Ultimate Heroes Collection

by Various Authors

  He straightened his tie, ran a hand over his hair, and paused with his finger over the doorbell of Chelsea’s apartment, wondering what on earth this night might bring him. It wasn’t as though any of this had gone according to plan so far.

  He steeled himself, puffed out his chest, clutched at the bunch of lustrous orange tulips he’d bought for her and poked the button with as much force as his finger could take without breaking a bone.

  After a few long seconds, the breathy sound of the intercom broke through the white noise of a city at play, and a husky voice answered, ‘Hello?’

  He checked he had the right apartment number, then leaned into the speaker. ‘Chelsea, it’s Damien.’

  Another pause. ‘Damien? Oh, heck, I’d completely forgotten.’ And smoked three packets of cigarettes in a minute flat by the sound of her.

  Then the gist of what she’d said sank in. Forgotten? When he’d rushed out of work the minute the markets had closed to make sure he wasn’t a second late, she—

  ‘Damien?’

  ‘I’m still here,’ he said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. ‘Are you going to buzz me in?’

  ‘I can’t. I—’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re not ready,’ he said, feeling more and more frustrated at having to talk to her through a wall. They might as well have been on the phone. Again.

  He didn’t want that any more. He wanted to see her. Touch her. Smell her. Kiss her. Slide her clothes from her limbs. And to sink into her, to ease the ache that had built inside him since the first moment he’d looked into those golden brown eyes.

  ‘I’m happy to wait for you to tidy up or pick an outfit or dab on perfume or whatever it is you have yet to do. Just let me in.’

  ‘I… can’t. Damien.’ She paused. He even heard the sound shut off at the other end for a second before it came back on. ‘The truth is I’m sick.’

  ‘Sick,’ he repeated, wondering if that was some kind of code, like washing her hair, or paying him back for the early-morning excuse after all.

  Frustrated to the point of a painfully clenched jaw, he looked over his shoulder. Melbourne was alive all around him. Music pouring from restaurant speakers. Tables full of young women laughing and young men paying close attention. All he wanted was to be a part of that scene again.

  Maybe this thing between them had been all too hard from day dot for a reason. The fates were telling him to leave her well enough alone. To reinvigorate his weary libido in another pair of willing arms.

  ‘Damien?’ her reedy voice said again, and he knew, despite what his instincts were blaring at him, something else inside him simply wouldn’t let him leave.

  ‘Chelsea,’ he said, dropping his voice to its most persuasive level. ‘Let. Me. In.’

  The smoked-glass door beside him clicked and he grabbed it and yanked it open. He shot through the marble lobby, giving brief nods to the octogenarian couple leaving the lift as he entered it. The art deco lifts took far too long to take him to the third floor. But when he got there her front door was ajar.

  He took another deep breath and pushed it open to find Chelsea pacing the floor of a one-bedroom apartment overstuffed with furniture and books and knick-knacks and floral patterns so rich he practically had to squint to block them out.

  She whooshed past him, a blur of tartan flannelette and bare feet. The frivolous hot-pink glitter on her toenails had him rooted to the floor. It took her husky voice to cut through his little daydream.

  ‘I didn’t want you to see me like this.’

  He dragged his gaze upwards from her sexy toes past her baggy clothes to find her hair sprouted from a messy pony-tail atop her head. She wore not a lick of make-up. Her eyes were huge pools of muted gold, her lips overly pink against her pale skin. She looked warm and ruffled and ready for bed. All over his body his skin tightened until it felt a size too small.

  ‘I’m never sick,’ she wailed. ‘I’m so careful about everything as I can’t afford to be sick. I take multi-vitamins. I drink two litres of water a day. I wash my hands so much I’m in danger of being compulsive. Though when you deal with the kind of stuff I deal with on a daily basis hand-washing is a must. I—’ She came to an abrupt halt and began to breathe deep through her nose, her nostrils flaring, her cheeks bright pink.

  She looked so wild. He wanted nothing more than to stride over to her and drag her into his arms and kiss her. His hands gripped so hard on the flowers he felt the stems crush.

  But then her skin lost all semblance of colour. Her lips turned grey and she bolted. And the wretched sounds coming from her direction left him in no doubt that she was sincerely as sick as she’d said she was.

  Still standing in the entrance, he had not one clue as to what to do. Surely he should go. She’d tried to warn him. And it wasn’t as though he had any kind of qualifications. Did throwing up call for chicken soup? Or was that lemon and ginger tea?

  When after a good three minutes he’d heard nothing of her at all, an overwhelming wave of concern that she’d gone and done something foolish like pass out overrode any kind of squeamishness he might have had. It seemed his gallantry was not yet at an end.

  He closed the door behind him with a soft click, placed the flowers on the hall stand, shucked off his jacket, leaving it hanging over the back of an overstuffed couch upholstered in some awful pink-rose fabric, and rolled up his sleeves.

  She wouldn’t be the first girl whose hair he’d held off her face in a time of need. But she was the first girl he’d ever eaten humble pie for, and he had come all this way to see her so if this was how their second date was meant to play out, so be it.

  Chelsea awoke with the thin morning sun teasing pink and pretty through the gauzy curtains of her bedroom window.

  Her head felt like a bag of sand—dry, coarse and far too heavy to lift. Her mouth tasted as if she hadn’t cleaned her teeth in a week. She put a shaky hand over her eyes and sat up.

  When she opened them she saw a folded newspaper on her bedside table. A plate of dry crackers and crumbs proving some of them had been eaten during the night. A single perfect orange tulip in a water-filled spaghetti jar. And just like that her night came swimming back to her.

  Damien.

  While she’d spent most of the night sleeping on the couch or with her head over the toilet bowl, he’d been there. Not hovering, not mothering, just there. Watching TV. Reading a magazine by the window with the blinds open and the city view painting its golden light upon his gorgeous profile. And had he really made her toast with Vegemite, cooked himself dinner from the pathetic contents of her fridge and loaded her dishwasher?

  She pulled herself from her bed, and realised she had no idea how she’d ended up there and in a frilly sleeveless neck-to-knee white cotton nightie she hadn’t worn in years.

  She grabbed her plush cream robe from the knob on the side of her cheval mirror, wrapped herself in it, tight, then headed out into the lounge room.

  But all was quiet. Her kitchen was clean. And she was most definitely alone.

  She poured a large glass of tap water, then headed to the lounge-room balcony. She opened the glass door a smidge, just enough to let in some morning sunshine, air, and comforting noise to drown out the plethora of embarrassing images in her head.

  Whatever would she say to the guy when she saw him again? If she ever saw him again.

  She dropped her head into her hands with a groan.

  Damien stood below Chelsea’s apartment building holding a bag filled with croissants, cheese and bacon rolls and three different types of fresh bread as well as two steaming hot black coffees, with his mobile pressed to his ear.

  ‘Yeah, hello,’ Caleb said at the other end of the line.

  ‘It’s Damien. I need you to do me a favour.’

  After a loud long yawn Caleb said, ‘Name it, buddy.’

  ‘I need you to take the morning meeting today.’

  Silence.

  ‘Caleb?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m st
ill here. Just needed a moment to check the number on my screen, make sure it was really you. You’re going to be late?’

  ‘Yes, I’m going to be late.’

  ‘You realise it’s a weekday, right?’

  ‘Caleb—’

  ‘Wow. I feel like I should commemorate this day with some kind of plaque, or parade, or something.’

  ‘Commemorate by holding the morning meeting.’ ‘So what time will you be in?’

  Damien glanced up at the third-storey balcony, which he now knew looked out from Chelsea’s small lounge-room. Fine white curtains fluttered in a light breeze, meaning she was up, padding about her apartment in just about the sexiest night attire he had ever come across.

  ‘Not sure,’ he said. ‘Later. Maybe. I’ll call you.’

  ‘But, Damien—’

  Damien tore his gaze away, used the key he’d pilfered from Chelsea’s hall table, and walked into the foyer. ‘Let the gang talk. Any info that sounds interesting, use. Check on each trader during the day, touch base with each of the platinum clients in my Rolodex, leave your office door open, and try to refrain from fondling any of the staff. I trust you.’

  ‘I’m not sure you should.’

  Damien jabbed the lift button with his elbow.

  ‘Are you in the hospital?’ Caleb asked. ‘Have you been kidnapped? Does someone have a gun to your head?’

  Damien watched his reflection on the inside of the silver-panelled lift doors. ‘I’m fine. In one piece. I just have something more important I need to do right now.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I’m with Chelsea.’

  Caleb paused. ‘The hot get-back-on-the-horse cat lady?’

  Damien breathed out slowly through his nose. ‘If you call her that again I’ll slap you silly.’

  ‘Why?’

  Why. Why? Damien ran a hand over his eyes and counted to ten. ‘Because it’s rude, that’s why.’

  ‘You’re playing hookey for her? You met her, what, five minutes ago? And now she’s what? Your girlfriend? Did you give her your varsity jacket?’

  ‘Caleb. She’s not my girlfriend. She’s a girl in need of a helping hand. Nothing more.’

  ‘Right. Though take one piece of advice from a veteran in the ways of the heart, won’t you?’

  ‘And that is.?’

  ‘Be careful.’

  His own words from the night before came swimming back to him. ‘Careful about what, exactly?’

  ‘This girl. You know who you are. Who your parents are. What they expect of you. You know what you have to offer. Just be careful about how and why she’s managed to get her claws into you so quick. Be sure about your reasons, and hers.’

  ‘Caleb,’ he warned.

  ‘I’m your best mate. Everything I say I say out of love. I’ve known you for umpteen years. Our parents play gin-soaked tennis together on a weekly basis, and that’s a lifestyle I intend to protect so that when I grow in need of my first facelift I can take on the mantle of that fantastic life where they leave off. And I want you there by my side. Well, three or four blondes to my left, but in sight all the same.’

  The lift binged. Damien’s reflection wavered and split. The cream panelled walls of the hallway leading to Chelsea’s apartment appeared before him. Images of sleep-ruffled caramel-blonde hair, wide golden eyes, and slim pale arms lifting trustingly so that he could slide a nightie over her half naked form swarmed over him and he pushed Caleb’s words far to the back of his head.

  ‘Gotta go,’ he said, then hung up.

  Chelsea heard a noise. She spun towards the front door to see the handle moving. She could hear keys jangling. Her heart thundered in her chest as she simply stood there staring at the door waiting for the intruder to enter.

  It was Damien. Tall, dark, slick, and tidy in a dark grey pinstriped suit with a white shirt and deep blue, soft patterned tie the exact same colour as his eyes. A bakery bag was clenched between his teeth, and he held a cardboard tray of coffee she could smell from all the way across the room. She tidied her hair as she said, ‘You scared the life out of me. How on earth did you get in here?’

  Damien threw her keys back onto the hall table and pulled the bag from between his teeth. ‘I stole your keys. I thought you might be up for some breakfast.’

  She wrapped her arms around her stomach, less from any kind of modesty and more to quell the tumbling sensation rocketing through her at the very sight of him. At the knowledge that he had been there the night before. Had come expecting a date he’d had no doubt would this time end up horizontal, had instead found her a sick mess, fed her, undressed her, and stayed.

  ‘Hungry?’ he asked.

  Her empty stomach rumbled. She took one small step his way. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Just about one of everything from the bakery downstairs.’ He dumped the paper bag and coffee tray on the table in the kitchen nook, then headed into her kitchen where he found her dinner plates, first try.

  She plopped into a chair and tucked her knees against her chest, wrapping her arms tight around her calves as she watched him pull out cutlery and napkins.

  She’d never had a man in her kitchen before. Well, apart from Kensey’s Greg, who usually stood there looking lost until one or the other of them sent him scooting into the lounge while they looked after his every need.

  But Damien looked so at home. He looked … right. So right something shifted behind her ribs with all the force and might and destructive power of a newly unstable tectonic plate until deeply affectionate warmth bled through her body like lava.

  ‘So what happened to you last night?’ Damien asked as he joined her at the table.

  She pretended to pick at a small stain on the Chantilly lace tablecloth. ‘I’m not sure. It could have been a bug from a dog I washed up after a couple of days ago. Or maybe it was the leftover chicken teriyaki I had for breakfast yesterday.’

  She glanced up and caught him watching her from over the top of his cup of coffee. All beautiful eyes, and expensive clothes and perfect hair. And attraction. Unguarded attraction so palpable it lay upon her shoulders like a warm blanket. She broke eye contact lest he saw a heightened version of the same emotion stampeding through her.

  ‘I… I don’t know how to thank you for last night,’ she said. ‘For the toast. And the tidying. And the company. That was most certainly above and beyond second-date duties.’

  He smiled, and the disturbing shift inside her only deepened, making her feel as if her chest were now nothing more than a gaping hole waiting for him to fill it up. ‘My pleasure,’ he said. ‘Now eat up.’

  She reached forward and grabbed a croissant, eating a layer at a time. ‘No early-morning meeting today then?’

  He grabbed a roll and lathered it with butter. Then glanced up, stunning her silly with the cocky smile in his brilliant blue eyes. ‘There is,’ he said with a smile. ‘Only this time I’m not going to be there.’

  ‘Oh. And that’s okay? You can do that?’

  ‘As it turns out when you’re the boss, you can do whatever you damn well please. And you? Are you going to do the sensible thing and call in sick?’

  She hadn’t even thought that far. She still felt weak after her night-long purge, but she’d worked through worse. ‘I have no idea what kind of day I have today. But Phyllis would have blue-toothed me the appointment list before I left work last night.’

  Damien looked at her as if she were speaking Swahili.

  ‘My phone,’ she explained. ‘Have you seen it?’

  ‘On the coffee-table, I do believe,’ he said.

  They both stood at the same time and made a move in that direction. Then stopped, staring at one another. He was close enough she could smell the scent of fresh bread on his clothes. She could see the soft haze of dark stubble on his cheeks.

  His gaze flickered over her hair, her cheeks, her lips, which felt moist with croissant grease. And he leaned towards her. To kiss her. She could see it in his eyes, the set o
f his jaw, the tension in his shoulders.

  She leaned back and pressed a hand to his chest and said out of the corner of her mouth, ‘I have the worst morning breath I have ever known.’

  His eyes narrowed, as though he was thinking through whether he gave a damn, before he leaned away from her. Her hand dropped. And as soon as it did he was there, gathering her close, pressing his lips against hers.

  She closed her eyes and let him, her limbs relaxing with every second he encouraged her to open her mouth to his.

  When he pulled back he was smiling down at her with such desire she could have whimpered. ‘I’ve wanted to do that since I first saw you last night.’

  ‘Worth the wait?’ she asked.

  ‘You tell me.’

  Instead she bit her lips, hiding her fuzzy teeth and just as fuzzy breath as she extricated herself from his divine embrace.

  He made his way back to the kitchen table and she stumbled into the lounge, where she grabbed her phone and her thumbs ran purposefully over the keys until she found her appointments list. The day was as full as it ever was.

  But with Damien lounging on the other side of her kitchen table, his gaze still lingering on her lips, not looking as if he had any intention of going anywhere this time, she pressed a number on her speed dial and waited for Phyllis to answer.

  ‘You’re not in until ten,’ Phyllis chastised.

  ‘Actually I’m calling to let you know I won’t be in at all.’ As she said the words out loud her legs began to shake, as though they could finally give into how weak she truly felt. She sat on the couch.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Sick as a dog, actually. But a day ought to do me.’

  ‘Right. Good. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll handle everything. Just you wait and see. I can manage this place, no worries. Or a place just like it if there’s one on offer. So, you signed the papers for the loan yet?’

  ‘Ah, no. Not yet.

  ‘But you will.’

  ‘I yet may.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, rest up. Take care. Lie down. Eat well. Don’t do anything to wear yourself out, okay?’