The Price of Fame

by Anne Oliver

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  She strained off the leaves, dumped them in a bowl. ‘You never bring the pretty maramas here. To your home.’ She pursed her lips, her coal-black eyes pierced his. ‘Maybe you like this one more than the others—you bring her.’

  ‘Tenika …’

  ‘Maybe you marry her. Make babies.’ Wiping her hands on her apron, she nodded to him. ‘Fijian people like babies. I can help.’

  Tenika and Malakai had never had children of their own. Nic saw the emptiness in her eyes sometimes but Tenika would have to look elsewhere for surrogate grandkids.

  ‘I know you can,’ he said softly. He took the hibiscus from behind his ear and slid it behind hers. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  He took the back route through the gate to avoid running into staff who’d expect him to stop and talk. He’d planned his time and didn’t want those plans disrupted. The Meke started at dusk. This evening was perfect—still and warm, with a multi-hued sky and the charcoal aroma from the open-air barbecue.

  He had access to all areas of the complex and it had been a simple task to learn that she was staying in one of the resort’s most exclusive bures.

  He knocked, and a moment later she cracked open the door.

  ‘Good evening.’

  She opened the door wider. ‘I’ve been expecting you to show up.’ She wore a black sarong spattered with electric blue and white frangipani flowers, giving him an unobstructed view of her neck and shoulders—his gaze lowered—and obviously no bra. Her glossy hair was piled on top of her head.

  ‘It was only a matter of time.’ He leaned against the door frame with a smile.

  ‘Guess you’d better come in.’ She walked away but looked back at him over one of those bare shoulders. ‘Did you work your charm on the girls at Reception too?’

  He stepped inside, closed the door behind him. ‘Didn’t need to. I’m a silent partner—finding one Charlotte Dumont on the books was easy peasy.’

  Her shoulders tensed before she continued across the room. ‘I see.’

  ‘Your name was on Malakai’s airport’s pick-up sheet.’

  ‘And, of course, you couldn’t help noticing.’ Those pretty grey eyes were clouded with worry when she finally stopped and turned to him. ‘So I guess you know all about me now.’

  ‘If you mean did I do a computer check on you, the answer’s no. I respect privacy. But if you want to tell me a bit about yourself, that’s fine too. I was hoping it might be tonight.’ He saw her notebook PC on the desk and gestured with his chin. ‘You won’t find me on any social-networking sites.’

  She blushed. Guilty. ‘I wasn’t … Much.’ She crossed to the desk quickly and switched it off. ‘You said you write computer games. I’d’ve thought you’d want a link so your fans could contact you.’

  ‘I use a pseudonym.’

  ‘That’s convenient.’ Her tone was sceptical, like her expression.

  ‘Isn’t it.’ Walking towards her, he dug his wallet from his back pocket and flashed his driver’s licence in front of her eyes. ‘Read this. Aloud.’

  ‘Dominic T. Russo.’ She nodded. ‘Okay.’

  ‘And …’ he took out her sketch, unfolded it and held it out ‘.I thought you might be wondering where this was.’

  She took one look at the page, closed her eyes and folded it again and muttered something short and unexpectedly earthy.

  ‘Charlotte, you just keep on surprising me.’ He loved the way her cheeks coloured, the vulnerability she couldn’t hide. It stirred up his protective side, amongst other things. ‘Your secrets are safe with me.’

  Her eyes darkened and sparked at the same time and he knew she was thinking about their one night together. Her fingers tightened on the page. ‘I didn’t even check them … You flustered me this morning.’ She fanned her face with it. ‘You’re flustering me now.’

  ‘Am I?’ He assumed an expression of mock concern. ‘Anything I can do to help ease that?’

  ‘I refuse to answer on the grounds that it might cause me to break out in a rash that would prohibit me from leaving this room for the rest of the evening.’

  ‘Tell you what, why don’t you answer and we’ll deal with the rash together if it happens?’

  ‘Why don’t I?’ But she only slid the page between the covers of her sketch pad. ‘Thanks for hand-delivering it.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d want it floating around the complex. It looks important,’ he prompted.

  But she only said, ‘It could be,’ without elaborating and slid her notebook into its leather bag. ‘I was just going to change and go down to watch the dancing.’

  ‘That’s handy because I came to ask you if you’d like to accompany me and maybe get something to eat after. But don’t change, you fit right in as you are. The resort’s casual, and loads of tourists wear their swimming costumes and sarongs.’

  ‘Not me.’ She crossed to the cupboard, pulled out a long white dress.

  He shook his head. As stunning as he imagined she’d look in the slim sheath, he wanted to see her in those vibrant colours for a change. They accentuated her eyes and made them come alive. ‘When in the islands, do as the islanders do. Keep the sarong. Please.’ Besides, he wanted the chance to take it off her later.

  She drew in a deep breath as if giving it some thought, then slid the dress back in the cupboard and said, ‘Give me a moment to freshen up at least,’ and disappeared into the en-suite bathroom.

  He sat on one of the roomy saucer-shaped bamboo chairs to wait. Her suitcase was open on the bag stand. His gaze wandered over the contents. Underwear. Every colour, every fabric, every fantasy. If he had his way, he’d enjoy watching her dance instead, wearing his choice of garments. Then peeling every one of them from her body. Slowly.

  But he put those carnal thoughts on hold. Tonight was about getting to know her in a social context. It was about discovering more about Charlotte the person.

  To start with, at least.

  Walking to the window, he stared out at the sunset reflecting off the ocean. They’d get to know each other a little better, enjoy a few more nights together, then she’d be gone. He didn’t even have to make some excuse to call it off and leave.

  Perfect.

  Charlotte’s fingers trembled slightly as she pulled the elastic out of her hair. She ran a brush through the tangled mess. Seeing Nic hadn’t made her shaky—if you discounted the quiver of desire running the length of her inner thighs the instant he’d appeared in her doorway—it was the knowledge that he’d seen her risqué bedroom designs.

  She adjusted and retied the sarong’s knot between her breasts. She hated drawing attention to herself but maybe Nic was right. If she went casual, she’d blend in with the rest of the crowd. She left her hair down, scooping one side behind her ear.

  So much for telling Nic to stay away. She knew exactly how the evening was going to end if he had his way. And she wouldn’t fight it; she knew that too.

  She was also looking forward to watching the traditional dance with him, sharing some time over a drink or a meal. Finding answers. As long as she treated him with the caution one usually reserved for dangerous animals, she’d be fine.

  It was a perfect outdoors evening. The still water reflected the last sliver of sun. Coconut palms were silhouetted against an ocean of red and an orange sky. Someone was lighting the kerosene torches and cauldrons; the warm smell wafted on the sultry air.

  ‘The younger kids from the local village school are performing tonight,’ he said as they walked towards the sounds of tribal drumming. There was an almost possessive note to his voice.

  ‘You know these kids?’

  ‘I’ve been involved with the school’s computer literacy programme for a couple of years now, so yeah. The older kids help the younger ones. One big family, no one’s excluded. It’s the Fijian way.’

  From his tone, Charlotte had a feeling Nic had missed out on those things while growing up.

  They sat on
benches with other guests to watch the show. A troupe of male dancers entertained them first, burnished bodies gleaming in the firelight. Then the women, festooned with flowers, their grass skirts alive with movement. The kids joined in last, to the audience’s delight and applause.

  As the crowd dispersed to find their way to one of the complex’s half a dozen restaurants, Nic signalled one of the dancers. ‘Kas!’

  ‘Nic!’ she called, with a smile, and hurried over, her grass skirt rustling. ‘Bula. You’re back!’ They bussed cheeks. ‘The kids have missed you.’ She tapped him lightly with her palm fan. ‘Hope you’re going to remedy that soon.’ She turned her wide smile on Charlotte. ‘Bula.’

  ‘Charlotte,’ he said, with a light touch at her back. ‘This is Kasanita Blackman, our dance teacher—just one of her many teaching skills. Charlotte’s a friend visiting here for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘ Bula. It’s nice to meet you.’

  ‘Welcome to Fiji, Charlotte. I hope you enjoyed our special performance. We’ve been practising for a month.’

  ‘It was fantastic. The kids seemed to be enjoying it as much as the audience.’

  ‘Ah, yes, they’re so excited.’ Kasanita groaned. ‘I don’t think we’ll get any serious school work done tomorrow.’

  Charlotte grinned. ‘I bet.’

  ‘Why don’t you come and visit us while you’re here? Get Nic to bring you when he comes. That’s assuming you like kids and noise.’

  ‘I love kids and noise … I think. I haven’t been inside a classroom in years.’

  ‘Okay, then. I hope to see you soon. Nic?’

  ‘How about tomorrow? Charlotte?’ He turned to her. ‘Does that suit you?’

  She smiled. ‘I’m looking forward to it already.’

  A chance to see a little of the real Fiji that other tourists might not. But more than that, she was looking forward to learning more about Nic and the support he gave the school. She admired guys who supported charities, especially when there was nothing in it for them personally—unlike Flynn who only did it to further his political ambitions.

  They chatted with Kasanita a few moments then said their goodbyes.

  ‘She’s lovely,’ Charlotte said as they walked towards one of the outdoor restaurants. ‘English surname—did she marry an Aussie?’

  ‘Her father’s Australian, her mother’s a local. He came here for work, they met and he never left.’

  He led her to a quiet candle-lit table away from the rest of the diners and she knew he’d reserved it for them in advance. Right on the sand with the water lapping a few metres away, spotlights throwing up an amber glow on coconut palms, a candle in a frosted glass on the table.

  A waiter appeared, his black sulu topped with the resort’s black and aqua shirt. He set a couple of fancy fruit cocktails in front of them. Nic ordered a shared plate of local Indian delicacies and spoke with Timi for a few moments—he seemed to be on a first-name basis with all the staff—then they toasted the evening with their drinks. Something deliciously smooth and frothy with coconut, pineapple, fresh lime and alcohol.

  Nic waited until Timi had gone to get closer to his dinner companion. Her hands were resting on the table as she leaned back on her chair to admire the stars and he couldn’t resist running a finger lightly across her knuckles.

  ‘So, Charlotte,’ he began, capturing her eyes as her gaze snapped back to him. ‘We’ve seen each other naked. I think it’s time we got acquainted on another level, don’t you?’

  She made some kind of strangled sound in her throat and sucked deeply on her cocktail straw. He’d never seen such beautiful eyes. Even in semi-darkness they shone with an inner luminescence that only drew him closer. A moth to the flame.

  He leaned in, his forearms on the table. He didn’t mind the heat, and he wasn’t averse to taking a risk. Taking risks had got him where he was today, but he waited a moment longer to let her settle. ‘Ask me something.’

  ‘Okay, I have a question,’ she said slowly. ‘Kasanita mentioned you’ve not been back in a while, yet you said you live here—how does that work?’

  ‘I have an apartment in Adelaide. I divide my time between the two.’

  Her eyes flickered. ‘You’re from Adelaide too?’

  ‘Originally from Victoria. I moved to South Australia more than ten years ago. So there’s a possibility of seeing you wandering Adelaide’s Rundle Mall some day?’

  ‘I live in the Barossa Valley, but the mall’s a favourite haunt, yes.’

  ‘You’re not related to Lance Dumont by any chance?’ He was a society big name in South Australia and royalty in the wine industry. Dumont owned the award-winning Three Cockatoos Winery. The man was worth a fortune.

  She nodded and her gaze dropped to the table. ‘He was my father.’

  ‘So you are a princess after all.’ Then he remembered that Lance and his wife had died in an aviation accident some time back, and his casual grin vanished. ‘Hell, Charlotte, I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ She looked up again with a watery sheen in her eyes and a determined brightness to her voice. ‘It’s been a couple of years now. But I do miss them. And Travers.’

  ‘Travers?’ A boyfriend? A husband?

  ‘My brother. I lost my whole family in one crazy afternoon and my safe little world crashed as surely as that helicopter. It’s never been the same since.’

  ‘That’s tough,’ he murmured, and meant it. He didn’t know how it felt to have a family—at least not a family where people loved and cared for each other—but he could empathise with those who did when he saw the pain of loss in their eyes. Even though he didn’t need or want that connection himself. ‘Do the authorities know what happened?’

  ‘Dad had a heart attack at the controls. We had no idea he had heart problems; he was always so fit and full of life. Dad loved to play up to the media.’ She smiled a small private and poignant smile that tugged at his heart. ‘He’d have been chuffed that he made the front page of the newspapers in three states.’

  Their platter came. Charlotte set her linen napkin beside her plate and they ate for a few moments while they enjoyed the flavours of the food.

  ‘You must be used to the press, then,’ Nic said, choosing a coconut-covered melon ball.

  ‘I’ve always avoided it whenever possible.’

  ‘Why was that idiot reporter giving you a hard time?’

  ‘I …’ She trailed off on a sigh, and studied her wine glass as she twirled its stem between her fingers.

  ‘You should tell me about it. That way if it happens again—’

  ‘If it happens again, you won’t be there to rescue me.’ She met his eyes with a fierce finality and he knew it was the simple truth. She was leaving in two weeks. He wasn’t.

  ‘My fiancé and I broke up six weeks ago. He’s in the public eye. The guy was chasing the story behind it. I thought, stupidly, if I denied my identity he’d leave me alone.’

  ‘Did you love him? The fiancé.’ His question surprised him. The reason behind it and the knot that tightened around his heart in response surprised him more.

  Of course she’d loved the man, he thought. He was beginning to understand Charlotte’s close ties to family. And he comprehended something very clearly: when she committed to people—whether it was her family or a man—it would be for keeps. So he figured she hadn’t broken it off; her ex had.

  In any case, she sidestepped his question, asking one of her own. ‘What about your family, Nic?’

  He never talked about his background. And with someone like Charlotte Dumont, society princess? He might as well be from the other side of the universe. She’d planned to marry and no doubt start her own family; he was a confirmed bachelor who lived for his work. Lived in his work; in a world where he ruled absolutely. They’d never find common ground.

  Except in bed.

  And wasn’t that all that really mattered here? ‘No siblings,’ he said. ‘I nev
er knew my dad. My mother died twelve years ago.’ He set his fork down carefully and reached for his glass. ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘No.’ She hesitated before placing her hand over his, and her eyes filled with compassion. ‘That’s the short, sharp and shiny version you give to anyone who asks. But I’m not anyone and I’m here and I have all night … if you want to talk?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk.’ He turned her hand over, linked it with his. Slid his fingers slowly between hers, letting the tension build, watching her eyes change from sympathetic to wide and aware. Taking the focus away from his past. ‘Are you still hungry?’

  Shaking her head, she slipped her napkin in her bag. ‘If I was, you just made me forget.’

  With any other woman, he’d have smiled at the ease with which she’d surrendered, but the feelings Charlotte invoked were suddenly too strong for such trivialities. He rose and pulled her up, saw an answering flash in her eyes and tightened his grip. ‘What I really want to do is unwrap you, lie you down and make you forget you ever had a fiancé.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  LEAVING the lights and music and chatter behind, Charlotte half walked, half ran, her hand in Nic’s, urgency rushing through her veins like a waterfall after rain. They headed for soft sand and cool shadows and the eternal shoosh of the sea. As soon as they reached the shoreline she kicked off her sandals, swiped them up, laughing like a crazy woman.

  Maybe it had something to do with near hysteria and never having experienced such urgency with a man. Flynn had been her only lover and it had been nothing like this.

  Nic glanced down at her but didn’t loosen his hold. ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘This.’ She waved her sandals in the air. ‘Not so much funny as unexpected. I feel like a different person, I keep expecting to wake up and …’

  Her laughter died and she trailed off and looked at him as he slowed his steps. His jaw was clenched, eyes fierce. A strange tight feeling clenched around her heart. ‘What?’

  He didn’t answer, just pulled her further along the beach. The instant they were hidden from public view, he stopped and yanked her to him with both arms, so that she was pressed flat against his chest. ‘Charlotte, what you make me want to do to you,’ he muttered. He loosened his hold but only so that he could mould his hands around her skull. His fingers twisted in her hair as he crashed his mouth down on hers.