Cinderella's Lucky Ticket. Melissa James

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      “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.”

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