Tim sidled up to him at the bar. ‘Have you ever seen anything like that?’
Rhys shook his head, not trusting his voice.
‘That is the hottest thing I’ve seen on two legs. Unbelievable.’ Even Tim knew to shut up after that and enjoy the view.
After a few minutes—they could have all happily watched for hours—she stopped. Sat still on the stool for a moment, head bowed. Rhys could see her panting.
She stood and handed the sticks back to Greg, the drummer. ‘Thanks, I needed that.’
‘Any time.’ Greg almost fell over the kit to take the sticks, his complete attention on her and not the obstacles in the way.
Tim walked up to the stage, looked up to where she stood now at the front of it. ‘I’m Tim. You have to come and watch tonight. As payment, you know.’
‘Sure.’ She smiled and jumped down from the stage. Rhys clenched his fists even tighter at the view of her legs in action. ‘I really appreciate that, guys. I feel a lot better now.’
She must have known they were all watching, tongues practically hanging out of their mouths like rabid dogs. But she walked casually as if she hadn’t a care in the world, as if no one was looking, not least five full-grown, deeply red-blooded men.
She felt a lot better? Rhys’ blood was pumping through his body to a far faster beat than she’d been playing on the drums. More alive than he’d been in months—yep, he felt better too. And he knew what would make him feel marvellous.
It had been so long.
He tracked her progress down the room. She was looking down and ahead of her, seemingly forgetting the band onstage behind her. Coolly ignoring the four sets of eyes trained on her back. Then she turned her head just as she passed where he was ‘resting’ against the bar.
Five tables stood between them as she walked down the centre aisle, but they could have been millimetres apart, such was the clarity with which he could see her eyes, almost feel their laser-like intensity. She didn’t smile as she looked him over—one killer inspection. He didn’t smile either, didn’t move a muscle in fact—couldn’t.
Unspoken communication. Unstoppable contact. That screaming lust again. Every sinew and muscle in his body tightened to the point of pain, his body wanting him to take action—to reach out and grab. At three in the afternoon with a bunch of his best mates watching?
Then she looked away and walked out of the bar. Rhys jerked his attention back to the band. Finally remembered to breathe.
‘Hot damn, that was some chick,’ Tim called over to Rhys. ‘Gave you the look.’
Rhys stood locked in position against the bar and managed another shrug. Yep. The look. He was still in recovery. Her eyes were haunting. Those brilliant blues had burned right through him and that message had passed again. Magnetic. Rhys was no stranger to ‘the look’—the one a woman flicked a man to say she’d noticed him and was interested. That maybe he and she were a possibility.
Maybe a possibility?
She was a dead certainty. Right now he wanted her as he’d never before wanted a woman. Instant, inescapable, intense. His body was still coiled. He wanted to reach for her, wrap her around him and make her his. Restraining that urge made him ache.
Per capita Sydney had an excess of beautiful, glamorous women and Rhys was on familiar terms with several of them. But suddenly a slip of a girl in a casual tee and quick-dry skirt had nearly rendered him catatonic with need.
‘The minute she finds out who you are, she’s yours,’ Tim said, sizing up the situation.
Rhys frowned. Wrong. She hadn’t known who he was. And he didn’t want her to find out. Didn’t want to see that suggestion of raw physical attraction in her face replaced with attraction to something else—like dollar signs. He wanted to explore the desire without the hindrance and hang-ups that came of history and prejudice and preconceptions.
She was foreign. Had the vowel sounds of a New Zealander. Was wearing the garb of a girl who had nothing but a pack on her back. Kiwi girl on holiday. He was out of his native habitat too—in a part of the city he rarely came to. It was almost like being in a foreign country, one where he, blessedly, wasn’t known. Thus far their interaction was pretty much a blank slate. He didn’t need it to be filled in. What he wanted was physical—his body sought a connection with hers and had from the second he saw her. She’d felt the pull too and he sure as hell wasn’t leaving this bar again until she walked back in.
CHAPTER TWO
SIENNA dressed with more than usual care and way more than usual excitement. If ever there was a man to help her achieve number one on her list, he was that man. She’d gone back to the hostel and lain in wait for Julia and Brooke, the two South Africans she’d met on arrival last night. No sooner had she mentioned the words ‘band’ and ‘bar’ than they’d agreed to go with her. Sienna was pleased. Total party girls those two—and they’d ensure she had a good time no matter what might or might not happen with the gorgeous guy. And that was the purpose of this overseas jaunt, wasn’t it? To have fun. Be normal. Seize the day.
Sienna emerged last from the bathroom, clutching her top to her. ‘Can you tie these ribbons for me?’
Julia wolf-whistled. ‘That is some top!’
It was. She’d only brought it with her on the spur-of-the-moment last-minute mad decision. It rolled up really small and she’d stuffed it at the bottom of her pack, never really dreaming she’d put it on. Midnight-blue satin with a matching sequin trim. The material clung from her neck to her abdomen. Three sets of long ribbons trailed. One for her neck, one for her chest and one for her stomach. Julia artfully wound them round for her. The fabric covered her from neck to belly at the front but left her back bare—other than the ribbon ties.
She twisted her head, trying to see how Julia was getting on, while ensuring the fabric was held tight to her skin. ‘Quadruple knot them.’
‘Are you sure? You’ll need scissors to get out of it.’
‘I’m sure.’ That was the whole point. It was sexy and revealing but no way could anyone get underneath to discover what was below. The ribbon across her lower abdomen stopped a hand sliding up, the ribbon at the neck stopped fingers sliding south. Perfect.
She teamed it with a short black A-line skirt and high-heeled sandals. Her legs were her best feature and she intended to make the most of them. If dreams were going to come true, then she had to help them out a bit. She massaged moisturiser down the length of them. Then discreetly adjusted the strap of her underwear—a teeny, tiny lace-fronted G-string. Knickers like she never usually wore. But she was reinventing herself. And tonight she’d be as in-your-face frisky as she could get. Ribbons reached halfway down her skirt. She was covered far more than the bikini woman on the beach but was as naked as she’d ever been.
‘That’s a vamp outfit.’ Julia stood back and surveyed her before sharply turning to her pack which had its contents spilling over the dorm floor. ‘I gotta find me something to compete with that. Time to get ready and glamorise.’
As Julia’s ample breasts provided more than enough competition, Sienna wasn’t letting the comment go to her head. She’d never be page-three pin-up but with her legs emphasised, and her back drawing attention from her front, she might do OK.
Brooke’s voice came distantly through the top she was squeezing into. ‘Is the lead singer cute? You want the singer, right?’
‘The singer is all yours. In fact the entire band is all yours.’
Brooke’s head popped through the neck of her top. ‘So who is it you’re after? The bartender?’
Was it so obvious she was after someone? ‘No.’ She came clean. ‘The band has a guy helping out.’
‘You’re going for the roadie?’ Brooke shrieked.
‘God, don’t tell me he’s the technical guy? Not the sound and lighting geek?’
Julia sounded appalled.
Sienna giggled. ‘I’m not sure what he does. He was helping with their equipment.’
The others sent her pitying looks
. ‘OK, if you’re sure. We’ll leave him to you.’
They sat on the beds, stared into tiny compact mirrors and worked hair and make-up. Sienna twisted her hair up. Put on her mascara and gloss with a slightly heavier hand than usual and wished the hostel allowed drink in the bedrooms.
This was ridiculous. She was getting worked up—and dollied up—over nothing. He probably wouldn’t even be there. She almost succumbed to the urge to cancel there and then. Time for a mental slap on the cheek. This didn’t matter. She was in a foreign city, free to do as she pleased. If he was there, then she’d have a great time; if he wasn’t, she’d still have a great time.
Uh-huh.
She really wanted to see him again—wanted to replay the moment she’d sizzled like a drop of water in a pan of hot oil. Just another look would be enough.
Uh-huh.
‘Right, girls, let’s go have ourselves a blast.’ Julia gave a foxy twirl.
Sienna couldn’t stop the giggles bursting out. She was such an idiot. But seeing as she was dressed to kill, she might as well go and make the most of it. She could just dance at least—as she used to with her best friend Lucy. Go and dance and have a laugh.
As they linked arms and strode down the street, Sienna soaked up some of the confidence the others oozed.
She didn’t arrive until well into the second set. Rhys was at the bar, half hidden but in a place that gave him a clear view of the door—so he’d see her the minute she got there. She was with two other women. They looked like fellow tourists—tanned, relaxed, riveting. The other two were staring at the stage, she was looking around the audience. He stepped back into the shadows as her gaze swept over the bar. He wanted to observe for a while. Still deciding how or even if he would make a move. He glanced at Tim. Saw he’d seen their arrival because he winked at them. Immediately he looked straight to where Rhys stood, flashing him a huge grin.
The band wrapped up the set a song early and headed straight to her—all four of them. But it was Tim, as always, who got there first, and who less than subtly cast a glance of pure appreciation over the other two. Rhys watched for a while, wanting to see if she spent that killer look on any of the others. He saw her smile, saw her introduce her friends, but then she seemed to quieten, let the girlfriends do the talking and the flirting as they headed to the table in the back corner reserved for the band. He saw her glance around before sitting. She was looking for someone. It had better be him.
Tim came up to the bar. Ordered a tray of tequila shots, his usual modus operandi, then came to where Rhys stood.
‘Doc, Doc, Doc. Why are you hiding out here? There’s a lady at that table all wrapped up with your name on her.’
Rhys frowned. He didn’t want his name out anywhere. Just for once.
‘Rhys, you can’t go doing the hardworking serious doctor thing all your life. You have to cut loose and have some fun some time. Hell, they’ve ordered you to take time off. Have a holiday, for heaven’s sake. There is your holiday.’ He jerked his head back towards the table.
Rhys managed a tight grin. They had. Made him take a fortnight. Said he was accruing too many days—a liability on the budget. They didn’t want to owe him three months or more. So he’d been forced to take a break. He didn’t much like breaks—they meant he had too much time to sit and think. He preferred to keep busy.
‘Come on, dude. When was the last time you had a one-nighter?’
It was all right for Tim. His every action wasn’t watched and subsequently detailed in the gossip pages of the local rag. If Rhys was seen within five feet of a woman it was reported the next day as a new relationship—possible wedding bells every time. The exaggeration and speculation was exhausting. The prying of paparazzi keen to rustle up a story out of nothing invaded what he’d hoped could be an ordinary existence. But Rhys knew when it came to money, especially his kind of money, people didn’t scruple to sell their souls.
Mandy had done just that. Sold herself, and him, to the highest bidder. She’d taken everything he held close and hung it out for the world to see. And she hadn’t even got it right. He’d asked her out on a whim. She’d been working in a café near the hospital; he’d been in there after a long shift. Her effervescence had been so attractive to his tired self. It had been a fun hour, chatting over coffee. The hour became a date, then a string of dates. He didn’t figure ’til later she’d known all along who he was. That the most she understood was the wealth and status his name entailed. Too late he realised he knew nothing of the real Mandy, that nothing they had shared was real, that there was no depth beneath the bubbly exterior. He’d broken it off and then really learned how money had been her biggest motivator.
He wouldn’t be fool enough to trust like that again. Not someone he didn’t know. So he didn’t do one-night stands. He didn’t want to read all about it in the paper the next day over breakfast. Instead he did the discreet dating thing with women from his own social circle. Glamorous, beautiful for sure, but also safe, circumspect and so boring.
Tonight he could do with some anonymity—be able to have some fun and not worry about where the details might surface. He supposed he shouldn’t care, should shrug it off and enjoy the reputation. But he wanted his life to be more meaningful. He refused to be the rich, spoiled playboy spending his days using his money and name to score. And he refused to be used himself.
Life, Rhys knew, was precious.
Unfortunately, that seemed to make him all the more attractive to the gutter press. And with Mandy’s betrayal, telling all to anyone who’d pay enough, he’d been painted as some wounded saint—the earnest ER doctor working to escape the inanity of privileged life and the tragedy of past lessons. And that he wasn’t either.
He looked back over to where the drummer girl sat at the table. Watched as she sat, smiling, her head tilted to the side as she listened to whatever it was that her friend was saying. She nodded, her smile flashing wider as she giggled. He could see the sparkle in her eyes even from this distance. Any sobering memory of Mandy’s sell-out fled from his head as he focused on the stranger’s golden hair and pale-skinned shoulders. His abs tightened. He sure didn’t have saintly urges when it came to her. Maybe, just for once, he could do the frivolity thing. His desire for her was strong enough to tip the balance. Maybe there was a way around his issue of identity.
‘She’s not from here, is she?’
‘Kiwi, I think. Her mates are from South Africa. Met up in the hostel they’re staying at.’
Rhys stared at her some more. Felt those urges bite. Figured she was only going to be in town a night or two—what would she care if his name wasn’t quite the right one? More than ever he didn’t want to be himself any more. He was tired of living with his recollections and his regret. Temptation won. ‘OK. I’m Rhys—she knows that, right? But she doesn’t know anything else. So let’s say I’m Rhys…Rhys Monroe.’
Tim stared at him, his smile slow and full of wicked disbelief. ‘And what do you do for a living, Mr Monroe?’
Rhys frowned. ‘Dunno. What do you think?’
‘Better be something you’re really crap at. The bigger the lie, the more likely they are to believe it.’
‘And you know this how?’
‘Rhys.’ Tim looked affronted. ‘I’m a professional.’ He smiled at the waitress as she put the slices of lemon and dish of salt on the tray. ‘Let’s make you a builder.’
‘A what?’
‘Builder. Carpenter. You know, chippie.’
‘That’s ridiculous. I haven’t a practical bone in my body.’
‘Precisely.’
Rhys gave a grunt of laughter.
‘And no way are you that Maitland guy, heir to all those millions.’
Rhys shook his head. ‘Never heard of him.’
Tim picked up the tray of shot glasses. ‘Well, come on, Monroe, let’s get lying.’
‘I’ll be over in a second. Just got to finalise my persona.’
Tim winked, and, grinning broa
dly, headed back to the table. Rhys watched, covered by the crowd, as Tim set the tray down in front of them and handed out the shot glasses. She took one. He saw her nostrils flare as she took a sniff. Not so keen. But she did it. So did the others. Tim immediately started handing everyone a second round. She declined that one. He saw the way she pulled in her cheeks, looked over the table, glanced to the bar. Rhys smiled to himself, and summoned the waitress.
Julia and Brooke were barracking for a third shot. Sienna laughed at them. Heart sliding south as she did. Already knowing she was headed for yet another night on the sidelines. The taste of the tequila was bitterly burning her up. She couldn’t handle strong alcohol, would prefer a little wine. Something light—for the lightweight she was.
No sign of the roadie. She tried to tell herself she didn’t mind. Looked around the bar. Loads of men, loads. All looking good, gathering in groups. But the view was tainted. That kick of attraction had been so fierce and so foreign and she’d stupidly pinned more on it than there was. Now looking around, she couldn’t help the feeling the joint was a bit of a meat market—and she didn’t have the goods to set up shop.
Tim had managed to find himself a seat between the two South African beauties. Leaning back on it, talking, he soon had them laughing. The others in the band sat on chairs around them, letting Tim hold court but interjecting with witticisms of their own that had the girls shrieking even more. No doubt about it, they were a polished act and Sienna knew her place was firmly in the audience. She’d leave the participation bit to Julia and Brooke.
An arm appeared over her shoulder. ‘Thought you might prefer this.’ A glass was placed in front of her. Cool, clear water.
Pleasured by the Secret Millionaire Page 2