She's The One

by Bronwyn Stuart

  The problem was—and it was only the first of many, many big problems—he didn’t want to change his ways. He liked being a playboy. He liked the attention from the ladies. He liked all-night parties by the pool or on the balcony of a penthouse suite with the music pumping past dawn. Who wouldn’t?

  The stuffy white collars with complete control over his company didn’t.

  It had been his father’s idea to appoint the board to run his clothing and sports equipment stores while he competed and toured. It had seemed like the right idea at the time but then his father had died in a snowboarding accident and everything got so much harder. Now he only had Uncle Pete to ask advice of. But his uncle also happened to be on the board. It was all about to get even more complicated.

  ‘You? Settle down? You can’t trick us into signing it all over, Banjo. We aren’t morons.’

  ‘No tricks. I’m over the party scene,’ he lied. ‘I have been for a while but I was holding on. I guess turning thirty changes a man.’

  His uncle snorted through the phone and Banjo was hard pressed not to smile.

  ‘Can you convince them I mean it this time?’ As opposed to the last time when he’d thought he’d met the girl he would marry. Turns out she was only after his cash and his name. That was the last time he’d been serious about anything or anyone.

  ‘Only if you can convince me. Why do you need She’s The One to find yourself a wife anyway? You’re still a handsome fellow. Call up one of your ladies and get serious.’

  ‘I gotta go, Uncle Pete. I’ll call you later.’ He disconnected the call, his cheeks hot, humiliation burning from the inside out. He couldn’t phone up one of his ‘ladies’ because he didn’t keep their numbers. There was never a one he’d wanted to see again. They didn’t call you a playboy because you got all soppy about a one-night stand. The women he involved himself with knew the deal. They knew who he was and most of them liked what he offered. No–strings-attached sex for one evening (or morning as it usually was by the time the party wound down) and then no further contact. Perfect.

  But now the tables had been turned on him and he was about as stuck as he could get.

  Banjo turned back toward the door and let himself into the office where Eliza and Malcolm were embracing in some kind of father–daughter moment.

  He cleared his throat and announced, ‘I have one more condition.’

  Chapter 2

  Eliza had trekked the Kokoda Trail and spent three months camping and researching in the Daintree but nothing could have prepared her for the ‘beauty’ session her dad’s PA had organised to get her ready for the show.

  First she’d been told to strip off and put on a little piece of elastic that was supposed to be a g-string of some sort. She’d tried to tell the beautician that she was quite well groomed downstairs already, even though nothing south of her belt had seen any action in a while. The lady had turned to her with a feral look that saw her unbuttoning her pants on the spot. Obviously she wasn’t allowed to object. She wasn’t even allowed to speak.

  Then she was told to lie on a bed, which wasn’t so bad since there was a heated blanket beneath the towel to stop her from shivering her bare backside off. It was what came next that took her breath away. And her will to stay conscious.

  Who’d have thought a Brazilian wax job could make you want to chew through your own wrist till you found the artery? When she’d been completely violated with hot wax in places she’d never wanted hair-free to begin with, it was her legs and armpits. The tweezing of the stubborn hairs made her eyes water and the breath catch in her throat.

  After that it was gel nails that stank to high heaven and, surprise, surprise, hurt too. Wasn’t a girl supposed to be pampered and relaxed after leaving the salon? She wanted to turn back and toss a grenade in so no one else would have to suffer any more at the hands of the glaring beautician.

  When Eliza thought the nightmare finally over, it was time to have her hair done. She’d always enjoyed having her hair washed and cut. With out of control waves, a good haircut could tame them and make them seem less frizzy. But that’s not what the hairdresser had in mind. She had the same glare as the other lady but because she never stopped chattering the whole time, Eliza didn’t get a chance to ask for what she wanted.

  She had to admit her hair didn’t look so bad. She now had caramel streaks through her artfully messy waves and it softened the dark brown a nice degree. Before she could enjoy her new look it was straight to the airport even though she hadn’t packed any bags or had a chance to close her house up a bit or do the breakfast dishes she’d left on the sink thinking she had one more day before flying out to Port Douglas in the far north of Queensland. At the airport a suitcase was produced from the boot of her father’s chauffeur-driven car.

  ‘Thanks, Morris.’ She smiled at the old man but her heart wasn’t in it. Her heart had jumped up into her throat as she waited to see if she and Banjo would have the same flight. He probably had a private plane anyway. She probably had nothing at all to worry about. Except for the next few weeks.

  The hours raced by and before she knew it, it was time to meet the other girls appearing on the show. Eliza just wasn’t ready. She’d rather have another Brazilian wax. Everything had happened too fast and her head was still spinning.

  Getting ready in the cramped room at the Hilton, she quickly discovered there wasn’t much in the suitcase suitable for anything. Lots of skimpy bikinis—now the wax made sense—evening dresses, short skirts, barely-there shorts and tops that were transparent when you held them up to the light.

  A card on the table in her room told her she had to be dressed by six pm in an evening gown and be in the hotel lobby ready for the limo. It was now 5:43. She stood in her underwear, her hair and makeup perfect, if a tad overdone by yet another beauty specialist, but she couldn’t decide what to wear. The lump in her throat tightened and her pulse raced. She was way out of her depth. She should have stuck to her guns and her dignity and said no way in hell. But she hadn’t. Her father sucked her in and Banjo was going to spit her out.

  But she had to think of the end game. The documentary she’d worked on for six months would be aired and she would gain some recognition for the street kids and kudos from her dad. Or at least a well-done slap on the back. She’d be on her way to beginning her real career and adding another building block on the relationship she and her dad were working their way through. She was not going to think about the fact that appearing on a show like this made her seem like a money-grabbing desperate tart.

  Gulping down lungfuls of air and pushing back on the sadness filling her that she couldn’t call her mum for a quick word of wisdom, Eliza closed her eyes, spun on the spot and then reached out for a dress. She didn’t particularly care which one, they were all beautiful and silky and expensive. And she’d signed a contract.

  Banjo’s initial words came back to her: We leave the show together. We have a few dinners, catch a movie, be seen out and about. Then we fight and go our separate ways. Your father gets the ratings season and the fanfare, I get a few interviews to buzz my stores and then we all go our separate ways.

  Separate ways huh? Except then he’d come back in the room and demanded six months after the show. Six months after they finished taping, she had to play nice and pretend to date the conceited sports star. Six months of her life she would lose on a stupid pretence. And to add insult to injury, Malcolm was refusing to air her doco until she fulfilled her part of the agreement. The universe obviously had it in for her.

  By the time Eliza wrestled the zip all the way up her ribs, she wondered if she’d put the dress on backwards. Forest green silk in a Grecian style gathered at the shoulders and was fitted over her bust but there wasn’t enough material. From what she could tell, the majority of the fabric had been used up in the full and heavy skirt, leaving not much for the top.

  Tipping out the contents of the prepacked suitcase, she rummaged for a lace bandeau or modesty panel, even nipple shie
lds would have made her feel better, but found nothing. Not a fancy plunging bra to be found.

  The phone on the night stand pierced the silence and Eliza jumped.

  As she answered, the dress slipped off her shoulder and she had a shocking wardrobe malfunction. She couldn’t go out in it. She couldn’t stand in a room full of drop-dead gorgeous women and show her boobs. Although, that would be great for ratings.

  ‘Hello,’ she answered, slightly breathless and a whole lot irritated.

  ‘Your car is here, Ms Peterson.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll be down in a minute.’

  What the hell was she going to do? Piece by piece, she picked up the clothing from the case and piled it on a chair. There had to be a cardigan or shrug or scarf. She’d run out of time to change her gown.

  A hard knock rattled her door. Eliza huffed. She wondered if the other women were being rushed like this. Surely between hair, makeup and gowns a few beauties were going to be late. But she wasn’t a beauty. She was a ring-in, a substitute.

  ‘Eliza, we have to go.’

  Amanda. Damn. Eliza braced herself for lights, camera, action and opened the door with a smile, the dress staying in place when she took small breaths and didn’t move her arms too far from her body. ‘So you’re the new producer?’

  The pretty little redhead nodded but her smile didn’t go all the way to her eyes. ‘We were going to wait for you downstairs but we really have to get going. There’s an order of appearance and you’re up first.’

  ‘First?’ she squeaked. ‘I don’t want to go first.’ The first person on set always wandered around and talked to themselves and fidgeted while waiting for everyone else.

  ‘Malcolm wants to get it over and done with. Show you to the country, pause for the backlash and then get on with the show.’

  ‘Of course he does,’ she muttered to herself while she collected her clutch purse and gave up on modesty. Maybe everyone would be so busy looking at her cleavage, they wouldn’t notice she was a good foot shorter than the other ladies. There weren’t heels high enough or makeup good enough to put her in the same league as the bachelorettes she was about to meet. No one was going to believe Banjo when he chose her over the others. The Australian public weren’t that gullible.

  ***

  Banjo relaxed in the lounge room of his private villa in Port Douglas, his feet on the coffee table, a cold beer in his hand, and waited for the show to start. Three monitors had been set up so he could keep an eye on the common areas in the girls’ villas for the meet and greet. He had his own controls for the cameras but this vision wouldn’t be recorded.

  He wasn’t spying.

  Not really.

  He just wanted to be able to gauge the yapping before being fed to the wolves. He’d had a full day to comprehend exactly what he’d done when throwing out his condition and signing on that final dotted line. He hadn’t expected the self-esteem-lacking Eliza to add one of her own. Or for Malcolm to agree to it.

  The plan had been simple. He would choose Eliza at the end. She would know from the get-go that it was all for show and he wouldn’t have to risk backlash from the public or a broken-hearted beauty. He would also get a good chunk of time to show the board he’d changed so they’d sign over the company.

  Her condition really was ridiculous anyway and he couldn’t be made to go along with it: Keep an open mind and give the beauties a chance to capture your heart. What a dumb condition. His heart couldn’t be captured. Not by a woman. His heart belonged to the snowy slopes of whatever mountain had fresh powder waiting for him. He wasn’t going to go with the old cliché that he’d been hurt in the past—even though he had been—and he wasn’t going to blame his mum and dad’s dysfunctional marriage because they’d very happily divorced before his dad’s death, clean and quick and for the best.

  He was superficial and shallow and every other label that came along but at least he admitted it. He had cash in the bank, sponsorships still running hot, his father’s clothing and sporting stores churning away, and no attachments. Only the board of directors held him back from complete freedom. He spent the year following winter around the world and he didn’t need a girlfriend demanding his time and energy. Just because he wasn’t in his prime and at the very top of his game meant nothing to Banjo. His life was the snow. It always had been.

  He was right now giving up a killer snow season for She’s The One.

  His thoughts drifted back to the taping just as the set went still, the lights came on and the camera panned to the door of the main house. He had the volume right down so he didn’t have to listen to the commentary but wished he’d thought to turn it up so he could catch the names of the women.

  When the door opened to admit candidate number one, Banjo leaned forward for a better look. This one was a stunner. Her dark goddess gown hugged her curves while a few curls caressed her shoulders. All he saw was her back for a moment while she closed the door behind her. Then she turned and he almost fell on the floor. Eliza?

  What happened to the good little daughter giving her daddy a hug in his office? And what happened to the rest of her dress? If she took a deep breath she was going to fall out and give the film crew an eyeful. Not beautiful? She was insane!

  He kept watching as she walked around the room, admiring this and that, a mirror on the wall, not to look at herself but to touch the fine engraving around the edges. She paused again in front a table filled with flutes of champagne. She seemed to have to talk herself into taking a glass but then she tipped the bubbles up to her lips, the smooth line of her throat on display, and took a sip. A little smile flirted with her lips and Banjo’s mouth watered as she drained the glass and picked up another. One of the producers hissed something at her but she ignored the command and turned her back to the camera. When she settled on a seat in a darkened corner, the producer had no choice but to admit another beauty.

  Banjo barely noticed.

  Zooming in on Eliza’s face, Banjo stared at her eyes and tried to discern what she was thinking, how she was feeling. But her smile never slipped. Her eyes didn’t sparkle or warm. She was acting and putting on a damned good show for the audience. It made Banjo angry. He wanted to see how she would react in tense situations and meeting new people. He’d wanted to gauge her character.

  He should have insisted they reschedule the first taping so he could get to know her better privately before the rest of Australia had a chance to see her. He suddenly had the urge to startle her, make her laugh or sigh or swear. Anything to wipe the fake smile from her glossed lips. How could she be so cool, calm and collected when he was sweating every little thing? If his anxiety didn’t lessen, he was going to have to change his shirt and he wasn’t sure he had time. He knew he didn’t want to leave the monitor until the last beauty entered. Then it would be his turn.

  Why had he ever thought being paraded around like a prime piece of Angus beef a good idea? He hadn’t thought that far ahead at all. His playboy brain usually stopped working at the thought of making out with hot chicks.

  Zooming back away from Eliza’s face, more anxious now that the other women had begun to arrive, he took in the three who’d entered while he’d daydreamed. A blonde, a brunette and a redhead.

  Always the worst joke of the night.

  A chart on the wall behind the monitor told him they were Becky, Amelia and Grace. Erika, Molly, Sofia, Kirsty, Erin, Jennifer, Allison and Brooke rounded out the twelve.

  Wow. Banjo nearly had to put his head between his knees and take deep breaths. Beautiful was a tragic understatement for the women standing in that room. Panic hit him fair in the chest. What if someone did fall in love with him? What if there was more than one heart with his name tattooed on it at the end?

  How was he going to explain to these women, to Malcolm and Eliza and the country, that he just didn’t do love?

  Chapter 3

  What the hell was taking Banjo so long? Thirty minutes had passed since the last knockout had entered the r
oom and if Eliza had to chit-chat for much longer, she was going to scream. If it wasn’t bad enough that they were all at least eights on a scale from one to ten in the looks department, most of them had brains to match. Nurses, doctors, accountants and even a dolphin trainer were amongst the beauties. She ought to know since she’d been on the deciding panel and had watched the tapes and chosen the women. At least there were a few who matched her in height. She hated feeling like the only short person in the room.

  Always crusading for something or other, Eliza had wanted to dispel the common myth that with beauty came no brains and with brains came the dowdy nerd. Of course Eliza had always considered herself the latter not the former. She knew she wasn’t ugly but she was also never going to be Miss Universe either.

  Shaking her head, she forced her breath out in a whoosh. Since when had she been about looks or brains anyway? She wasn’t shallow. She never judged a person by their appearance. Take Banjo for example. The guy was as hot as sin and built! He worked out and looked after himself which was obvious. But. And it was a big but. He was an ass. A world-class, womanising ass. Zero points for personality, zero points for philanthropy and less than zero points for making the world a better place.

  Unless you counted the fact that he was so nice to look at.

  She groaned and picked up another champagne flute to Amanda’s hissed displeasure and gravitated away from the pissy producer. She was no Cadbury. She could handle a few glasses. She could handle Banjo and she could handle his hotness and his minimal depths.

  She was still thinking that thought when the show’s presenter strode into the room, a little bounce in his step. Now here was a guy who was a bona fide contributor to society. Daniel Casey was his name and he was handsome in a good guy next door kind of way. Last year he’d cycled from Sydney to Perth to raise money for his brother’s family after his nephew was diagnosed with leukaemia.