perhaps he has reason, Anna.” Patrizia smiled with indulgent patience, watching the man-child strutting down the road as if he were a conquering emperor. “He looks like a statue of Apollo I saw once in Rome, when I was a girl. Those Capriati boys are too handsome and charming for their own good! I remember his father at that age…ah, for Vincenzo, my heart would flutter…”

“Yes,” Anna muttered, her voice dark, “Enzo was a handsome devil, and just as bigheaded. They are all alike, these Capriatis. But one day, their arrogance and their careless ways with the local girls will come back to haunt them, mark my words.”

A shadow crossed the sun at that moment, though no clouds littered the afternoon sky. “Alleluia,” both women muttered with a shudder, crossing themselves.

“Giovanni Capriati!” The strident cry rang across the street clear to the public square at one end, which was filled with flowers and bright-colored banners for tonight’s May Day dance for the young people. “Giovanni Capriati!”

The women gasped. That fiery voice could not be mistaken—it was Sophia Morelli, the local witch. Her heart’s treasure, her silly, pretty teenage daughter Giulia stood half-crouched behind her, sobbing.

So Anna’s prophecy was having an immediate fulfillment…and this time, not only Anna and Patrizia crossed themselves.

Yet the Capriati boy did not so much as turn his head, but he continued strutting down the road, laughing with his friends.

“Giovanni Capriati, you will stop! You will listen to me!”

With the little, careless shrug that only a Capriati could accomplish the boy turned, his dark, so-handsome-it-was-almost-pretty face bored. “Yes, Signorina Morelli? May I assist you?”

“You broke my daughter’s heart!” the famed wisewoman cried, her face scorched with the heat of livid fury. “Do you deny you met her in secret, kissed her, promised her your love and then moved on to the next girl?”

“I only kissed her! What’s the harm in that? I promised Giulia nothing, woman,” Giovanni retorted, his head high, eyes bland. “I have never done so with any girl. I am not an idiot, to make promises to a witch’s get,” he muttered to his friends. The boys laughed, nudging each other.

“I heard that, ragazzo!” Sophia’s voice rang to the rafters of each house. Within moments the windows filled with avid faces, enjoying the rare sight of someone standing up to Sophia, who knew herb lore and was rumored to have poisoned her first husband when he was unfaithful. “Now, you will pay for crossing me!”

A teary whimper came from behind her. “No, Mama, no…do not kill him! Do not hurt him! Think what you do!”

Sophia’s face, still holding a haughty loveliness at fifty, smiled at her distraught daughter. “I think of you, and the boy’s papa who broke my sister’s heart. The arrogant Capriati men need a lesson…” Her eyes flashed with magnificent fury as she threw down a little sack of herbs and flowers at the boy’s feet. “Listen, people of Trapani! You are my witnesses. I curse the Capriati men! From this day they will fall in love with women who are their complete opposites and would have nothing to do with them. For all their charm, they will discover what it is to fight for love!” She chuckled. “And they will not suspect they have met their Fate until it is too late….”

Giovanni looked around at his squirming friends with a careless grin. “This is a curse? Woman, you’re losing your touch. I thought you capable of better. As if any girl would refuse me!”

Sophia smiled and turned her daughter away from the boy the girl still adored. “You will see, arrogant bambino,” she chuckled softly. “Arrivederci to your heart, young fool. You will see.”




Chapter One


Michelson Laboratories, Sydney, the present time

If it weren’t for the monkeys, she’d never have dreamed of doing it. But there they were as usual, loud and smelly, spoiled and loved. The collective set of final straws that broke her own particular camel’s back, and changed her life.

Leaning in the doorway of the laboratory, Abigail Lucinda Miles felt the usual rush of frustrated sorrow. Of course he was still in his crumpled lab coat, leaning over his cage of beloved chimpanzees. “Hugh. You’re not ready.”

Her fiancé started, spilling his eyedropper onto the petri dish. He turned to her, his tanned, handsome face and brilliant blue eyes cool with displeasure. “You do remember that this experiment is vital, and every vial of scent costs hundreds of dollars?”

She sighed, digging her hands into her pockets. “Yes, I know, Hugh, but we’re meeting our parents in an hour at Bringelly’s to discuss the wedding…”

He added another cautious drop to the clear dish, his blond hair glinting in the light, like a Nordic god. “What—?” Then he sighed. “Oh, yes. I forgot. Can you hold them off an hour or two?”

“I don’t think they’ll mind,” she replied, but couldn’t hold in the weary smile.

The chimps jumped up and down in their series of connected cages, screaming, cackling. He swiveled back to his simian friends, his eyes on fire with eagerness. “You like that one, babies?” But seeing no sign of his long-expected reaction, he sighed. “It’s just another few months, then we can do other things.” He grabbed her shoulders, his eyes blazing. “Abigail, we’re so close. With one breakthrough we’d get the corporate funding we need, and I could move on to—”

“Getting married?” she asked, in wistful hope.

“Have I been neglecting you again?” He kissed her nose. “I thought you understood why I’ve had to concentrate on this the past few months. Sorry, baby. I’ll take Saturday off and devote the day to our wedding.”

“Really?” Her eyes lit up. “I’ll show you my dress. It’s white tulle, with a lovely tiara—and I found a great florist—”

“No wonder you’re feisty today.” His hands fell on her shoulders, breaking into her dreamworld with tender impatience. “Honestly, you scare me at times. You change as swiftly as Jekyll and Hyde. You’re on that Lucy kick again.”

Sizzling color raced up her cheeks. “Well, it is my name—well, my middle name. Abigail Lucinda Miles.” She would not give in to the sneaking shame she felt every time her parents or Hugh chided her about her “Lucy kick”—she wouldn’t!

He smiled at her over his goggles. “But it doesn’t suit you. My Abigail is quiet, modest, sensible—just like you are. But when you get on that Lucy kick, you’re illogical and wild, wanting silly things. I know what’s right for us, snooky. A small, simple at-home wedding with no tizzy dress or fuss, and funnel our efforts and funds into the experiment for now.” He smiled, winked and slapped her rear. “You can be sure I’ll be at the church on time.”

“We’re not having a church,” she muttered. “I don’t like organized religion. Do you know that about me, Hugh? Do you see me at all anymore?”

“Mmm, hmm.” Jotting down notes on the chimps’ reaction to the latest scent, he didn’t look up.

Sudden tears stung her eyes. “Hugh, do you really want to marry me, or is it because I’m Professor Miles’ daughter?”

“Hold on a tick, sweetie, just finishing these notes…” Hugh scribbled a little more, then he looked up with a slightly harassed smile. “Now what was that?”

Lowering her face to hide her confusion and sorrow, she shook her head and said the words he expected, needed her to say right now. “Nothing, Hugh. It’s not important.”

His voice filled with warm approval. “Good girl. I know it’s hard now, but we’ll take a late honeymoon when I’ve completed my experiment. We’ll go anywhere you want once I hit the big time.”

She shuffled her toe against the bench, and the words popped out against her will. “If you’d supported me when I wanted funding for my theory on organic growing of apples in arid areas, we could have enough money by now to—”

He sighed as he worked on a new scent. “I’ve told you a dozen times, baby, your idea isn’t feasible. You’re a librarian. A perfect scientist’s wife-to-be, quiet and supportive.” He gave her that quick, I-wish-you’d-go-now-I’m-busy look. “Now I really need to get back to work, all right?”

A chimp squealed. Hugh swung around, eyes blazing beneath the goggles, and started scribbling down data on the scent he’d just used. “Yes! Yes…the combination of high floral with the…”

She was invisible again. She could stand in front of him and he’d see through her, right to those petted, spoiled monkeys…

A minute later she trudged down the street to her car in the warmth of the spring evening, kicking rocks. “Is it so much to ask, to have him participate in our wedding day?” Lovely gardens and horse-drawn carriages, lace and tulle and orange blossom…Lost in dreams, she sighed. Right now, she’d settle for Hugh just waiting for her at the end of the aisle without a petri dish or a cage of chimps to distract him.

You’ll never have it—Abigail, an inner imp mocked. You’re doomed to go from neglected child to forgotten wife. You’ve lived on campus since birth. You don’t know anyone, and nothing about the world apart from theory and thesis. You’ve never been outside Sydney, barely away from the university. Face it, you’ve got nowhere else to go.

She kicked another rock. “If I’d got my apple experiment I’d have something besides the wedding to concentrate on. I’d have my wedding…and if I funded his experiment I’d get Hugh’s attention….”

Her mother’s words of last week drifted into her mind, in that cool, lecturing tone that always made her feel so childish and selfish. “His work is vital, Abigail. Don’t get so worked up about things that don’t matter in the overall scheme of things. Hugh’s research helps humanity for life. Try not to think of yourself all the time, dear. It’s only a wedding. He’ll marry you one day. Surely you can wait a few more months…or a year?”

W-well…of course she could, she’d done it before, but—but it was so embarrassing to have to cancel the wedding again….

She sighed, climbed into her old coupe and turned on the radio, letting the easy-listening music soothe her. Her eyes closed; her head fell back on the seat. “I’m better now. I’m fine. I’m happy.” The mantra of her mother’s analyst helped the panic subside. She drove home to her one-room flat, tidying her messy bun, reapplying lipstick, buttoning up her cardigan at each set of red lights. “What’s wrong with a simple wedding, and taking a honeymoon when his experiment’s complete?” She turned into the driveway, winking foolish tears away. “We’ll have a second wedding when he makes the big time….”

Try if, Abigail, that horrible inner imp mocked. Six years and he’s still no closer to his dream…and neither are you.

“Stop it. Stop it!” She shook her head to clear it, and yanked open the mailbox.

At least that brought her a little gift. Oh, joy…a fat envelope with a big, glossy sweepstakes brochure inside. She gave a whoop of delight. Reading these brochures, dreaming of winning, was her secret fantasy—a harmless double life Hugh and her parents knew nothing about. With a smile of mingled anticipation and guilty pleasure, she ripped it open.

“Congratulations to Ben Capriati, the winner of Lakelands Children’s Charities Sweepstakes Draw 224! Here’s Ben outside his grand prize, a lovely waterfront home on Queensland’s sparkling Gold Coast. Having bought the hundred-dollar option book of tickets, Ben also won two luxury cars, a boat and a Bali holiday….”

She gazed at the dark, brawny, raffishly smiling man in the black leather jacket, jeans and work boots. Lucky Ben Capriati. Even rough-riding bikers had their dreams come true.

Lucky Ben’s lady. A beautiful home, two cars, a boat and a dark, rugged man who wouldn’t forget to take her to dinner if she stopped putting monthly reminders on the calendar….

She gasped at that renegade imp taking over her mind. “Stop it. Stop it!” She read on, refusing to look at the handsome jerk with the five o’clock shadow, concentrating on the prizes he’d won. “…with ticket number…huh?” Grabbing her ticket from her purse, she checked the ticket number against hers. “What? But—but surely that’s—” She snatched up the brochure, her amazed, hungry gaze taking in the winning-ticket number, and her own. “He won?” she cried. “It’s…mine! He. Won. With my ticket!”

Minchin Hills, Gold Coast, Queensland

Another day in paradise…

Ben Capriati let himself in the back door of his gorgeous home, sweating from a midmorning barefoot run on the sandy shores of his exclusive beachfront neighborhood. Time for a lazy dip in the resort-style pool, then maybe he’d do lunch by the beach. Ah, Queensland, the glorious Sunshine State! Nine hundred kilometers north of Sydney, but a million miles from his regular life.

He’d promised himself a vacation throughout all his years of university and medical school, working two jobs to get through, and then those long, frenetic shifts at the inner-city hospital in Sydney as an intern and then resident doctor. And now, he was finally free to begin his life and profession—and this was the perfect start, a refreshing week or two before he left for the hot, dusty town of Monilough, and the Outback practice awaiting him in northwestern New South Wales.

Fun and games for one glorious week, sun and heat and Bay-watch-type babes strolling beneath a blazing clear sky, getting a tan before his eyes. And at the end of the vacation he’d sell the lot, and buy a house in the Outback town he’d signed up to help.

Now, he had the world on a string. For the first time in his life he had something wonderful all his own without working his butt off to get it, and nobody could take it from him.

Meanwhile, the pool calls! He stripped off his T-shirt and grabbed a towel.

Rap-rap-rap. Bang-bang-BANG!

He swiveled around at the aggressive belting at his door. It wasn’t a neighbor; in upscale Minchin Hills, the residents were too elegant, too refined to be so loud—or too worried about what the neighbors would think. So he faced the inescapable conclusion. Uh-oh. They found me…

A second thunderous knock jolted the house, making the door shudder. He stalked over and pulled the door half-open, rolling his eyes. Here we go! “I was wondering when you’d show up—”

“To claim my prize, you mean? You thief!”

Hmm. That gorgeous, breathy voice definitely didn’t belong to any member of his rowdy family. But—a thief? He opened the door the whole way, looked at the speaker and blinked again.

No way!

This mousy, cardigan-clad little drudge owned the sexy Marilyn voice? He couldn’t begin to guess her age with the grotesque dark shades hiding her face—not to mention the outfit. Yikes, bright green culottes and a fuzzy pink cardigan—and with that bundled-up bun, she could be a refugee from that seventies show his sister Sofie liked. Or was it The Fly? The tortoiseshell shades certainly gave her a bug-eyed look, all right.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt you…”

He dragged his attention to the voice in the background. A harassed, anxious, middle-aged man in a brown suit stood behind the woman, wringing his hands.

Ben said mildly, “May I ask what this is about?”

Hanging onto a musty tartan suitcase as if it was her only friend, the cardigan lady pushed past him, marched through the entry, plopped the case down and flung herself on his sofa…but by the simple act of nervously chewing on her thumbnail, she ruined the effect of her belligerent performance.

Ben’s eyebrows rose, checking out the suitcase, thrown between them as if it was a gauntlet. Well, given its dust, mold and moth holes, it could have come from the same bygone era.

The harassed suit-man wrung his hands again. “Please, Miss Miles, if you’ll only wait till we sort this out—”

The time-warp lady stopped chewing her finger, pulled off her shades and squared her shoulders, as if for courage—and her messy bun disintegrated. Trails of glossy, dark, twisting curls fell around her face—and she seemed to grow younger, prettier, before his bemused gaze. “Sure.” Her breathy voice brushed past Ben’s ears with a wickedly sexy effect. “I’ll, um, just wait here until you sort it out.”

Ben leaned on the doorpost in deep, quiet enjoyment, watching the queer pageant unfold before him—the nervous wreck in the doorway, and Mighty Mouse on his sofa. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. You can.” The aforesaid mouse glared at him with indignant blue eyes, her creamy face flushed and rosy. Yeah, she was young all right, and like no drudge he’d ever seen—more like a babe in hiding. “You can get out of my house!”

His eyebrows shot up. O-okay. This gal needed a diagnosis, and fast. She’d focused her anger onto a complete stranger—and she’d called him a thief. Paranoid delusions? “Sorry, Miss—Miles, was it? I think you’ve made a mistake.”

“I didn’t make a mistake.” She pointed with a stabbing motion at the suit-man. “They gave you my ticket!”

His gaze followed the accusatory finger. “Ticket?” he asked of the suit-man, hoping for a sensible answer, since the cutie in the cardigan appeared to be in severe need of Prozac—no, Xanax. She needed calming down…yeah, if she got her hands on any uppers right now she’d ruin his chance at future fatherhood.

The man smiled in half-cringing apology. “Mr. Capriati, do you remember me? I’m Ken Hill, director of Lakelands Children’s Charities Sweepstakes Draw—”

“Of course! I thought I knew your face.” Ben stepped forward to shake hands. “What’s this about my ticket?”

“My ticket!”

He swiveled back to meet her glare head-on—and then he couldn’t tear his gaze away. Maybe it was the wild dark curls cascading around her waiflike face in such sweet disarray, or the pink-lipped half pout, all but begging to be kissed. “Fine, your ticket,” he agreed, to placate her.

She smiled in triumph at Mr. Hill. “See? He admits it!”

“Whoa.” He lifted a hand. “I don’t admit to anything until I know what I’m admitting to.”

She tossed her head. “You stole my prizes!”

“Uh-huh.” He tried not to grin. This gal was nuts! Cute, but nuts. “Can you explain how I managed that when we’ve never even met?”

“Okay, it’s his fault!” She pointed at Mr. Hill who still stood dithering in the entryway.

“Well, um—” Mr. Hill stammered, “it seems there’s been some confusion with the winning ticket in your draw, Mr. Capriati. It appears you and Miss Miles received the same numbered ticket.”

“It’s my ticket!”

Ben smiled, trying to soothe her. “How about we let Mr. Hill tell his story before we fight over whose ticket it is?”

Mr. Hill’s wrinkled face lightened, looking intensely grateful for the intervention. “We’ve been experiencing, ah, technical difficulties with the system of ticket distribution—”

Cardigan Cutie jumped in again. “What he means is their lawyer embezzled all the money set aside for new computers, and the system crashed the day they made up our tickets.”

“Uh-huh. Go on, Mr. Hill,” he murmured.

Mr. Hill sighed. “Unfortunately, Miss Miles is right. Our computers have now been replaced, but the day we sent out your tickets the old computers glitched, and sent out two copies each of twelve sets of tickets, but with different names on each set. The glitch affected the winning ticket, plus the one-off prizes. At the moment, we’re unsure to which of you the win belongs. Miss Miles came to our office this morning—”

“Threatening litigation,” she said. How did she manage to sound smug, breathless, nervous, exhilarated and terrified at once? “They didn’t notify me about the mix-up. They hoped I’d never find out!” She lifted an eyebrow as Mr. Hill squirmed. “W-well?”

Ben looked into her eyes. Calm her down, or there’s no telling what she’ll do next! “Can we please let Mr. Hill finish what he’s got to say first?”

The girl tossed her head, her face mutinous…and this time he couldn’t hold back the grin. Flying dark curls, roses-and-cream skin, pouty mouth, big, scornful Irish eyes and a sinful whisky voice against a crazy circus getup. Man, she was right out of the ordinary—and her apparent addiction to possessive italics only added to her unconscious appeal. With the right outfit, she’d hit the big-time honey league—and if she’d shown up for any other reason, he might’ve helped her to discover the fact. As a lifetime connoisseur of good-looking women—but only in the past seven years when he found a spare minute or two—he’d rate this one at least a 9, maybe 9.5 out of 10. Apart from the charity-bin duds, of course.

“Um,” Mr. Hill went on, “since this has no precedent, I explained to Miss Miles that we’ll need time to sort out the legalities. But she insisted on coming to the house—”

“Or I’d take it to the media.” She looked absurdly pleased with her inventiveness, like a little girl who’d pushed a chair to the cookie jar. “The ticket’s as much mine as yours. These prizes should be mine. So here I am—here I stay—and you can’t make me go. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.” She looked at him in defiant, half-scared challenge, as if she’d surprised even herself with her own audacity. As if she’d scooped up a dozen cookies in her hands already, and expected him to snatch them away from her any second.

That was it. He was gone. Ben’s mouth twitched once, then again, before he gave in and burst out laughing.

She jerked up on the sofa and clutched the sides of her cardigan together, gaping at him in the most comic, kissable indignation he’d ever seen. “You’re laughing at me?”

“Can’t—can’t—” He doubled over, hanging on to the wall for balance, his stomach hurting with the uncontrollable gusts of laughter. He couldn’t figure out if she belonged in a museum or an asylum. “You’re a riot, babe. A five-foot-two cardigan-clad home invader, and I can’t make you go?”

A shudder ran through her. “Don’t patronize me, Capriati—” his name spoken in total distaste “—and don’t call me babe. It’s a demeaning term designed to relegate women to sexual objects.”

“Okay, Miss Miles,” he laughed, amused by her indignation, and her dislike of him—meeting a woman less than eager to please was a rare thing for him. “I agree possession is nine-tenths of the law—but you’ve missed a vital point. With myself also in possession, you only have four and a half of those nine…and since I possess the keys I can pick you up, dump you on the doorstep and retain my nine without a hassle.”

She gasped, jumped to her feet and pointed at him like a lawyer in court. “Try it, you ignorant ape. I’ll sue you for assault. With Mr. Hill to act as witness in court for me—” Mr. Hill visibly paled at her words, and edged toward the door “—I’ll get everything!”

Oh, man, this was an even better way to spend a vacation! A challenge, a crazy scenario, and a smart, pretty, slightly off-the-wall girl who wanted to beat him instead of winning him over. Yeah, this was gonna be fun! Aiming to rile her, he winked. “Go for it. I dare you to try.”

“Try? I’ll win. I’ll win the lot!” She stood quivering before him, flushed with fury, her lovely eyes shooting sparks at him. She was so spitting-mad sweet he wanted to scoop her up against him and pet her until she purred….

Something inside him skidded to a shocked halt. What was going on here? Why wasn’t he furious at this unannounced invasion of his house? This feeling of utter delight at the prospect of spending a few days with her—even if she gadded about in those trailer-park-reject duds—was completely insane.

Ben was a guy who usually went with his gut instinct—he had to in his career, it often saved lives—but this whole scenario was too weird to trust. Somehow it felt as if this girl, this Miss Miles, was meant to come here to him. As if it was—fate, kismet, serendipity. Or—

Oh, no. It can’t be! Not the Capriati Curse!

All his life he’d seen the effect of this ridiculous Curse on the men in his family. In a hundred and fifty years none had beaten the fate laid down by the furious Sicilian wisewoman. Her daughter’s broken heart led her to place the Curse upon his careless, flirtatious great-great-great-grandfather, who’d ended up falling madly in love with a shy, stuttering girl who’d made him wait for her for seven agonizing years while she nursed her sick mother before she’d marry him.

Not that he’d cared. For when a Capriati man loved, the woman was always an absolute opposite to him, yet he remained hopelessly in love for the rest of his life.

It had even happened to Papa. Mama had been his fiancée’s bridesmaid-to-be. He’d met her only at the wedding rehearsal two days before the wedding. The very public furor created by that case of Capriati love made him shudder, every time he thought about it.

In fact, every case of Capriati love made him shudder in absolute horror. Capriati men lost their heads and any semblance of control over their lives whenever they lost their heart. His was staying intact, thank you very much.

No way. No way! This Curse will not happen to me—and it definitely won’t be with a stitched-up lunatic like this one!

No way. If this was the Curse acting on him, he’d fight destiny with a smile, and defy fate with a laugh. “Then I guess it’s showdown, or standoff, Miss Miles. We’ll just have to find out if this house is big enough for both of us.”




Chapter Two


“You think this is a joke?”

She gaped at him in total incredulity. This half-naked crazy Neanderthal was all but rolling on the pristine white carpet in laughter. He was laughing at this situation? “What sort of idiot thinks losing half a million dollars is funny?”

The infuriating ape straightened up, leaned back on the wall and folded his arms over the muscles of his bare chest, wearing a big, dimpled Cheshire-cat grin. “Life’s too short to get uptight. And since I plan on winning this race, I might as well enjoy the ride to the finish line.”

She gulped. Throwback to a lower stage of evolution he might be, but with his lithe build, bronzed skin, careless dark hair flopped over his forehead and deep, dark eyes that twinkled…well, even in her prejudiced view, Ben Capriati could speed up the average female pulse without trying. There was something so lush and Mediterranean, so inherently sensuous about him a woman couldn’t help but respond to—

Other women, not me! I’m far too intelligent to—

“No comeback? Given your ingenuity in getting in here, I thought you’d be a worthier opponent.” After a moment he added, “You need help? I can always rile you into a reply—babe.”

“You’re—you’re crude.” As crude as George of the Jungle—and every bit as gorgeous, even wearing running shorts instead of a loincloth. Something about him oozed raw sexuality…

So don’t look! I’m not here to do anything but take his prizes or some of them. Just enough to fund the wedding. He’s standing in the way of my story-book wedding to my perfect man.

“Amateur,” he taunted, without malice. “Come on, I’m waiting. Go for it. Hit me with your best shot.”

“We’ll—we’ll see about that!” She studiously kept her eyes above the neck, feeling like a Peeping Tom.

Mr. Hill edged nearer to the door. “Then, Mr. Capriati, if you have no objection to Miss Miles residing here—”

“He has no legal right to object! Does he?” she asked in sudden, confused anxiety. “I mean, if it’s my ticket, too—”

“Hey, no objections from me.” The ape leaned farther into the wall of the entry to the living room, lazy amusement in every feature. He didn’t seem in the least worried by her presence or threats. “Would I object to such gorgeous, charming company?”

“Oh, typical,” she muttered, squashing the twinge of hurt. No man ever had, or ever would, call her gorgeous….

“Typical of what?” He slanted her a rakish, wicked grin as she floundered, deriving great enjoyment from her dilemma. “Of?”

She drew a breath, garnered up her courage and said it. “Of—of modern-day proof that the reversion to the caveman Neanderthal isn’t yet extinct, but alive and well in the male population!”

He grinned at her, as if her insult didn’t bother him in the least. “According to leading anthropologists and paleontologists, Neanderthals were pretty sophisticated dudes, hut dwellers and toolmakers living prior to the Pleistocene era—almost modern man as we know it. Grunting, women-dragging cavemen are considered to be more in line with an earlier period, possibly the Paleolithic. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

Her jaw almost hit the ground. “How did you know—?”

“Let’s say I subscribe to the occasional scientific journal when I’m desperate for entertainment.” His grin slanted sideways, charming and raffish as a Hollywood buccaneer. “Look, Miss—no, that’s ridiculous. If we’re going to cohabit for the next week or so and exchange mutually satisfying insults, we can at least drop the mister-miss farce. What’s your name?”

She froze. “My—my name?”

“Yeah, your name. Like mine’s Ben? You know—Miss, fill-in-the-blank, Miles.” His hands made typing gestures. “The thing other people call you, and you answer to. The semiunique title that stops me from yelling, ‘Hey, lady!’, and half the adult population of Southeastern Queensland from turning around.”

“Do—do you think—” The half-guilty temptation overcame the prompting of her conscience. What does it matter? He’ll be out of my life in a few days. She peeped at him in wistful appeal. “Do you think you could call me Lucy?”

Both eyebrows lifted. “Do I think I could call you Lucy? Is it your name, or isn’t it?”

Sensing defeat, she sighed. “Well, my real name is Abigail—Abigail Lucinda Miles—so everyone calls me Abigail. It’s a quiet, sensible, modest name, like me, but—but I don’t like it. I’d love for somebody to call me Lucy, just once,” she murmured wistfully.

“Um, right.” To her surprise, he chuckled again. “Well, sorry to disagree with the apparent powers that be, but so far, based on our short acquaintance, sensible, quiet and modest are the last terms I’d think of in connection with you.”

A mixture of total disbelief and pure joy budded to a flower of hope inside her. “Then you’ll call me Lucy?”

“Sure,” he agreed, with a cheerful air. “I like it. Lucy’s more your speed than Abigail—at least once the hair’s down and the cardigan’s skew-wif, like it is now.”

“That’s what I think! But—” Then she gasped. “My…hair? My cardigan?” She rushed to the mirror over the hall stand, and saw her hair in a tumbled mess and her cardigan slipping from one shoulder, leaving it almost bare. “Oh, dear, it’s all the fuss and upset. I need to calm down, do my positive affirm—” She slammed her mouth shut, concentrating on tidying the mess she was in. “Much better. I’m fine. I’m happy. I feel settled, and—” She turned back, satisfied, to see the ape watching her, containing his obvious amusement. “What are you laughing at now?”

“Whoever the fool was that thought you sensible or quiet.” He shook his head. “What sort of jerks are you hanging around?”

She bristled. “They’re not jerks. My family are highly respected members of the scientific community! Mother is a professor of biology, Father is an endocrinologist, and Hugh, my fiancé, is a geneticist!”

His eyebrows lifted. “How intimidating of them.”

Tossing her hair in defiance of his flippant attitude, she snapped, “I’m proud to be part of a scientific family. I’m a scientific librarian myself. I catalog and store some of the most important work ever done in this country!”

“I see.” His voice quivered. “No wonder you’re proud of yourself. That’s very, um, impressive.”

Stealing another peek at him, she saw that he didn’t look impressed in the least—more as if he was getting a huge kick out of every word she said. His dark eyes were alight with laughter; his big, bronzed, well-defined and dark-haired chest above his flat, hard stomach, shook with the effort of repressing his glee.

What was she doing, noticing his chest— that strong, olive-brown, muscular chest with enough dark springing hair to beg a woman to curl her fingers through it….

Oh, dear. Houston, we have a problem!

And she knew just what it was. She’d studied this well-known scientific effect on the feminine psyche for a thesis four years ago. The instinctive reaction to a tall, dark, strong-chested man: the type who could fight off invaders, hunt, provide for his woman, rescue his children from danger. This—this thing that had just happened to her was based on pheromone release alone. She’d thought herself above this unconscious reversion to her caveman ancestors; but, to her horror, her primal and base inner self was checking Ben Capriati out as a potential provider.

She shook herself, like a dog shaking water off its fur. No need to make a big deal of this! It was a scientific glitch: a simple case of recessive genetic memory dominating her better self. It had nothing to do with—couldn’t be—chemistry.

Physical attraction to an underdressed, seemingly unintelligent biker who did nothing but laugh at her, when she already had a reasoned, intellectual man all her own? Ugh. It couldn’t be!

It’s possibly more to do with the fact that you’ve been all but invisible to Hugh for the past year or two, the imp whispered from the back stalls of her mind.

She tossed her head, unaware that her hair fell from its bun again, spilling her despised curls around her face. “I suppose you think you’re funny. People who spend their lives contributing to the human race are something to mock. I feel sorry for you.”

“If it makes you feel better,” he replied with unimpaired cheerfulness. “I was about to go for a swim. Want to jump in with me, Lucy?” His eyes gleamed in wicked fun. “Swimsuit optional.”

“Oh—” she gasped, trying to keep the indignation, but a sudden 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—

“So is Hugh—he’s in perfect shape,” she muttered.

You just haven’t seen him in anything but his lab coat for a really long time.

She wheeled away to look out the window. This situation was out of control already. What could she do?

Call Hugh. Yes! She needed his calm voice, his practical reassurance to help her get past this stupid internal glitch, telling her against all logic that Ben Capriati was…was…

Highly attractive? Sexy? Downright gorgeous?

No! I’m just out of my element. I’m taking in new experiences—and of course a man like Ben is attractive to all women.

Say it, Lucy, the imaginary imp, her only friend in her isolated world as a child, urged her on. You’ve never had time off before, never been off the leash. You’ve never even been able to talk without Mother and Father and Hugh telling you that what you want and say and think is wrong—and you’re already having the time of your life!

And the worst part of it was, she didn’t even feel guilty—and she didn’t want to call Hugh, either.

The thunder of feet thumping down the stairs halted her in her tracks; her hand froze over the phone. Either she’d been lost in thought for ages, or Ben took the world’s fastest shower. He was back, wearing surf shorts, a T-shirt and slip-on shoes, his hair dripping wet. Even in such an innocuous outfit he looked dark, dangerous and blatantly masculine—like a dreaming pirate.

How was she going to spend days and nights in the company of this man, without succumbing to the temptation of—

He grabbed her hand. “So let’s do it.”

She looked down at her hand nestled in his, then up to his face, to the eyes full of bedroom twinkle and a chin of five o’clock shadow even before lunch. Her heart pounding beneath her ribs, she managed to stutter, “D-do—do it?”

“Yeah. You’re hungry. I’m hungry. You need caffeine. Let’s sit in the sun and watch the world walk past.”

“I—but—” She blinked to reorient herself. Right. Kitchen. House. Going out for coffee and food. “What’s the purpose of this excursion? We could buy groceries and stock the house to cook—”

“The purpose, Lucy, is to have fun. F.U.N. Ever hear of it?”

She pulled her hand out of his, stung by the unspoken accusation. “Don’t you work?”

“Not in November—it’s fun-and-games month,” he shot back, laughing. “We both want to eat, so we might as well improve our tans and your temper while we do it. C’mon, Lucy, we’re holed up together, so why not relax? This is the Gold Coast. The laid-back and kick-off-your-shoes vacation capital of Australia. Enjoy it. Soak it in.”

She hesitated. “Well, I suppose, since we’ve been forced to stay together—”

“—we might as well enjoy ourselves while we suspect each other of felonious activities,” he finished cheerfully.

A sidelong glance. “I want a set of keys to the house.”

He leaned over to the wooden rack at the side of the fridge, and handed her a set of keys. “Satisfied?”

“Not until I try them out.” Thrusting out her chin, she dared him. “You go through the door first.”

“Uh-uh. No way.” He grabbed both her hands, linking his fingers through hers. “Consider us superglued and handcuffed. What we do, we do together until this situation’s untangled.”

She eyed the doorway, thinking of the implications of his words with a half-guilty thrill. “We won’t fit,” she argued, her mind filled with delicious, forbidden visions.

He looked her over. “You’re a bitty thing. A tight squeeze, but we’ll just make it, in my professional opinion.”

“Professional what?”

“Professional door-squeezer,” he returned promptly—too promptly? Her eyes narrowed, staring at him. Was he hiding something inside the words? “C’mon, Lucy, superglued and handcuffed—or will you trust me not to lock the door in your face after you go first? Me being the gentleman I am and all.”

“I—I don’t know if I should—”

As if he knew all her hidden fears, he leaned close and whispered, “A whole new world awaits, Lucy Miles, scientific librarian. All you have to do is walk through that door.”

A new world. Oh, he was more right than he knew, and the idea scared her more than she’d admit. But she’d stepped outside her cloistered world last night, the door already breached. There was no turning back now. Taking a deep breath she charged to the door and opened it with a defiant toss of her head, like a warrior going into the Crusades. “Well, let’s do it.”

Those expressive dark eyes filled with laughter as he turned sideways, grabbing her other hand again. “Crabs.”

She gasped. “What?”

He pulled her against him. “Crab-walking’s the only way we’ll get out of here under our superglued and handcuffed, chained-to-each-other policy. Let’s go.”

Uh-oh. Just as well he was holding her up, for her stupid genetic code chose that precise moment to act out again. So a woman’s knees could turn weak at the touch of a man’s body. At the feel of skin against skin, male against female, muscled strength against tender femininity…

What am I thinking? Science, wedding, Hugh—SCIENCE!

Yes, she could focus…just as soon as she could stop feeling his strong chest and taut stomach muscles against her as they shuffled sideways together. When the strange sweetness of his muscled arm around her waist wore off. And when that fresh male scent he wore stopped making her head spin so deliciously…

Ben had the door shut before she realized they were outside. “Welcome back to the outside world. Want to test out your keys?”

Oops, she was still walking sideways—and clinging to him. “Oh. Yes, of course.”

The keys worked just fine. Deflated, she turned back to him, but couldn’t look up. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

“For what?”

“For not cheating.” She gave a little, embarrassed shrug.

“I’m not that much of a Neanderthal, Lucy, I promise.”

She looked up, seeing no hint of laughter in his eyes. He looked awkward, even hurt. She bit her lip. “I’m sorry, Ben.”

“You have an amazing voice.” He smiled then, a personal, spine-tingling look. “All breathy and voluptuous. Little girlish, yet all woman. You know, like the way Marilyn Monroe sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to JFK.”

Oh, yes, she knew…the dress, the woman, the powerful male…

“I suspect untold depths live and pulse beneath that cardigan of yours,” Ben said softly. “What’s going on in your mind to put such a dazed, sexy look on your face?”

The bubble burst. “I’m not sexy!”

“You know, an hour ago, I’d have agreed with you. I thought you were a drudge at first.” He shook his head, and that rebel lock of hair fell back over his forehead. “But you’ve changed so many times in the past hour, I can’t wait to see what comes next. I suspect you’re a lady of mercurial depths beneath your prosaic exterior, Lucy Miles. I’d love to see you lose the cardigan.”

“No!” she gasped, pulling it tighter around her.

“And let your hair down, spilling all over your shoulders,” continued the sinuous voice of temptation in her ear.

“Never!”

“And barefoot, running free in the wind and sun, that soft, creamy skin of yours all flushed and hot…”

Hmm…

Stop it!

She kept a close hold of her sweater, glaring at him. “Well, you won’t, and that’s all. Ben—Mr. Capriati—I’m engaged, and I won’t take off my cardigan for any man but Hugh!”

To her dismay, he burst out laughing.

“What?” she demanded, exasperated. Why did he keep laughing at her when no one else ever thought she was funny?

He fell against the wall, in gasping chuckles. “Now I see your problem—you were born in the wrong century. You won’t take off your cardigan for me?” He doubled right over.

Tears sprang to her eyes. “That was unkind of you to say,” she whispered. “And—and you’re wrong. Mother and Father and Hugh are all wrong. I am not a genetic throwback. I am not a poor, submissive little woman who’s only good for supporting things more important than me! I’m a human being, and you will treat me with basic respect, d-do you understand?” She scrubbed at her eyes.

He looked at her for a long moment, with a quiet soberness in his handsome face. “I didn’t mean it. I was jerking your chain. Teasing is my worst habit, according to my family. I’m sorry.” He spoke with the same awkward sincerity he’d used over the keys. “C’mon, let’s go. I won’t laugh at you any more. Scout’s honor.”

“Were you ever a Scout?” she asked doubtfully.

He grinned then. “Suspicious woman. You wound me, Lucy-babe. Just coffee, croissants and pleasant conversation, I swear.”

She resisted the urge to smile, but it was oh, so hard. “I don’t trust you an inch.” Her stomach rumbled again in aggressive protest, and they both laughed. “Well, all right, but I’m only coming for the food. And don’t call me babe!”




Chapter Three


She’d never been in a convertible before…

So seductive. With the top down, they roared through the beachside city. The warm wind blew through her hair, the spring sun touched her skin, and a dark, dangerous man sat beside her, who even made changing gears a sensual caress of the stick. A capable male as well as physically attractive…

Stop thinking about it!

She couldn’t help it. Surfer’s Paradise was known as the Sin City of Queensland. Hot temptation beckoned everywhere; seduction breathed in every pore. It had a life all its own, pulsing from a twenty-mile strip of creamy-white sand—the soft rhythmic throb of spilling waves, its glittering duty-free stores and luxury hotels. Cosmopolitan eateries and open-air markets, pubs, casinos and nightclubs lined every corner.

I can respect you, Abigail. You’re so high-minded, above wanting all the flashy, superficial things other women crave.

Bad girl. Bad girl, the imp whispered. And oh, aren’t we enjoying it for once…

Then Ben roared into a parking space on the strip in front of all the unbroken sand and surf. “Not bad, eh? Doesn’t my sweet Jessica purr like a kitten? And you’ve got to admit the scenery’s not half-bad.” His voice caressed her, wafting over her heated skin like a lover’s touch. “No lab test can reproduce it, no photo lab can airbrush it. Heat and sand and the coolness of the waves, a brilliantine sky you could almost walk into. The sexiest strip of land on earth. Like a siren song for the senses.”

Lucy turned to look at him in despair. What was this man, fate’s punishment for her secret life? “Jessica?” she croaked.

“Hmm.” Ben’s hand glided in slow appreciation along the dash. “My Jessica. She reminds me of an old flame of mine. Long and sleek and fast, oozing sensuality.”

She shook her head to clear the graphic image. “Listen to yourself. You’re talking about a car, Ben. A car! Honestly, don’t you think of anything but sex?”

He grinned. “Not when you rise to the bait every time. You’re like a wriggling fish on a hook. I can’t resist.”

“Does Jessica exist?” she demanded.

He gave her a rueful grin. “I wasn’t laughing at you this time—just teasing you a bit.” He touched her face, smiling whimsically. “You look so adorable when you gape at me. Or when you blush. Especially when you blush.”

She bit her lip, feeling the tide of color fill her cheek. Every time she thought she had him pegged, he said things that were so completely enchanting….

“Yeah, that’s the one. It’s cute, sweet—and so sexy.”

The violin symphony in her head came to a screeching halt. “I’m engaged. You shouldn’t be saying things like that to me!”

He shrugged, keeping an obvious distance. “It’s just harmless fun, Lucy. Talking doesn’t have to become doing.” He gave her a genuinely puzzled look. “Haven’t you ever flirted before—just for fun? I’m not going to proposition you.”

“I have more important things to do with my life.” Heat scalded her face now. Had she ever flirted with a man? Did she know how? “This is a ridiculous conversation.” She leaped out of the car and stalked ahead of him to the main boulevard.

Within seconds he’d caught up with her, and led her to an outdoor restaurant in the sunshine, across from the beach. “You would frequent a café that becomes a bar at night,” she muttered.

“You really need to lighten up, Lucy.” He seated her at a table, sat down opposite her and waved a hand over the glorious vista. “Look at it. Soak it in. Warm sun, white sand, the sound and scent of surf, the beautiful people strolling by.”

“With nothing better to do than stroll,” she remarked, trying to ignore those seductive sights and scents. “Don’t they work?”

The waitress arrived, and they gave their orders; then Ben leaned back in his chair, face tilted up to the warm, cloudless sky. “Should people spend all their time working?”

“Why not? Man is a working animal, and—”

“Are you talking about yourself, or your fiancé?” She felt herself crimson with guilt and confusion. The incredulity was plain in his voice as he asked, “You mean your fiancé doesn’t even take days off to spend time with you?”

She bit her lip. He’s a stranger. He can’t make you cry. “He’s a dedicated scientist, helping people in need. And at least he works, not like some people.”

He leaned back in his chair, pushing his sunglasses farther up his nose. “You know, that’s a bad habit of yours. We met less than two hours ago, yet you think you’ve got me all figured out. What if you’re wrong?”

“Maybe I did jump to conclusions—but you did, too, in judging Hugh without even having met him,” she pointed out.

He bit his lip; a quirky, rueful grin emerged. “Touché, my friend. Good call. So I did. Very immature of me.”

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have said it—but look at you.” A hand swept over him. “You’re here doing nothing at all. You win those wonderful prizes, and use them to foster a sedentary lifestyle instead of getting a decent trade—”

Ben’s mouth quivered with the need to laugh. Man, she was cute when she was off on one of her tangents and so totally different from any other woman who saw him as Ben, the doctor, with all the potential for a comfortable lifestyle it implied, that he couldn’t resist keeping up the beach-bum image. He’d finally met one young, unmarried woman who didn’t see him as a potential source of future funds, and somehow it charmed him. “I’m thirty-one, Lucy. Do you think anyone’s going to take me on as their apprentice now?”

Their orders came, and the glorious scent of warm caffe latte and fresh, hot croissants assailed her roiling stomach. She snatched up a croissant and buttered it, spreading thick jam over it, and gulped down the first mouthful with an ecstatic sigh. “Maybe not—but any college would take you as a student,” she mumbled, her mouth full. “You could have a decent job—maybe with computers—within months. It could change your life!”

“Ick. Can’t imagine sitting on my butt at a computer all my life.” Ben buttered his croissant as she wolfed hers down with an ecstasy so strong she couldn’t contain it. “And I’ve already done the university-college trip. I don’t plan on repeating it anytime soon.” He grinned and winked at her.

Her tirade halted abruptly. Oh, why did he have to smile like that? He made it a species all its own: warm, intimate, as if she was the only woman in the world…. She gulped down coffee, scorching her mouth. “You’ve been to university?”

He lifted the shades, highlighting the thick black lashes fringing his eyes: dark, exotic, with the luscious, inherent sensuality of a Mediterranean background. She’d always had a guilty passion for Italian men. “Ask nicely, Lucy, and you shall receive.” When she frowned, confused, he said softly, “Say my name in the sexy voice of yours, and I’m putty in your hands.”

She struggled, torn between indignation and temptation, but it seemed she’d left her self-control behind in Sydney, and she couldn’t resist. “Have you been to university—Ben?”

“Aaah, that’s the one.” He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. “I’ve been to university. I endured years of it, so I’ll never go back, whether it makes me a dropout or not.”

She wanted to condemn him for his lack of staying power, but she was led on by a raging curiosity to know more about the sort of man who’d not only always been off-limits, but was also her secret fantasy. A dark, dangerous bad boy. “And you’re Italian?”

“My dad is—hence the name Capriati. He was born to a pair of Bronx-born Sicilian-Americans who moved to Sydney in the early fifties, when he was seventeen.”

She blinked at the sudden overload of information. “Your father’s American?”

“With a strange half Bronx, half Australian accent to boot.” He laughed. “My mother’s Irish-Australian, and Papa’s family, proud of their Sicilian heritage, have barely forgiven her for the crime—not to mention that they met only two days before his wedding to a nice Italian girl.” An inscrutable look passed over his face. “Mama and Papa got married four months later.”

Obviously, that was a subject to leave alone. “I’m Irish, too—well, my grandparents were, on both parents’ sides,” she said, smiling. “Do the family punish you for being Australian?”

“I was always bigger than them, so they didn’t get too nasty.” He winked again. “Now it’s my turn. Do you have brothers or sisters?”

She shook her head. “My parents had me when they were in their early forties. I was—unplanned.”

“But not unwelcome?”

She gulped more coffee. She’d been having fun; the last thing she wanted to do right now was to think about her life. Her father and mother were always so dedicated to science, her birth and upbringing having been somewhat of an afterthought for them both. Her grandparents had died before she’d been born, and with no other relatives in the country, she’d been brought up in special preschools and advanced learning centres aimed at developing her potential. In all her life, she’d rarely spent time with her parents except in the car, and at dinner. Shush, Abigail, no talking at the table. Your father’s trying to think, and I have papers to mark. “No,” she answered, her voice scratchy. “Not unwelcome.”

“What made you become a science librarian? You said your parents were scientists. Was it genetic, or exposure?”

She shrugged. “I always loved books. I spent a lot of time in the university library after school.” Go read a book, Abigail. We’re busy. “To become a librarian seemed a natural progression. Do you have brothers or sisters?” she asked, to turn the subject.

“Three younger brothers, Joe, Marco and Jack, and just one sister, Sofie—and believe me, she’s enough. She more than outyells all four of us guys.” He mock-grimaced. “She never shuts up. I put a padlock on my door just for some peace when I lived at home.”

“You don’t know how lucky you are.” As a little girl, she’d been scared sometimes that the silence would drive her mad. Oh, how she’d wished for a big, noisy family to love. “Don’t take your family for granted.”

He grinned. “I wouldn’t dare. Now let’s cheer up. We’re out in the sunshine, by the beach—”

She sighed and put her mug down with a rattle. “Ben…”

“Hey, come on, Lucy, give it a rest. A week off won’t destroy the world.” He shook his head. “Do you know what a sexy voice you have, by the way? It’s like a fantasy come to life—”

“You have fantasies, too?” With a wide-open grin of joy she pounced on him. “I’ve always had—”

“Aha!” He grinned at her as she stuffed her runaway mouth with croissant. “I knew there were untold depths to plumb beneath that prim, sterile facade of yours, Abigail Lucinda Miles.”

The croissant nearly choked her. “Sterile. Sterile!” she gasped, in an outrage totally disproportionate to the word.

“Yeah. Like a lab bench. Germfree. Without spot from the world.” Flipping his shades up to rest on his hair, he watched her in amusement, leaning right back until the chair seemed ready to crash on the pavement. “But I suspect the volcano of repressed human emotion is about to erupt all over me.”

“W-well, it’s your fault,” she hiccupped, feeling too indignant to care how she spoke to him. “You called me sterile—”

“I beg your pardon, Ms. Miles. Obviously I was wrong.” He sipped his coffee, still watching her in lazy interest. “So, was the S word the catalyst for this volatile chemical reaction in your emotive recesses to allow you to admit to a fantasy life, or was I somehow involved?”

“The s word,” she returned far too quickly.

“Uh-uh, Lucy. You’re fibbing. The original sexy dreamer’s look was on your face long before I said the dreaded s word. Well, what do you know.” His grin grew wide. “A guy like me—the kind you despise—is a catalyst for your feminine fantasies.”

Hating that he’d plumbed the truth inside her silly, unscientific soul, she mumbled, “It’s not you. It’s the crazy things you say! All that talk of beaches and sun and singing to the president—”

“You like that one?” His voice was soft, enticing. “We could act it out if you want. I’d love to play president to that gorgeous Marilyn voice of yours.”

Don’t go there! But the vision flashed into her mind: plain, uninteresting Abigail Lucinda Miles in a shimmering white gown, singing to this gorgeous caveman—her every breathy word filled with sensual promise….

A caress on her palm, warm and tender as the touch of a wafting breeze. “Tell me your dreams and fantasies, Lucy, and I could help make them come true.”

Lost, helpless, she gazed at him. The man she’d written off as an ignorant caveman understood her better than her own family; he knew more about her in four hours than the man she’d been in love with for six years. For the first time in twenty-eight years she had a kindred spirit—a man who slotted right into those fantasies as if he’d always lived there. If she wanted to play…

Abigail, dear, do try not to be so selfish. Hugh’s work helps humanity.

She bit her lip, frowned, closed her eyes and blurted it out. “No, I don’t want. I don’t want anything from you but my prizes.” She stuffed the croissant in her mouth, jumped to her feet and took off running for the car.

Ben watched her bolt, and sighed. “You and your big mouth, Capriati,” he grumbled. “You should have known it was too early to put the plan in action.” He stalked inside, dumped some money on the counter and took off after her.

Lucy ran as fast as she could, but he caught up to her a minute later. “Lucy, wait.”

“Go away!” She kept stalking down the hot pavement, past sunshine-soaked beach apartment buildings and waving palms and tropical gardens toward the car.

He strode around her, blocking her flight right in a patch of melting, ocean-scented sunlight. He took her jaw in his hand, gently making her look at him. “I was just teasing. And even if I wasn’t, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone has their little dreams, even the scientific giants. Think of them—Einstein, Bell, Franklin, the Curies, Galileo. Without their dreams, the world would be a poorer place.”

Lucy peeped up at him, blinking, as dazed as if she stood on shifting ground. “N-no. That’s not right. Hugh doesn’t dream.”

“Sure he does.” The hand touching her chin moved a fraction, not enough to be called a caress. “What does he do in his line? Treat people, or is he into the research side of things?”

“R-research,” she replied, barely realizing she was purring.

“So he’s looking to find some new cure, something no one else has found. That’s his dream.”

“That’s not his dream, it’s his goal. It’s vital to have goals. My dreams are nothing life changing. They’re just…silly.”

“That’s what they thought about Ben Franklin. People said Einstein was crazy.” Gentle hands fell on her wrists, pushing her sleeves up her arms. The cool sea breeze caressed her heated flesh, and she sighed in unconscious relief. She was so hot…. “Your dreams may not save the world, but if they make you happy, and they don’t hurt anyone, why not indulge a little?”

“I—I can’t….” She licked her upper lip, scared, fascinated and so tempted….

Are you ready for this? If you go forward, you can never go back and when this time’s over with Ben, you’ll be all alone.

She jerked out from under his mesmerizing touch. “N-no. No! You’re wrong. Self-discipline and hard work is the key to true happiness, fulfillment and career achievement!”

“Fulfillment and career achievement. You sound like a parrot,” he muttered in disgust. “Who taught you that rubbish?”

She frowned and looked away. “I can think for myself,” she said quietly. “And even if it were from my parents or fiancé, it’s not your place to call it rubbish. I don’t belittle your family or beliefs.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He threw up his hands. “And I know the basic premise of what you said is right. There are millions of wonderful people who spend their lives caring for others or to make medical or scientific breakthroughs, and that’s great. But they want to do that. If they choose it—if it gives them pleasure, and helps others—well, good for them. But if you fulfill your harmless dreams for a few days, and make yourself happy—why deny yourself of that? What good does that do for you, your family or the world?”

She almost grabbed the tree for balance as the world rocked beneath her. Was—was Ben right? Hugh and her parents were happy, doing what they wanted with their lives—but was she? “But they’re noble, and I’m so banal.” Her head drooped in shame. “Hugh and my father want to save future generations from deadly diseases…my mother wants to educate people, and my dreams are to water-ski and swim with dolphins!”

“Hey, nice call. I’d love to try it—and it’s doable. We’ll hire the gear and a driver, and take a day trip out to South Stradbroke Island.” He smiled at her. “Think of it, Lucy. Serene warm ocean, the sensation of flying through the air and water at once. Swimming with the loveliest of God’s creatures.”

Stamping her foot in frustration, she whacked the pavement. “Ow! No, you don’t understand! Hugh wants to change the DNA strand that causes Down’s syndrome or spina bifida, and all I want to do is kiss a dark stranger on a crowded dance floor!”

Ben shrugged. “Why not? I’m sure the stranger won’t object, especially if you got that curvy body into a little black dress and let your hair down, showing off your gorgeous face.”





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