Living the Charade

by Michelle Conder

  ‘I’m fine. I just have a headache.’

  Tino wasn’t convinced, but he wasn’t going to argue with her on the sidewalk even if it was basically empty; most of the residents of this upper-class neighbourhood were safely behind closed doors.

  ‘Let’s go, then.’

  He felt a stab of remorse at how exhausted she looked and knew he was partly responsible for her condition. Possibly he should have told her who he was before he had agreed to help her on Thursday night, but it was too late now and he wasn’t a man who wasted time on regrets.

  The lift up seemed to take a month of Sundays, but finally she unlocked her door and stepped inside, reluctantly letting him follow.

  He glanced around the stylish cream interior of her apartment, surprised by the splashes of colour in the rugs and cushions. ‘Nice.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She remained stubbornly in the doorway and he set her rollaway case near her bedroom door. Then he looked around, perversely unwilling to say goodbye just yet.

  ‘I said thank you.’

  Tino glanced at a row of family photos on her bookcase. ‘I heard you—and, believe me, you don’t want to know what that makes me want to do.’

  She made a small noise in the back of her throat and he knew she was scowling at him.

  ‘Don’t you have somewhere to be?’

  Yeah, inside you.

  He ground his teeth together as his thoughts veered down the wrong track.

  Really, it was past time to go. Her prickly challenges turned him on, and the only risk he was up for right now was six hundred and forty kilos of carbon plastic and five point six kilometres of svelte bitumen.

  He turned and noticed that she didn’t seem quite steady in the doorway, although she did her best to hide it.

  Frowning, he pulled a business card out of his wallet. ‘If you need anything contact my publicist. His number is on here.’

  ‘What would I need?’

  ‘I don’t know, Miller. Help changing a tyre? Just take the card and stop being so damned difficult.’

  She held his card between her fingers as if it had teeth.

  ‘You’re not going to return the favour?’ he asked silkily.

  ‘I’m all out of cards.’

  Sure she was.

  ‘And you already know how to change a tyre.’

  He smiled. He did enjoy her dry sense of humour on the rare occasions she unleashed it.

  Like her passion.

  Her voice sounded scratchy and he studied her face. Her eyes had taken on a glossy sheen and small beads of sweat clung to her hairline. This time he didn’t ignore the inclination to reach out and lay his palm along her forehead. She jumped and tried to pull away, but he’d felt enough. ‘Hell, Miller, you are burning up.’

  She stiffened and her eyes were bleak when she raised them to his. ‘I’m fine.’

  Like hell.

  A moment passed.

  Two.

  She jerked her eyes from his and swayed. Tino cursed, grabbed her, and eased her over into one of the overstuffed armchairs facing the TV.

  ‘It’s just a headache.’

  ‘Sit.’ He headed into the alcove kitchen and flicked on the electric kettle.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Making you a cup of tea. You look shattered.’

  She didn’t argue, which showed him how drained she was. He located a cup and saucer in her overhead cupboard and a teabag in a canister on the bench and waited for the water to boil. ‘What’s your mother’s number?’

  ‘Why do you want it?’

  She had her eyes closed and didn’t look at him when she answered.

  ‘I think she should stay over tonight.’

  ‘She lives in Western Australia.’

  ‘Your friend, then—what’s-her-name.’

  She peeled her eyes open and looked at him as if he was joking. ‘No man ever forgets Ruby’s name. She’s in Thailand.’

  There was a wistful note in her voice and he paused. ‘Were you supposed to go with her?’

  ‘I...had to work.’

  He shook his head. ‘Who else can I call to take care of you?’

  She closed her eyes again, shutting him out. ‘I can take care of myself.’

  He poured her tea. ‘Do you take milk?’

  ‘Black is fine.’

  As he handed her the hot tea a compelling bright yellow canvas dotted with tiny blue and purple fey creatures caught his attention on the far wall and he stepped closer. ‘Who did this?’

  ‘No one famous. Can you please go now?’

  He looked at the indecipherable artist’s scrawl in the corner of the canvas and took a stab in the dark. ‘When did you do this?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  Liar.

  And she hadn’t just wanted to illustrate children’s books either; he’d bet his next race on it.

  ‘You’re very talented. Do you exhibit?’

  ‘No. Thank you for the tea, but I don’t want to keep you.’

  He heard the cup rattle and turned to find her leaning her head against the back of the chair. She looked even worse than before.

  Making one of those split-second decisions he was renowned for on the circuit, he grabbed her suitcase and stalked into her bedroom.

  ‘What are you doing now?’ she called after him.

  ‘Packing you some fresh clothes.’

  He upended the contents of her case on the bed and then opened her wardrobe door. He was confronted by a dark wall of clothing. He knew she liked black but this was ridiculous. He had no idea where to start.

  ‘Do you own anything other than black?’

  ‘It’s a habit.’

  So was hiding herself. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Why are you packing my things?’ Her voice was closer and he glanced over his shoulder to see her leaning in the doorway. She should be sitting down, but he’d take care of that in a minute.

  ‘Because you’re coming with me.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  He knew he was forcing his will on her, and it totally went against his usually laid-back style, but dammit he just wasn’t prepared to leave her here. What if she got really sick?

  Then she’ll call a doctor, lamebrain. And since when have you taken care of anyone other than yourself anyway?

  ‘It’s stress and lack of sleep,’ she murmured.

  ‘I can see that. And you’ve hardly eaten all day either. You need a damned keeper.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Consider this a long overdue holiday.’

  ‘Don’t you dare go near my underwear drawer!’

  ‘It’s too late. I know you like sexy lingerie.’

  She groaned, and he smiled.

  He threw a fistful of brightly coloured underwear into the case, pulled a selection of footwear from her closet and zipped the case closed.

  He wheeled it towards her and deftly scooped her up with one arm.

  ‘I don’t like all this he-man stuff,’ she said, leaning weakly against his chest.

  ‘Too bad.’ He grabbed her computer satchel and her handbag, slammed her apartment door behind them. ‘My instincts tell me you need someone to take care of you, and I have track practice tomorrow morning I can’t miss.’

  Her head dropped against his shoulder. ‘I have to go to work tomorrow. I could get fired.’

  ‘Everyone’s entitled to a sick day. If you’re okay tomorrow night I’ll fly you back. Anyway, you could get fired for not coming with me. Dexter wants TJ’s business, and TJ wants me. You can tell Dexter you’re working on me.’

  He put her down to fish his car keys out of his pocket and then gently deposited her inside the car.

  ‘I don’t think that’s going to impress him.’

  But she rested her head against the car seat and closed her eyes.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MILLER knew she should probably put up more resistance to his high-handedness but she felt too weak and l
ight-headed. And some deeply held part of herself was insanely pleased by his gesture.

  But she was being a sucker again. It was obvious that his behaviour had more to do with his overdeveloped sense of responsibility than it did with her as a person and she would do well to remember that.

  He expertly pulled the silver bullet into the area of the airport reserved for private planes, and Miller gave up fighting the inevitable. She was so weak she had no choice but to lean into him and soak up some of his strength as he guided her towards the steps to his plane.

  It was sleek and white, and she didn’t feel so unwell that she couldn’t be impressed. ‘You’re not the prime minister, are you?’ she murmured faintly.

  He smiled softly. ‘Sorry. I’m not that big.’

  Their eyes caught and held and his smile turned devilish.

  ‘I meant that important.’

  Keeping her sheltered against his broad shoulder, he led her past wide leather bucket seats with polished trim down a narrow corridor and into a room lit only by the up-lights in the carpet.

  ‘You have a bed?’ She couldn’t keep the astonishment from her voice.

  ‘I fly a lot. Hop in.’

  ‘Don’t I have to wear a seat belt for take-off?’ As she said the words she felt the jet move slowly forward. Or backwards. It was hard to tell.

  ‘Not on a private plane.’

  ‘Does it have a bathroom?’

  ‘Through there.’ He gestured towards a narrow sliding door. ‘If you’re more than five minutes I’m going to assume you’ve collapsed and come in.’

  ‘And you accuse me of being bossy?’ She sniffed, but didn’t argue. Her back ached, her stomach hurt, and her head felt as if it had some sort of torture device attached to the top.

  When she came out he was on the phone speaking to someone in Italian. One of his family maybe?

  God, their worlds were so different. She felt a pang as she recalled watching the cool kids all eating at the same cafeteria table at school every day while she pretended she needed to be alone to spread out her drawing pad.

  ‘I’ve ordered you a light meal. It’ll be delivered as soon as we’re airborne.’ He shoved his phone in his pocket and came towards her. ‘You look like you’re about to fall over, Miller. Please get in the bed.’

  He might have said please but his tone implied he’d put her there in about three seconds if she didn’t comply.

  Slipping off her boots, she folded herself inside the cool, crisp sheets and laid her head on the softest pillow in the world...

  ‘Come on, Miller, we’re here.’

  Groggy from sleep, Miller allowed Valentino to lift her out of the bed.

  ‘Don’t forget her boots,’ he told someone, and Miller rested her head against his shoulder, unable to completely pull herself from the blissful depths of unconsciousness.

  Seconds later she was placed in a car, and seconds after that she was being lifted again.

  The next time she woke the nausea had passed and so had the headache. She stretched and felt the resistance of a top sheet. Someone had made this bed with hospital corners. She wondered if she was in a hospital.

  Opening her eyes, the first thing she noticed was that the room was in semi-darkness, with a set of heavy silk drapes pulled across the windows. The second thing was that the room was expensively furnished in rich country decor and definitely not in a hospital. She strained her ears but could only hear the faint sound of white noise. A washing machine, perhaps.

  Pulling back the covers, she was pleased to see she was wearing her T-shirt and leggings from earlier. So it was still Sunday, then. She felt utterly displaced and wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d slept for a week.

  Feeling grimy and hot, she checked through a door and was relieved to see it was a bathroom.

  Before going in she glanced around and spied her case in a corner. Flicking on the bedside lamp, she went to rummage through it for something else to put on and was surprised to discover it held only underwear and shoes.

  Resting back on her heels, she let out a short, bemused laugh, remembering the exasperation in Valentino’s voice when he’d asked her if she wore anything other than black.

  ‘You’re awake, then?’

  Miller spun around, so startled by his voice she fell back on her bottom. Which only made him seem to fill the doorway even more. She tried not to think about how gorgeous he looked in his casual clothing. He hadn’t shaved and his hair was still slightly damp from a recent shower. Then she noticed he was holding a steaming porcelain bowl.

  He walked into the room and placed it on the bedside table. ‘Chicken noodle soup.’

  ‘You made chicken noodle soup?’

  His lips twitched. ‘My chef did.’

  ‘You have a chef?’

  ‘Team chef, to be precise.’

  ‘Well...’ Miller stood up, not sure what to say. ‘That’s very nice of you but I feel fine. Great, in fact. I did tell you I wasn’t sick.’

  ‘You should feel great. You’ve slept for nearly twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Twenty-four hours! Are you kidding?’

  ‘No. The doctor checked your vital signs this morning but he wasn’t overly concerned. He said you might have picked up a bug and if you didn’t wake properly by tonight to call him again. You spoke to him while he was here. You don’t remember?’

  ‘I have a vague recollection but...I thought I was dreaming. I know I’ve been pushing myself lately, but—wow. I feel fine now.’

  Valentino stuck his hands into his jeans pocket. ‘I’ll leave you to have your soup and a shower.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Miller’s mind was still reeling from the fact that she’d slept for so long. ‘Oh, wait. I don’t have anything to change into. You only packed...underwear and— What is that noise?’

  He stopped at the door. ‘The ocean. A cold front came through this morning so the swell is up.’

  ‘You live on the ocean?’

  ‘Phillip Island.’

  ‘We’re not even in Melbourne?’

  ‘Take a shower, Miller, and join me in the kitchen. Down the hall, left and then right. There are clothes in the wardrobe. They should fit.’

  Curious, Miller went to the wardrobe door and gasped when she opened it to find an array of beautifully crafted women’s clothes filling the cupboard—half of them black! Wondering who they belonged to, she fingered the beautiful fabrics of the shirts and dresses, the soft wool pants and denim jeans.

  But whose were they? And why did Valentino have a closet full of—she checked a few of the labels—size ten clothes?

  Her size.

  The thought of wearing another woman’s clothing wasn’t exactly comforting and her stomach tightened. T-shirts, jeans and shorts lined the shelves, and there was a grey tracksuit.

  Feeling as if she was stealing the pretty girl’s clothing from a school locker, Miller gingerly pulled out the tracksuit pants and a T-shirt. Thank God she had her own underwear—because there was no way she was wearing somebody else’s. In fact, she’d put on her own clothes again if she hadn’t slept in them for so long. The thought that she’d actually been ill was still something of a shock.

  Going through to the marble bathroom, Miller quickly showered under the hot spray and opened the vanity and found the basics. Deodorant, toothpaste and a new brush, a comb and moisturiser. Brushing the tangles from her hair, Miller hunted in the cupboard for a hairdryer and came up empty.

  Damn.

  Without a hairdryer her hair would dry wavy and look a mess. She felt vulnerable and exposed without her things, but there was nothing she could do about it. Valentino had swooped down, got her at a weak moment, and she’d just have to brave it out. It was only clothes and hair anyway. He probably wouldn’t even notice.

  She walked back into the bedroom and her stomach growled as the smell of cooling soup filled her nostrils. Salivating, she perched on the bed and demolished the fantastic broth in seconds, her body feeling both clean and
nourished.

  But, knowing she couldn’t hide out in this room any longer, she picked up the empty bowl and followed Valentino’s directions to the kitchen.

  His home was modern and spacious, with lots of exposed wood and a raw-cut stone fireplace that dominated a living area that was furnished with large pieces of furniture built to be used as well as to look good.

  When she stepped into the modern cream and steel kitchen she was assailed with the smell of sautéed garlic and her eyes became riveted to the man facing the stove. She drank in his athletic physique in a fitted red T-shirt and worn, low-riding denims that cupped his rear end to perfection.

  He was without a doubt the sexiest man she had ever seen, and he made her forget all about being self-conscious or cautious. But she wasn’t here because he was attracted to her. He’d made it perfectly clear Saturday night he didn’t want her in that way, so it was time to stop thinking about the way he made her feel.

  There was nothing else going on here but his over-developed sense of responsibility, and if she didn’t pull herself together she’d likely make a huge fool of herself again.

  Something must have alerted him to her presence because he stopped pushing the wooden spoon around the pan and turned towards her.

  His eyes swept over her and she felt the thrill of his smoky, heavy-lidded gaze from across the room. She wished her senses weren’t so attuned to his every look and nuance because the tension she felt in his presence made it impossible for her to relax.

  Miller sensed he was holding himself utterly still, almost taut, and she was definitely using someone else’s legs as she moved further into the kitchen.

  ‘The clothes fit, then?’

  She remembered the dull feeling that had washed over her when she’d first seen them. ‘Yes. Whose are they?’

  ‘Yours.’

  ‘You bought me clothes?’

  He shrugged carelessly at her stunned tone and added tinned tomatoes to the pan. ‘Technically Mickey bought them.’

  ‘Mickey?’

  ‘My Man Friday.’

  He had a Man Friday? One who knew his way around women’s fashion? She hated to think how many other women Mickey had clothed at Valentino’s request.