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“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.”