Unforgettable You: Destiny Romance

by Georgina Penney

  To Ben’s everlasting amusement, the Kewpie doll was now too engrossed in playing with her phone to notice Alex immediately, which was understandable since the heavy rain and the increasingly raucous sailors had taken the noise level up a couple of notches. When she finally looked up, she went through the same routine she’d performed earlier. She politely flashed teeth and dimples before saying something Ben couldn’t quite hear. Within a matter of minutes Alex had returned wearing a bemused smile.

  ‘Forgive me, but what did I just learn, exactly?’ Ben asked, feigning confusion.

  ‘That she’s waiting for someone.’

  ‘And?’

  Alex reclaimed his seat, his cheeks flushing enough to see even in the pub’s muted outdoor lighting. ‘And that she thinks I would look handsome in uniform.’

  Ben stared at his friend for a few seconds as the words sank in then howled with laughter.

  ‘This is priceless. The great Alex Crane just got pegged as a sailor. You’re not thinking of doing a bit of Gilbert and Sullivan any time soon, are you? I could see you as a pirate. Oh wait, on second thought, don’t. I don’t think the world could take it.’ Ben took in Alex’s frown. ‘Oh come on. You can’t be offended, surely? You are American. And you know, you all kind of look the same and sound the same to the uninitiated. Why don’t you just go back over there and correct her assumption?’ If it were possible, Ben would package up this moment, put it in a box and bring it out on special occasions when Alex was proving particularly difficult.

  He got to his feet, fully intending to introduce himself to the woman just so he could thank her for the best laugh he’d had in months, only to sit down again when a familiar-looking bloke with long ink-black hair strode over to her table. Rather than receiving the brush-off like so many before him, this contender received an enthusiastic hug and a kiss on the lips.

  Ben nudged Alex with his foot. ‘If it makes you feel any better, the someone she was waiting for is prettier than you and just as well known, if I’m correct.’

  ‘Yeah? Who is he?’ Alex looked around to catch the newcomer taking a seat at the lady’s table, much to her obvious pleasure.

  ‘What?’ Ben asked, distracted momentarily by the woman’s smile. It lit up her face, damn near lit up the entire beer garden.

  ‘Ben?’

  He recovered. ‘If I’m not mistaken that’s Scott Watanabe. He’s a photographer. Just completed a big show in London. Women in War, I think it was called. There was a big write-up in the Times a couple of weeks ago if you bothered with any news outside the fatherland.’

  ‘Huh.’ A flash of chagrin crossed Alex’s features before he shrugged philosophically. ‘Win some lose some.’

  ‘Were you fighting? I missed that.’ Ben abruptly pushed his chair away from the table. ‘Another pint?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Scott!’ Amy Blaine’s baby blues widened in surprise, seconds before she launched out of her chair and threw herself into her friend’s open arms. Standing on tippy toes, she wrapped her arms around his neck and planted a warm, platonic kiss on his lips before firing off a barrage of questions. ‘What are you doing here? When did you fly in? Why didn’t you call me? I would have picked you up from the airport!’

  ‘Hey, squirt. I’ll answer you but you’ve gotta let me go. I’m losing oxygen here.’ Scott contradicted himself by pulling her tightly against his broad chest.

  She allowed herself to revel in the sensation. They’d known each other since she was eight and he was ten. He’d been her older sister’s best friend for a little over twenty years and her own surrogate big brother for just as long. She always missed him whenever he went overseas for work, but his absence had been especially hard this last week.

  ‘Your lungs are big enough so start talking,’ she said, not caring if her meticulously applied make-up was getting smudged against his shirt.

  ‘I flew in late last night and would have called but Jo said you’ve been flat tack this week.’ Scott let her go with one final squeeze and took the seat across from hers.

  ‘That’s an understatement.’ Amy rolled her eyes. Her hair salon and barbershop had been the cause of a great deal of wailing and gnashing of teeth of late. ‘It’s been insane. Mel’s quit because she and Kate broke up again, so it’s down to just Kate, Roslynn, Marissa and me. I’ve had to turn people away.’

  Scott winced in sympathy and she waved a hand, not wanting to dwell on the negative. ‘But enough about me.’ She leaned forward in her chair, chin resting on her hands, as she drank in his too-handsome Eurasian features with a rush of pleasure. ‘What are you doing out on the town when you could be enjoying my company?’

  He gave her a wry smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. ‘I was here to meet someone just now. I promised I’d catch up with her the minute I got back but it looks like that’s not gonna happen. You?’

  Amy echoed his expression. ‘Same. I’ve just been stood up.’

  Scott scowled. ‘Jesus, Ames. That really sucks. Where do you find’em?’

  ‘More to the point, where do they find me?’ Amy’s eyes glazed over with a flash flood of tears that she wiped away quickly with her fingertips, careful not to smudge her mascara.

  ‘Aw, babe.’ Scott reached over and ran a long finger over her up-tilted nose. ‘How about I get us a drink and you can tell me about it? You want another one?’ He nodded to the perspiring glass of house white she’d been nursing for the past half hour.

  ‘I won’t say no.’ Amy allowed herself a small sniff, then forced a smile. ‘Actually, gorgeous, bring us a bottle.’

  ‘That bad, is it?’ Scott asked in a quiet rumble, his eyes sympathetic, his mouth tensed at the edges.

  ‘Yeah, but don’t get all serious on me. Go get us a drink. Make it a bottle of red since I don’t have to worry about scaring a guy off with red wine teeth tonight. Then I want to hear how your show in London went. I can’t believe I haven’t seen you for three months!’

  ‘Three months? Yeah. Probably. Far out, that went quick.’ Scott leaned back, obviously stunned.

  ‘For you maybe, mister, but it was snail’s pace from my perspective. Anyway, wine first, conversation later. Hop to it.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Scott stood up, saluted and about-turned.

  Smile fading, Amy watched his back as he walked towards the bar, side-stepping the puddles formed by the odd hole in the makeshift roof overhead as the rain pummelled on.

  A few seconds later her phone chirped, signalling an incoming message. She ignored it in favour of looking morosely down at her new Bernie Dexter dress. She’d spent ages beautifying herself tonight, just to end up being ditched by text message half an hour after her date was supposed to meet her. It was enough to leave her feeling a little teary, but she refused to dwell on that right now. She looked up and caught sight of the two men lounging at the table nearby.

  The friendly, drop-dead-gorgeous American sailor she’d just brushed off was laughing at something his friend had to say and she felt a sharp stab of longing. Sometimes she wished she was the kind of woman who could have a one-night stand. Over the past couple of years she’d entertained some pretty racy fantasies on the subject but knew she’d never act on them. There was no quality control. She’d never be able to guarantee the man wasn’t a violent lunatic or just another inconsiderate bastard. Given her tendency to attract that particular species of male, she didn’t want to tempt fate.

  The sailor’s friend caught her watching them and raised his wine glass in a salute. Unlike his friend, this man resembled a well-dressed thug. His head of black hair was closely shaven to almost the same length as the stubble on his jaw. His pale eyes–maybe blue, maybe green–were watching her from under heavy lids, and his incongruously sensual lips were pulled into a faint, mocking smile.

  Amy found herself squirming in her seat, uncomfortable with the attention. She knew it didn’t mean anything and she should be used to it by now, but that didn’t make it any less cringeworthy.r />
  Every time an American naval vessel pulled into the Fremantle port, the entire city of Perth was flooded with horny sailors who tried to chat up any woman–and a significant number of men–who looked even vaguely available. They usually left without much trouble when Amy told them she had a boyfriend. They had definitely never watched her like this guy was.

  She picked up her phone again to mask her discomfort, only to find another message from her absent date. Bastard. When did it become okay to ask someone out, cancel late without a call and then try to confirm an appointment for a haircut and shave a few minutes later?

  ‘There ya go. One bottle of wine as ordered.’ Scott set a bulbous red wine glass in front of her. He looked pointedly at her phone. ‘Am I killing someone?’

  ‘Nope.’ Amy waved her hand dismissively. ‘Just helping me stick pins in a voodoo doll later tonight after we get a bit more drunk and debauched.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Scott searched her features for a few minutes before pouring them both a generous helping of rich oaky red, then set the bottle on the table between them. ‘So d’you want to tell me why you just gave Alex Crane the brush-off?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Amy was too busy focusing on the wine bottle to take notice of his words. It was an Evangeline’s Rest shiraz. Scott’s family owned the winery. ‘You get this stuff for free m’love. Why are you ordering it at a bar?’

  Scott shrugged and looked entirely unrepentant. ‘I missed the taste of home and I haven’t gotten down to the farm to pick up another case yet. So back to Alex Crane.’

  ‘Alex Crane? Who’s Alex Crane?’

  ‘The famous guy who was chatting you up when I walked in.’ Scott nonchalantly ran his thumb along the base of his glass.

  ‘Famous? How?’ Amy’s eyes narrowed on the American sailor at the next table. With looks like his, she was sure she would have recognised him if she’d seen him in one of the trashy magazines at her salon, not that she’d had the time to look at them lately.

  ‘He’s a popular opera singer. Tenor. He’s only on all the billboards and flyers in the bloody city. You been sniffing the perming solution again, Ames?’

  ‘Opera singer? I thought he was a sailor.’ The mouthful of wine Amy had just swallowed turned to acid in her empty stomach.

  ‘A sailor? Look at him, babe. If he’s a sailor, I’m Popeye.’ Scott paused, then his eyes widened. ‘Oh Jesus. What did you say to him?’

  ‘Only that I had a boyfriend like I always do. He’s a sailor,’ Amy insisted, even as she realised the man hadn’t said as much. She’d not given him a chance. The minute she’d heard his American accent she’d run on autopilot. ‘Bugger.’

  This time Scott couldn’t contain his booming laughter and she gave him a glare dark enough to singe his socks off before twisting to furtively study the men at the next table. The sailor, maybe opera singer, was looking the other way, but his friend was still openly scrutinising her with a cat-that-ate-the-cream smile as if she were part of a joke. If what Scott had just said was true, she probably was.

  She twisted back around. ‘Scott, tell me I didn’t just insult an international celebrity? Please, please, just tell me you’re joking. That would top off a truly crappy day.’

  ‘Dunno.’ Scott drained his wine glass in one go and filled it up again. ‘Chill. I hear Crane’s a pretty nice guy. And he’s not looking pissed off right now, so I doubt it. Can’t say the same about his friend, though. That’s Ben Martindale. By all accounts, he’s a total prick.’

  ‘Ben who?’ Amy dared another look at the thug who had now turned back to his friend. Something about his features reminded her of a more rugged Clive Owens.

  Scott’s expression turned incredulous. ‘You really don’t get out much, do you squirt?’

  ‘No time.’ Amy’s mind whirred at the implications of committing such a major social faux pas. Her professional reputation, her livelihood, relied on keeping famous people very happy so they, in turn, recommended her businesses and made her very happy. Pissing off an international celebrity was not a part of the plan. With Perth being such a fishbowl, it wouldn’t be hard for this Alex Crane guy to find out who she was if he was the vengeful sort.

  ‘Do you think I should apologise?’

  ‘Wouldn’t hurt, but don’t stress. I don’t think it’s as big a deal as you’re making it.’ Scott swirled the wine around his glass and regarded it for a few seconds before raising his eyes to hers. ‘You know I missed this. Missed you too.’

  ‘Yeah. Love you too, sweetie. Give me a sec.’ Amy kept watch on the men at the next table, who were now engaged in conversation. She was going to have to make this right.

  She took a deep breath, pushed her chair back abruptly and bridged the short distance as quickly as her four-inch heels allowed, ignoring a twinge of pain as her feet protested at having to work again after sixty hours on the job over the past week.

  Neither man noticed her approach until she was standing at their table.

  ‘Hello again,’ she chirped, forcing a cheerful smile, deliberately keeping her eyes on Alex Crane, while surreptitiously smoothing her sweaty palms over her dress. She immediately found herself the centre of attention.

  ‘Hi,’ Crane replied with a surprised, weaken-the-knees grin.

  The thuggish friend was another matter entirely. He nodded at her in greeting but a sarcastic smile played at the corner of his full lips. Maybe it was just the contrast of short hair, heavy black stubble and icy pale green eyes that set her nerves on edge. To Amy, he looked dangerous, moody–definitely someone she didn’t want to know. Not that she would dwell on that right now. She turned back to Crane, who was looking anything but offended by her earlier mistake. Still, best to be sure.

  ‘Take a seat.’ He gestured to the spare chair at their table.

  Amy winced with feigned regret. ‘I’d love to but I can’t. I came over to apologise.’

  ‘Yeah? Why?’ Alex Crane’s smile slipped a little as his forehead wrinkled in a frown. Now that she looked at him clearly, Amy kicked herself for her earlier assumption. This man was far too polished to be a sailor. His clothes — a soft-looking moss-green jumper and black jeans — screamed money, and his immaculately groomed curly black hair had no doubt been styled at a top salon. Never mind that his friend Mr Neanderthal was wearing a black suit that had to have been tailored to his lean, hard-looking body. She’d never met a sailor who wore a suit. How had she missed that?

  ‘I thought you were a sailor. That’s why I told you I had a boyfriend. I don’t. Not that that’s important and you’re not . . . a sailor, I mean. My friend just told me you’re a musician. An opera singer?’ Amy drew a deep breath. ‘So yeah, I’m really sorry. I’d love to make it up to you. If you want to come to my barbershop on Monday I can offer you a free cut-throat shave. My place is called Babyface. It’s not far from here. Most people know about it.’ She darted a glance at the thug friend, who was still watching her while flipping a packet of foreign cigarettes over and over on the table in front of him. It felt like he was laughing at her. The sensation wasn’t pleasant. It was even less pleasant when he spoke.

  ‘What time Monday?’ His voice was sharp, his diction precise. Educated English. Expensive English. While waiting for her answer, he ran his eyes over her new dress as if tallying up every little fault so he could laugh about them later. It was an extremely rude gesture and Amy’s hackles began to rise.

  ‘Pardon?’ she asked, doing her best to keep her expression friendly for Crane’s benefit.

  ‘What time?’ the man repeated, as if she were slow.

  ‘Be nice.’ Crane gave Amy another warm smile. ‘Ignore him, he’s not house trained.’

  ‘I’m always nice.’ The thug’s eyes narrowed and his mouth quirked, almost imperceptibly, at the side. Now Amy knew for sure he was playing with her. She’d watched her sister’s cat wearing that same expression when lying on his back asking for a tummy rub. It was always a trap.

  ‘It’s allright.’ Amy turn
ed back to Crane. ‘I open at nine.’

  ‘I didn’t catch your name,’ he prompted.

  ‘Amy.’

  ‘Amy. You know, damn, thank you so much for your offer, but I’m flying out to Sydney on Monday. My name is Alex.’ He held out a hand and Amy automatically shook it. His palm was large and warm, his fingers long and narrow, enveloping her hand reassuringly, momentarily putting her at ease.

  ‘I know. My friend just told me.’ She darted a look back at Scott before gently disengaging her hand. She could be imagining it, but Alex seemed disappointed at the loss of contact.

  ‘Well, great. I’ll be back in town in a few months’ time. I’d love to see you.’ He flashed her another thousand-watt smile.

  Amy felt a surge of happiness as her usual unfailing optimism returned. This incredibly handsome man wanted to take her out? Maybe dolling herself up tonight hadn’t been such a tragic waste of time after all. ‘That’d be great. Just wait. I’ll give you my card.’ She returned to her table as quickly as dignity allowed, ignoring Scott’s enquiring expression, and retrieved a business card from her bag.

  ‘Here you go.’ She handed it to Alex moments later, her voice a little breathless.

  ‘Great.’ He took it, immediately tucking it into his wallet.

  ‘Oh well. Great, then. I, ah . . . I have to go.’ Amy gestured to her table where Scott was monitoring the proceedings with a faintly protective air. Relieved to have avoided a disaster and elated by Alex Crane’s obvious interest, she spun around and began to walk off.

  ‘Ben.’ The thug’s cut-glass voice stopped her dead in her tracks.

  She turned. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘It’s what you should write in your appointment book for nine on Monday.’ With that, he nodded curtly before turning to Alex, dismissing her. Amy was tempted to walk back to their table and pour Ben’s glass of wine over his head.

  ‘Want to tell me what went on there?’ Scott asked, having heard that last exchange and noticed Amy’s quicksilver change of mood.

  ‘I’ll tell you after I’ve finished this glass.’ Amy threw back a mouthful of wine. Scott was right. It did taste like home, dark and full of swirling, faintly acidic memories.