by Lia Lee
“It’s alright, just relax. I’ve got you.”
The confident and comforting voice holds a deep Aussie twang. I want to give up and drift into the sound of it. Thank God. I’ve been rescued. Strong arms slip under mine, steadying me in the water.
“You’re alright, kiddo? Are you injured?”
“No,” I say, my voice shaky and gasping. My vision clears as I raise my head and gaze into the bluest pair of eyes I’ve ever seen, set into a rugged, tanned face. “I just want to go in. My friend...”
The handsome face smiles and transforms into something much more than handsome. But I’m too upset to appreciate it.
“Don’t worry about your friend,” he says. “Let’s worry about you. Hang on to me, and I’ll give you a tow in.”
He pries my clinging hands loose and turns his back to me, placing them on his shoulders as he faces toward shore. Instinctively my arms twine around the muscular cords of his neck. My body lifts along with his, and he begins stroking powerfully toward land. My legs trail between his as they whip-kick purposefully, the muscles of his thighs rubbing against mine. My heart thuds against the solid curves of his back.
A small crowd is gathering on the beach. I recognize Claire’s orange bikini among the throng. I feel relieved and embarrassed at the same time. I was supposed to be the swimmer, yet she’s the one with her feet safely on the ground while I needed rescuing from the deep. The lifeguard tower is empty, and a shudder passes through me as I realize who I’m practically choking to death with my arms around his throat. Impressive, not.
Sand materializes beneath our feet, and the man drags me upright as he finds his footing and slogs toward shore. Claire rushes toward us, but my hero isn’t done yet. Before I can balance myself, he scoops me into his bronzed arms like a helpless rag doll. The crowd cheers.
I keep my eyes lowered, too mortified to meet that blue gaze again; instead, I fixate on the droplets of water sliding down his sculpted pectorals as he stalks up the beach with me slung in his embrace. Fuck, the guy is built. I should feel lucky that my rescuer is so fit and strong; I’m no lightweight, especially sopping wet. But what I feel is not luck. Helplessness, indignance, yes. If there weren’t a crowd of people staring, I might allow myself to feel something else.
“Thank you!” Claire shouts, breathless, as she accosts us on the wet sand. “Oh, Mils, are you alright? What happened out there?”
“Just lost her bearings, I reckon,” my Aussie rescuer says. “No worries. The tide’s coming in—catches folks unaware sometimes.” He sets me on my feet. My toes squelch into the water-laden sand. “It’s why I’m here.” He lowers his face toward mine. “Y’alright, darlin’?” he asks, out of earshot from the others.
Still looking down, I realize with horror that my bikini top has shifted, exposing my tiny goddess-figure tattoo and one shriveled nipple. Good Grief. I hurriedly cross my arms over my chest. “Yes, fine, thanks.”
I feel his smile even with my eyes averted. It radiates through the air between us, as palpable as the sun. Ordinarily, I’m not shy about my body, but this occasion is anything but ordinary.
Claire grabs me by the shoulders. “You scared the shit out of me! Thank goodness this man…” She cocks her head toward the grinning blond Adonis. “… has such quick reactions.” Her eyes linger over him as she speaks. “I could have lost you!”
“Ah, now it’s not as bad as all that. She was never in any real danger,” he says, pushing his wet, sun-bleached locks off his forehead with one hand.
“Thanks to you... we owe you big time, Mr…” Claire carries on, her head tilting and eyes widening to elicit an introduction.
“Derric,” he says, his smile unwavering.
“Mr. Derric?”
“Just Derric,” he replies, stepping back a pace. His gaze floats back to me. “I’ll leave you in the capable hands of your protective girlfriend.”
“Claire,” Claire supplies immediately. “I’m Claire, and this is Mila. I can’t thank you enough for what you did, Derric. Let us at least buy you a drink later. Are you free this evening?”
“Claire!” I warn, my voice slipping down an octave. “The man’s just doing his job.” My friend and business partner is completely shameless when it comes to interacting with men. I know this; why is it I don’t want her interacting with this particular one? I clutch my arms tighter around myself. My legs feel wobbly, and I start to shiver.
“As it happens, I am free tonight,” Derric says. “Besides, I think I’d better follow up on Miss Mila here.” He casts a worried glance over me. “Are you sure you’re alright, love? I can radio for a taxi, or take you to the hospital? Can’t have any casualties on my watch.”
“Yes, I’m fine,” I insist, leaning on the word ‘fine’. “I’m a good swimmer, honest. I just… got caught off guard. Like you said. It won’t happen again.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Though I’d be quite happy to rescue you another time... Mila.”
Claire sends a pointed look my way as he speaks my name, then returns her focus to Derric. “We’re staying just there,” she says, pointing to our high-rise condo-hotel visible from the beach. “They have a great bar next door. Join us there, say, nine o’clock?”
Derric casts a glance at the building. “Right. The Mambo Wambo. Know it well. Nine o’clock it is.”
I finally risk eye contact and find myself entrapped in Derric’s luminous azure gaze and infectious, dimpled smile. The man is fucking h-o-t.
“See you then. Be well, ladies.” The way he says it comes out like “laydees” and I stifle a giggle along with an unexpected twitch of my private muscles. The Aussie accent is charming as is, but hearing it from Derric’s mouth makes it that much more attractive.
“I need to sit down,” I say while watching Derric’s incredible butt walk away from us and back to the guard chair.
“I think I need to sit down,” Claire declares. “I believe someone’s got eyes for you. Come on.” She guides me to where we laid our towels out earlier.
“Only for my boobs, I’m sure,” I say, adjusting my bikini top into place.
“Well, they are kinda hard to ignore,” she quips. “But you underestimate yourself, Mils. Why shouldn’t a man be attracted to you for something other than your tits?”
“Because next to you I look like a time-warp escapee from Woodstock,” I answer as I wrap myself in my oversize beach towel. My hair is already starting to dry into its familiar dreadlock-like coils. “I’m not exactly a candidate for The Bachelor Australia.”
“True. But you’re an artist. You’re beyond all that plastic phoniness. You’re earthy and real. Some guys like that.”
I snort in protest. “Most of them don’t. You don’t have to prop up my ego, Claire. You know you’re the type men go for, not me.”
“Well, I guess we’ll see about that around nine o’clock,” Claire says with a smug smile. I can tell she wants Derric for herself but is just too good a friend to let it come between us. It’s one of the many things I love about my best friend and design partner.
“You didn’t have to be so obvious. Buy you a drink, sailor?” I mimic. “Jeez. So not original.”
“Oh, who cares,” Claire says with a wave of her hand. “Day after tomorrow we’re on a plane back to New York. Let’s just have a little fun until then, okay Mils? A little fling never hurt anybody. There’s no one here we’ll ever see again in a million years.”
“You mean, ‘what happens in Australia’...”
“Never happened!” Claire finishes.
We both laugh, and I know she’s right. We could have a threesome with Mr. Lifesaver tonight if we felt like it, and no one would ever know about it. All I plan to bring home from Australia is a killer tan and good memories.
Chapter Two
Derric
Going Undercover
I see the garish, flashing neon sign fixed over the Mambo Wambo’s thatched rooftop even from two blocks away. The locals consider it a b
it of a dive bar and steer clear of it, but it suites me fine. The fewer eyeballs that recognize me, the better, and the same goes for my Ferrari. It would stick out like the proverbial sore thumb sitting in front of a beachside bar, so I park a discreet couple of streets over.
The car’s running lights blink as I lock the doors by remote and begin the walk over to the Mambo. Getting invited out by women tourists is nothing new for me. I guess I pretty much encourage it by impersonating average-Joe lifeguard by day. No, not impersonating. I really do possess all the necessary training and credentials; worked it as a summer job ever since my teens. Makes me feel like part of the normal human race, instead of the privileged, nouveau riche brat I truly am by night.
But not this night.
This afternoon I’d plucked a nymph from the sea. Those wide, watery hazel eyes and flowing brunette curls made her seem like Thetis personified. And like Peleus I’d embraced her while she shape-changed; from damsel in distress to strong and stoic water goddess. She certainly caught my attention. Mila. An unusual name for an unusual girl. Definitely goddess-worthy, and she didn’t need to know the true identity nor the nefarious womanizing reputation of this particular mortal, Derric Faris. Son of Steven Percival Faris, Australian media mogul.
Son of Satan, more like it.
The overstuffed, cynical prick has never been much of a father to me. I don’t know if he was any different before my mother died, but he certainly hasn’t done much to prove his altruism or love of family since then. I barely remember her, or how she managed to live with the jerk for those eight years I was on the planet before she passed. Sadly, all his money couldn’t save her.
Cancer doesn’t recognize financial or social status.
The door to Mambo Wambo is directly in front of me. Right. Time to drown all these useless, painful memories in a cold brew, and bury my ego in some sweet American pussy. Because Derric Faris gets laid. Always. It’s barely even an effort given my looks and social position here in Sydney. But it’s what makes the tourist girls so interesting. They don’t know about the heir to the Faris throne. They didn’t fall on their knees before me like my cock’s a water fountain in the middle of the outback.
All they see is me. Derric, the lifeguard. And I’m happy to keep that fantasy alive for them.
I push the door open and walk inside, a gust of chilled air issuing from within the darkened interior. Red and yellow pendant lamps hang from the ceiling at various heights and glow like lighted balloons floating in mid-air. The music thumps in a steady, primal beat and the scents of spilled beer and stiff whiskey assault my nostrils in the most delightful way. I scan the room for Mila and Claire as I make my way to the bar. If I don’t see them I can at least order a drink while I wait. But since I’m fashionably late at quarter past nine, I assume they’re already here.
It’s not long before I spot them. Claire’s bobbed blonde hair glows like a searchlight under the colored lamps. They’re at a table in the corner. Mila’s facing away from me, her sinuous brown hair draping across her nude shoulders. She’s wearing some kind of black mesh halter top that exposes the tanned skin and taut muscles of her back. I want to touch that deliciously bronzed body again and twine that curly hair around my fingers.
“Derric!” Claire calls, rising from her seat and waving me down. “Over here.” Not much mystery to that one, I think. She’s as easy to read as a roadmap. But Mila... she’s different. She acknowledges my approach with barely a turn of her curly head. Am I in for a challenge with her? Good on ya, Miss Mila.
“Is this seat taken?” I ask.
“It is,” Claire says, beaming with flirtatious intent, fixing a glazed stare on me. She’s definitely had a few already, I can tell.
I smile and seat myself. “Well, whoever the bloke was he’s out of luck now. How’s it going this evening, ladies?” My head swivels between the two. Both pretty, but I’ve no interest in Claire. “You seem right as rain, Mila. I see my concerns were unfounded.”
Mila’s brown eyes take me in from beneath her shaded brow. Calculating. Sizing me up. Seeing if I’m worth her trouble. “I’m quite recovered, yes,” she says with a nod. “I don’t think I said thank you earlier... so thank you.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Claire interrupts. “We owe you a drink. What’s your pleasure, Hero of the Day?”
My pleasure? “That’s a loaded question, love. Sure you want to go there?”
Claire squirms with childlike delight. “I meant to drink.”
“Silly me. A four-x will do, thanks.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve got this,” I say, signaling to the server. “A schooner of four-x and another of whatever these lovely ladies are having.”
“I think I’ve had enough,” Mila says, pushing her empty glass aside.
“Oh, don’t be such a party pooper Mils. Our guest of honor has just arrived. We have to at least toast his health. Have another. No one’s driving!”
I look at Mila. “I was looking forward to raising a glass with you.” Even in the dim orange light, I detect a blush in her cheeks. A shy smile curves up one side of her mouth. Too adorable for words.
“Alright. But we’re getting the check for this round, okay?”
“As you say, lady of the sea.” It’s absurd that a couple of girls on holiday, who most likely only have a few bob left, should pick up my check in a place I could probably buy several times over. But I’ll let Mila think she’s gotten her way. For now.
Claire’s hand closes over my forearm as our drinks arrive. “Yes, this is our treat,” she concurs. Orbs of light from the overhead lamps reflect in her dilated pupils as she leans toward me. Unlike her friend, she has no trepidations over imbibing more liquor. But it’s all good fun. What’s a holiday without getting flat-out legless a time or two?
“Cheers,” I say, lifting my beer.
“Cheers,” Mila echoes, tipping the rim of her girly-looking cocktail in salute.
Claire’s glass clinks heartily with mine. “Cheers, mate,” she says, attempting an exaggerated wink before taking a long pull on her straw.
“You’ve been in Oz for a while then, picking up the local lingo?” I ask.
“Nearly two weeks. We’re headed home day after tomorrow,” Claire says.
“Aw, it’s a shame we didn’t meet earlier. I suppose this is a farewell drink, then. Where’s home for you?”
“New York,” Mila answers.
“Yep, back to the grind,” Claire adds.
“What do you two girls do for work?”
Mila smiles, her body language opening up a bit. “Claire and I run a business there.”
“Really? Entrepreneurs, eh? Good on ya. What sort of business?”
“Graphic design and interiors. It’s called Church & Strait.”
“It’s our names—Mila Churchwood and Claire Strait,” Claire says. “And a play on words, you know, ‘church and state’.
“I get it,” I say, nodding. “Clever. How’s the biz doing?”
“Well enough to afford this vacation!” Claire sets down her drink that she’s made short work of.
“I’ll drink to that. To your success,” I say, toasting each of them in turn. “Next shout’s mine.”
Mila scowls at her friend but quickly lightens up. “Take it easy, Claire. That’s got to be at least your fourth Mai Tai.”
“Oh, you’re counting now?” Claire pouts. “You need a few more to catch up.”
“Oi, drinking’s a national sport down here,” I say. “No harm. You’re just getting limbered up. I’m a lifeguard, remember? I’ll rescue you if you get in too deep. Go for it.”
“There, see? You’re not the only one who gets to be rescued, Mils.”
Mila shakes her head. “My partner, the lush.”
“No worries,” I say, nursing my own beer. The girls may not be driving, but I am, even though my flat’s not far. “So, you two are artists? Ripper. You must turn a few bob in New York City.”
> “It’s expensive to operate there, but you know, go big or go home. We’ve done pretty well so far.”
“Pretty well?” Claire says. “If doing work for Dior, Macy’s, Chase and NBC is considered doing well, then, yeah, you bet your cute Australian ass we are.”
“NBC? As in television?” That piques my interest, media brat that I am. “I can see you’re both talented. So, which of you is the brains of the outfit?” I ask, ignoring Claire’s ass comment.
“The one whose brains aren’t in her panties at the moment,” Mila answers.
Claire laughs. “Well, someone here’s panties could use a few brains. And other things.”
It’s clear the two are the kind of friends who’ve known each other a long time and are impervious to good-natured insults traded between them. I signal the server for more drinks. The sooner Claire is under the table the sooner I get Mila alone. From Claire’s ribbing, I’m getting the picture: Mila is a young, ambitious career girl who’s all work and no play. She could use a good send-off to remember her holiday by. And I’m just the bastard to supply it.
“Here’s to you, ladies,” I say as the server sets out our next round.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Mila says, shaking her head.
“Live a little, Mils. I’ll race you. Chug it.” Claire tosses away her straw and lifts her new glass to her lips, downing its contents in four gulps.
Mila groans and covers her eyes.
“You can do better than that, I reckon,” I say, nudging Mila’s elbow. She looks up, and our eyes lock. I see a little fear in those amber-browns, but also a little mischief. And determination. She doesn’t back down from a challenge.
Without another word, she reaches for the frothy white concoction in front of her and raises it to her lips. With a tilt of her head, the liquid drains from the glass. I watch the gentle bump in her slender throat bob up and down as she swallows.
