Her mother would never let her wear high-street labels. ‘Common,’ she called them.
‘Well take this, Mother,’ Charlie said to the mirror as she decided to buy three new common outfits. In fact, she would wear the one she had on out of the store. Gathering up the rest of the clothes, she left the change room and placed them on the counter. Pulling a credit card from her wallet, she handed it to the sales assistant.
‘È diminuito,’ the woman said a few minutes later.
Charlie stared at the woman’s sullen face. ‘Sorry?’
Instead of answering, the sales assistant picked up a pair of scissors, held up Charlie’s credit card and snipped it in half.
For a moment Charlie stood looking blank, astonished. ‘Hey,’ Charlie exclaimed. ‘You can’t do that.’ But the woman simply picked up the stack of new clothes and placed them out of Charlie’s reach as if she expected her to snatch them and run.
Charlie dived back into her wallet. The woman’s disapproving eyes narrowed. No way could she be over the limit on that card. She pulled out her platinum plastic. At least this one had no limit. She smiled and handed it over.
The machine again erupted into agitated beeps. In a flash the platinum card suffered the same fate.
‘Everything okay?’
Charlie swung around to see Gabe watching the sales woman cutting up her vital plastic. Charlie’s face burned.
‘Just a little trouble with my credit card,’ she said, frantically looking through her wallet for more options.
The woman made a show of hurling the plastic pieces into the bin with a flourish.
‘Here, let me get them,’ Gabe offered.
Charlie held up her hands. ‘No way. I’m not letting you pay.’
She thrust another card at the sales assistant. It quickly lost its financial life.
The woman strode around the counter and began pushing Charlie towards the change room, a stream of Italian whipping from her lips. She clearly wanted Charlie out the door and out of sight.
‘Basta,’ Gabe said. Charlie stood in silence as Gabe handed over his credit card. The sales assistant smiled at Gabe provocatively. She flirted outrageously with him as she processed the payment, all the while firing Charlie dirty looks whenever she thought Gabe wasn’t looking.
When they emerged onto the street, Charlie’s face was burning as hot as an Aussie sunburn.
‘I’m so embarrassed,’ she said, not meeting his eyes. ‘We’re going to find an ATM right now, so I can pay you back.’
‘Calm down, Charlie. Remember, I know where you live.’
Charlie stared into her wallet at the remaining battery of cards. Why weren’t they working?
Fear, stark and vivid, gripped her heart. She slammed her purse shut. Of course.
Paul. Joint accounts.
She moaned involuntarily.
‘What is it?’ Gabe asked putting his arm around her shoulders.
‘Nothing,’ she said, stepping from his grasp. She had to think, and having Gabe up close and personal made that impossible. She paced a little ahead of him and the kids.
Paul must have frozen her accounts. She fought to keep control, clenching her hands tight. What an idiot. She’d given him access to all of them.
‘Charlie?’
‘We must find an ATM,’ she said urgently.
‘Sure. Is everything okay?’
‘I’m sure everything is fine, I just . . .’ She walked ahead, not wanting Gabe to see her panicked expression.
A few minutes later Charlie stared at the ugly truth. Empty. Every one of her accounts flashed up zero. A sick feeling crawled through her stomach. She blinked hard. She was carrying some cash but she’d be out of funds in less than two weeks. Then what? She’d be forced to go home. She banged the edge of the ATM. That was obviously Paul’s intention.
‘All fixed?’ Gabe asked, coming up behind her.
She plastered her face with a smile.
‘Something seems to be wrong with my accounts. I’ll ring home when we get back from Pisa.’
With no money, Paul would get his way. She’d be forced home before she’d even had a chance to stand alone.
‘Come on,’ she said, forcing excitement into her voice. If she only had a few days left, she was determined to enjoy them.
The day in Pisa flew by in a buzz of giggles, photos and fun. They all tumbled through the apartment door late that afternoon and Charlie realised it was the first time since she’d left Australia that she hadn’t obsessed over the ruin of her life.
She smiled secretly. Perhaps this crazy trip hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.
Gabe sat Rupert on the couch. The little boy flopped over and shut his eyes.
‘I’ll go give these kids a quick snack and a bath. I reckon they’ll crash in about five minutes.’
‘No worries. I’ll go to the supermarket and pick up some stuff for dinner.’
‘Let’s order pizza,’ Gabe suggested.
‘Didn’t my pancakes prove my prowess in the kitchen?’
‘We’re in Italy. You know – purveyors of pizza, pasta and prosecco.’
She flicked her hand dismissively. ‘Amateurs!’
‘Is that right?’ he said slowly. ‘Well, this I’ve got to see. Meanwhile, why don’t I give the kids some takeaway pizza.”
An hour later, Charlie was pulling fresh ingredients from a bag and placing them onto the kitchen bench. Soon the heady aroma of fresh herbs drifted sweetly on the air. It seemed a lifetime since she’d experienced free rein in the kitchen and she relished every delicious moment of it.
Growing up, any participation in the usual domestic duties had been strictly forbidden. Her mother had been adamant.
‘Let the staff do it,’ she’d scolded when Charlie had wanted to help around the house.
But Charlie always gravitated to the kitchen. The kitchen meant warmth, tempting smells and, most importantly, people who showed her some affection. The cook and her daughter had seemed more like family than her own parents. Whenever she could, Charlie ate simple dinners with them rather than with her parents in the formal dining room.
‘The kids are out cold.’ Gabe’s deep voice sounded in her ear.
She jumped. ‘You scared me.’
‘Sorry.’ Gabe laughed. ‘Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.’ He put an arm around her shoulders and stared into the pots. ‘Smells amazing.’
Hyper-aware of the warmth of his arm, it took her a moment to answer.
‘It’ll be ready in a few minutes,’ she said, trying to sound casual, as if his touch were the most normal thing in the world.
He dipped his finger in the sauce and slipped it into his mouth.
‘Hey,’ she said, hitting the back of his hand playfully with a wooden spoon. If he kept this up, she wouldn’t be able to concentrate. ‘Not until it’s ready.’
Gabe just grinned and opened the fridge. ‘Drink?’
‘Love one. Thanks.’
He’d showered and changed. His jeans hugged his legs and hips and she couldn’t help admiring the view as he leaned over to retrieve a bottle of wine. His white T-shirt hugged his muscled back and his sun-kissed arms.
She looked away quickly as he held up the bottle. Dinner could be at risk with Gabe in the room.
She tried to keep her eyes on the stove as he poured the prosecco, but simmering rice couldn’t compete with red-hot man.
He handed her a glass.
‘Salute.’ As he held his glass up for her to clink, he dipped his finger into the sauce again and licked it clean.
She groaned inwardly. It was Gabe or the dinner. And she wanted to impress, so dinner won.
‘Out,’ she said, flicking his thigh with a tea towel.
‘Hey,’ he said, jumping back. ‘That hurt.’
She laughed at his wounded face. ‘It did not.’
‘Really?’ He made a grab for the towel.
She nailed him again, this time on the wrist. He leaped back again.<
br />
‘Stop that,’ he said, but he was laughing.
‘Make me,’ she said, twirling her tea towel provocatively. Kitchen games were her speciality. ‘But I warn you, I’m good at this.’
Gabe’s eyebrows arched at the challenge.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘You asked for it.’ His tone pitched between playfulness and menace.
Charlie turned and quickly grabbed all the other tea towels. He didn’t have a chance without a weapon.
‘Now what are you going to do?’ she asked triumphantly.
When she turned to face him, her exultation vanished. She’d missed the towel near the chopping board. He picked it up and waved it threateningly.
‘No,’ she said, edging away. ‘You wouldn’t.’
He stepped closer, an evil smile on his face as he prepared to attack.
‘Don’t you know, you should never take on the cook?’ she said, stepping to put the island bench between them.
He kept coming. Evil and gorgeous.
She narrowed her eyes. No way would she take this lying down. She looked around the kitchen and spied the ultimate weapon. Gabe followed her gaze.
‘No,’ he said, straightening quickly.
She didn’t answer but slid closer to the carton of eggs.
‘Truce?’ he said, matching her slow steps towards the potential arsenal.
‘Forget it,’ she said, grabbing for the carton. Gabe flicked her hand aside. He snatched up an egg and held it high over her head. She braced for an avalanche of eggshell and goo.
‘Okay. Okay. Truce,’ she said, holding her hand above her head and backing away. ‘Come on, dinner’ll be wrecked.’
He shook the egg ominously in front of her face.
‘On one condition,’ he said, cheekily.
‘What?’ she asked standing rigid in defeat while looking around wildly for something with which to defend herself.
‘You say, “Gabe’s the best.”’
She snorted. ‘What are you, twelve?’
He laughed, obviously agreeing with the absurdity of his request. ‘So the kids have rubbed off on me.’ He cocked his head. ‘But you’re not getting out of it. So come on.’ He took a step closer. ‘Gabe’s the best.’
‘Gabe’s the—’ She grabbed a carton of cream to use as a shield, then had a better idea.
The long white stream flew through the air. It splattered all over his chest with a large splash down his cheek.
The look on his face! She collapsed with laughter.
‘That’s it. You’ve had it,’ he said.
‘No,’ she screamed and rushed to put the kitchen bench between them again.
She didn’t make it.
Gabe caught her at the waist, turned her and wrapped his arms around her. He pulled her close so her breasts crushed against his chest.
A luscious heat cascaded through her body. His body felt hard. Strong. Fantastic.
‘Take that,’ he said, laughing as he rubbed her with his cream-spattered body. Was he trying to kill her with desire? She swallowed hard, but her mouth felt dry.
She felt every powerful muscle as they slid over her. The cream oozed between their bodies. It didn’t seem like a game anymore. He had to stop or she’d do something stupid.
They’d do something stupid.
‘And this,’ he said, drawing his creamy cheek slowly across her face, covering her in the cool, velvet liquid.
She dragged in a ragged breath, feeling momentarily drunk with the bouquet of fresh cream and delicious man.
Gabe tensed, his lips millimetres from hers. He looked down and sought her eyes. The air between them seemed to flare as if ignited. He smoothed a strand of hair from her face. Every cell in her body quivered with anticipation.
His lips lightly touched her forehead. She could hardly breathe.
‘Gabe?’ she whispered.
Then the tip of her nose.
‘Shh.’
‘Are you having a food fight?’ In an instant, Rupert’s sleepy words sucked the room of its sensuality.
Gabe jumped away from her as if she were a snake ready to strike. The mood changed so fast the room seemed to spin.
‘No. Charlie dropped the cream,’ Gabe said, grabbing a tea towel and wiping his face. ‘What are you doing up, young man?’
‘I wet the bed.’
Silence.
He looked at her
She looked at him.
Gabe grinned. ‘Don’t worry. Look. Charlie’s all wet too.’
She hoped the cream hid the colour rising in her cheeks.
Taking Rupert by the hand, Gabe led him from the room. Before he disappeared from view, he turned and winked. ‘I’ll deal with you later.’
Charlie leaned back against the bench. Her body tingled with yearning. Wow. Perhaps this is what a junkie feels like when deprived of a fix.
It was wrong.
She picked up a tea towel and wiped the cream from her face.
It went against all the decisions she’d made when she’d left Australia. She’d thought she’d known everything about Paul, but he’d betrayed her so completely. And now, here she was kissing a virtual stranger. Had she learned nothing? She’d vowed to take time to discover herself. Who she was and what she wanted. Falling for a hot foreigner was definitely not part of the plan.
She threw the tea towel back on the bench.
She needed to work out her place in the world without her family and their bottomless pit of cash. Make her own way.
And what about Gabe? It wasn’t fair to get involved. He didn’t even know her real name. Hell, she was nearly as bad as Paul. Building a relationship on deception.
Well, no. Paul was a pig. She’d simply told a little white lie, but still, a lie all the same. Still deceit. Still duplicity. She’d have to sort out her mess in Australia before getting involved with anyone new.
Perhaps she was more like her father than she cared to admit. But she pushed the thought away immediately. She was nothing like her shallow, distant, money-obsessed parents. Was she?
Gabe deserved the truth.
The sound of hissing brought her back to the task at hand. She rushed to the stove. Stirring quickly, she saved the dish from burning.
A horrible thought crept into her mind.
Her hand stopped. Maybe Gabe did this all the time? Casual kisses with strangers? She stirred the pan roughly, then dropped the spoon and leaned against the bench. Friends. That’s where this relationship should begin and end.
She scooped up the chopped herbs and scattered them over the rice. She’d known Gabe less than forty-eight hours. He’d offered her a few days of touristy fun and that’s what they’d have.
She ran a finger over her lips.
A drop of cream slid between her breasts. She shuddered.
She needed a shower.
A cold one.
As Gabe stripped off his cream-splattered clothes, he swore.
He’d asked Charlie to stay to provide her with some protection. She’d trusted him and what had he done? Indulged in a bit of seduction.
He cursed again.
She didn’t strike him as a one-night-stand kind of girl and he didn’t want anything serious. But his thoughts strayed back to that near kiss. Desire pumped straight to his groin. Did she have to have such a lean, athletic body?
He groaned.
Flicking on the shower, he turned it to cold and threw himself under it.
Ten minutes later he walked onto the terrace. Charlie sat ramrod-straight in front of the dinner she’d prepared. She’d changed her shirt. When she saw him, she dropped her eyes. She picked up her glass and took a long sip.
He needed to put her at ease.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said taking his seat. ‘For some reason it took longer than usual to wash my hair.’ He gave her a wink.
She smiled and leaned back in her chair. ‘Consider it a moisturising treatment.’
‘Ha, ha,’ he said, picking up his fork. ‘This looks a
mazing. Paella?’
‘Yes. The supermarket guy owns a fishing trawler. Fresh prawns, mussels, clams and scallops. The seafood’s so cheap here.’
He stabbed at a prawn and slid it into his mouth. The flavour was incredible.
‘Gabe, there’s something—’
‘This is fantastic.’
‘Thanks. Fresh ingredients and Italian olive oil – makes all the difference.’
He took another and chewed slowly. ‘Sounds like you know what you’re talking about.’
‘I work in a little catering company, but we really specialise in desserts.’ Okay, so that was a slight understatement, considering she owned three high-end speciality cake shops.
He grinned. ‘Oh, so more to come?’
‘Just wait and see,’ she teased.
‘So where’d you learn to cook like this?’
She hesitated. ‘I’m . . . I’m just an amateur with passion.’
He looked at her intently. Having Charlie here had been a godsend. The kids loved her. She cooked up a storm and the evenings were definitely more interesting.
‘And I don’t think there’s any excuse for poor food.’ She took a sip of her wine. ‘Take airline food. Horrible.’
‘It always is.’
‘But it doesn’t have to be,’ she said vehemently.
He looked at her quizzically. ‘And you could do better?’
‘Without a doubt.’
‘Very confident for an amateur.’
‘Just give me a kitchen, a plane full of passengers, free rein and I’ll show you.’
His hand stalled halfway to his mouth. ‘That’s it,’ he exclaimed. A wave of possibilities shot through him.
Her eyes widened. ‘What?’
‘Charlie, you are a genius,’ he said dropping his fork onto the plate.
‘Why?’
‘First-class cook-off.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘A new show. First-class cook-off.’ Saying it again, he knew he had a winner.
‘Show?’
‘I’m a TV producer. Reality TV.’
Her mouth dropped open. ‘Reality TV?’
He picked up his fork, but he couldn’t eat. The excitement had killed his appetite.
‘There could be ten finalists . . . first-class cabin . . . VIP passenger judges. A contestant eliminated every week.’
Sweet Seduction Page 19
