Ain't Misbehaving

by Shelley Munro

  He skewered her with his blue gaze. “As long as you make the deadlines.”

  “I presume I’ll need to sign a contract?”

  “Yes.” Ash fought to remain calm. This wasn’t the time to grab Charlotte by the shoulders and shake the stupidity out of her. She’d had a shock and was still grieving Ivy’s death. He needed to make allowances, but it was damn difficult when he wanted to scoop her up and carry her to his bedroom. Somehow he needed to make her understand he was there for her, and he wanted her in his future. He wanted a partner and a lover. He needed her. “I’m going to make tea. Do you want one?”

  “Thanks.”

  So he went through the tea-making motions while talking about the two campaigns. Her face lit up with interest as he explained about the beauty salon and the motorcycle shop. She transferred files to her laptop, and they spent the rest of the afternoon throwing thoughts back and forth. By the end of dinner, they’d thrashed out several ideas for her to develop.

  “That’s enough for now,” he said, holding out his hand to her. “Come and watch a movie with me.”

  “No, I don’t think—”

  “It’s a motorcycle movie.” He dangled the info in front of her in the manner of a parent bribing a child to do their homework.

  “Motorcycles?” Her features lit with interest, and he sighed inwardly as she took his hand. Way to hack his ego off at the knees.

  At least she cuddled against his chest while they watched the movie about male bonding and shenanigans on a motorcycle trip. As the credits rolled, Ash yawned.

  “I might go to bed. Coming?”

  Her hesitation cut him—invisible slices through his confidence. Hell, if people knew, they’d laugh themselves silly.

  She chewed her bottom lip, tugging on it with her teeth. “I don’t feel like sex tonight.”

  “Who said anything about sex? I want to hold you. I’ve had a rough day. You’ve had a shitty one. I thought we could comfort each other.” His breath caught, in a strange—for him—surge of doubt. Words spoken long ago by his father flitted through his mind. Even if you want to hide in a dark hole, put yourself forward. Pretend you know what you’re doing and that’s half the battle.

  “Okay,” she said in a decisive manner. “That sounds nice. Which is your room?”

  “This way.” He felt his grin widening until it hurt his stretched lips. His pulse rate did a little shimmy when she reached for his hand of her own accord. Maybe the mountain between them wasn’t a range but a single peak.

  Ash showed her to his room. “Do you want something to sleep in?”

  “Skin is fine.”

  Half an hour later she lay in his arms, a warm weight pressed to his chest. Her soft breathing filled the room, the scent of flowers filling each of his inhalations. A lock of her hair tickled his nose, and it made him smile. He was the luckiest guy in Auckland. Now if only he could make this arrangement permanent.

  * * * * *

  It was strange standing alone in Ash’s house. He’d left for work five minutes ago, kissing her first before leaving his house whistling. She puttered around in the kitchen, stacking dirty plates in the dishwasher and wiping down the counters.

  After that she wandered into the spare bedroom and started making order out of her stuff. She folded and sorted clothes, most of which needed a wash. Some of her books were damaged, pages crumpled and spines broken. They went into the trash and she made herself a mental promise. When she had money, she’d replace them.

  Her cell phone rang. “Hello, Ash. You’ve only just left.”

  “Is that Miss Charlotte Dixon?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Frank Batchelor. I’m a lawyer with Batchelor, Stone and Partners. Ivy McDougal informed me of your contact details after I visited the house to help her redraft her will, not long before she passed. She’s left you something in her will. There will be a reading at the offices today at two this afternoon. Are you able to attend?”

  “Yes, of course.” A dart of pain pierced her chest at the mention of Gran, and she took a hurried breath to maintain her equilibrium. “Could you give me the address please?” She grabbed a pen and scrawled the details on one of the torn book pages. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll be there.”

  At one thirty she left the house on foot. As she walked past a parked car, a man shouted at her. “Hey, Red! Gonna give us a scoop about The Beast?”

  She turned to see a camera pointed at her. The bearded photographer who sat in the passenger seat focused it and started to feverishly click the shutter button.

  “What’s your name, Red?” the driver demanded. “What happened yesterday?”

  “Snow White,” she said and marched away.

  The rev of a car engine told her the men intended to chase and she increased her speed. They caught up, slowing the vehicle to keep pace with her.

  “Are you and Ash getting married?”

  “You’re driving in a bus lane,” she said. “You’ll get a fine if you’re not careful.” Stupid! Ignoring them was the best way. She kept walking until she reached a bus stop. Two elderly women sat on a seat inside the shelter.

  “Red, tell us about Ash,” the passenger of the car shouted.

  “Who are they?” one of the women asked.

  “I’ve no idea,” Charlotte said. “They’ve been following me and shouting questions.”

  “The bus is coming,” the other woman said. “If they don’t watch out, they’ll cause an accident.”

  The bus pulled up behind them, and the driver honked his horn, gesturing through the window. Frustrated, the driver of the car merged with the rest of the traffic to let the bus pull up at the stop.

  Safely on the bus, Charlotte let her shoulders relax. Ash coped with reporters and photographers every day. How he managed to keep so calm under the constant glare of publicity, she had no idea.

  The lawyer’s offices were in central Auckland and she alighted from the bus, entering the plush offices ten minutes later to find Elizabeth, Rachel and Jenny ensconced in the waiting room—a trendy space with chrome and glass, black leather couches and red accents. She checked in with the receptionist, a buxom blonde whose tailored gray suit did little to hide her curves. Her bright red lipstick was a nice touch—another perfect accessory for the waiting room.

  “What are you doing here?” Elizabeth demanded.

  “The lawyer asked me to come,” Charlotte said, dropping onto a seat on the far side of the room. Luckily the daggers Elizabeth shot at her were visual rather than physical. Charlotte picked up a magazine, pushing aside her discomfort. She’d dressed in her jeans and a cotton jumper. Elizabeth, Rachel and Jenny wore smart business attire, making Charlotte stick out like a weed in a flower garden. The reading material was years out of date, but she flicked through the pages, stopping at an article on school balls and another on a society wedding. Hmm, women from both groups would enjoy using a beauty salon.

  A phone buzzed a summons, and after a few brief words, the receptionist stood. “Ladies, Mr. Batchelor will see you now. This way please.” She indicated with a sweeping hand, the sun coming through the window catching the gemstones on her bejeweled fingers.

  “Ah, you’re all here,” Mr. Batchelor said, standing at their entrance. His bald head gleamed in the muted sunshine creeping through the blinds of his large corner office. “Good. Have a seat. You must be Ms. McDougal. I understand you retained your maiden name on your marriage, and you’re standing in for your brother and sister today.”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said briskly. “That’s correct. These are my daughters, Rachel and Jenny.”

  “Which makes you Charlotte,” Mr. Batchelor said. “I’ll read the will for you and answer your questions.” He retrieved a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses from his pocket and settled them on his nose. His voice was rich, his diction precise as he started to read.

  The first part of the will dealt with gifts to Gran’s favorite charities before he reached the meat of the conte
nt.

  “‘To my children, Elizabeth, Jacinta and Charles I leave my entire estate in equal portions. To my grandchildren Jenny and Rachel, I leave the sum of twenty thousand dollars each.’”

  “That’s wonderful,” Jenny blurted. “I can move into my own flat.”

  “Hush,” Elizabeth said. “Let the man finish.”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Batchelor said. “‘To my step granddaughter Charlotte Dixon I leave the sum of five hundred thousand dollars. During the last few—’”

  “No!” Elizabeth cried. “No, I won’t have it.”

  “Please let me finish,” Mr. Batchelor said, his urbane expression turning implacable at Elizabeth’s outburst. Silence fell and he continued reading.

  Charlotte stopped listening after she heard how much Gran had appreciated her company and the way she’d taken care of her during her last years. Tears of gratitude formed as she thought of what this money meant—security and the chance to follow a new path.

  Mr. Batchelor finished reading and removed his glasses, setting them on his desk at a right angle to the will. “Any questions?”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said. “How do I contest the will?”

  Chapter Eleven

  The scent of roast chicken wafted on the air when Ash walked through the front door. A multitude of feelings assailed him—pleasure, hunger because he’d missed lunch, and above all, contentment because Charlotte was waiting for him. He set his laptop bag by the door and went searching for her. He found her perched on a stool at the breakfast counter, peering at her sketch pad. A frown of appraisal creased her brow as she chewed on the end of her pencil. A wave of rightness tightened his chest, drawing him toward her. When she looked up, he pressed a kiss on one pale cheek.

  She cocked her head, a lock of red hair falling over one eye. An impatient hand brushed it away. “Is that all you’ve got?”

  A bark of laughter escaped him and he lifted her off the stool, ignoring her surprised squeak to dip her, his lips firm and hungry against hers. When he set her back on her stool, she was breathing hard.

  His gaze lingered on her breasts before lifting to survey her kiss-swollen lips. “How was that?”

  “A very Zorro-type move,” she said with approval.

  “I do my best.” Ash debated relocating to the bedroom then decided the top of the kitchen counter would work for what he had in mind.

  “Don’t you get sick of the reporters and photographers standing in front of the house? Shouting nosy questions?”

  And maybe hot sex wasn’t on the agenda. Bloody reporters. Concern flooded him as he brushed the errant lock of hair behind her ear. “Did they hassle you?”

  “They snapped my photo and followed when I went out earlier. The lawyer called about attending the reading of Gran’s will, and a reporter and photographer chased me to the bus stop.” She paused the rapid-fire summary of her day to take a quick breath.

  “But you’re okay?”

  “Yes.” She sighed, a flash of something indefinable causing her forehead to furrow. “Gran left me some money, but Elizabeth is contesting the will.”

  “Why does that not surprise me?” Ash reached for her hand and linked their fingers. “Are you okay? What are you going to do?”

  Charlotte shrugged and tugged her hand free. “Nothing in life is easy. Why should this be any different? I’m cooking roast chicken for dinner.” She took measure of his expression and scowled. “Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m not complaining. I’m speaking the truth. Listening to the lawyer reading Gran’s will reminded me of her fighting spirit. Even though she suffered from the lupus, she never gave up. She always tried to see the best in everyone. It’s not a bad way to live.” She sauntered to the pantry and pulled out half a dozen potatoes and two kumara.

  “You don’t have to cook for me.”

  “You know I enjoy cooking. Besides, it’s the least I can do to repay you for taking me in.”

  Some of his good mood faded. He didn’t want her gratitude. “I have a party to attend on Friday night. Would you go with me?”

  She hesitated before replying. “I don’t want to appear in the gossip papers.”

  Words of reassurance rose to his lips, but he bit them back. This was his world, and she’d need to accept him, warts and all, for their relationship to grow. As much as he wanted he couldn’t protect her from everything. “Sorry. Comes with the territory. Do you need help with dinner?”

  “No, the veg won’t take long to prepare. I suppose I could go to the party.”

  “I need to shower.”

  His back was stiff as he strode out of the kitchen. Charlotte frowned after him, aware she’d upset him. In truth, one date wasn’t much for him to ask of her. She picked up a kumara and peeled away the purple skin of the sweet potato. Yes, she could face reporters and photographers if he stood at her side. She owed him that much at least.

  In the distance the shower switched on. She finished the vegetables and checked the chicken before returning to her laptop.

  “How does this look?” she asked when Ash entered the kitchen.

  He rested his hand on the back of the chair, his breath stirring her hair as he leaned over her shoulder. “This is good, but it’s too pink.”

  Charlotte studied her pink design. “But beauty salons are for women. Women like pink.”

  “Pink and women together is a stereotype.”

  Maybe he was right. “What about blue?”

  “Try red or green, or you could go gold and black.”

  Charlotte clicked her mouse, turning her motif into gold and black. “That’s it,” she said, excited by the simple changes. Now the motif appeared sophisticated and drew the eye. She turned in her chair and threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you.” Her lips met his, and she nibbled and licked, using tongue and teeth. When she tried to deepen the kiss, he pulled back.

  “I don’t need your gratitude.” Ash stalked across the kitchen and stared out the window before turning around to face her. He folded his arms across his chest, his mouth pulled to a tight line. “I don’t need sex if you’re only sleeping with me now out of a sense of obligation. Damn it, I’m not desperate.”

  “No, it’s not like that,” she said.

  Ash stomped to the fridge and pulled out a beer and a bottle of white wine. He poured a glass of wine and handed it to her. “Make me understand because I’m getting the impression you feel obligated to cook for me, offer sex and go out with me in exchange for living here.”

  “No!”

  “Okay then. Explain,” Ash said. “Because from where I’m standing that’s what I see. I’ve had men and women offer themselves in exchange for favors from me—dates, photo and business opportunities in exchange for sex with The Beast.”

  “No, Ash. I like you. You. Not your money and position.” His expression didn’t shift. “Damn it. I slept with you the night we met when I had no idea who you were. I’ve never done that before. Doesn’t that tell you anything?”

  The buzzer went off, and Charlotte jumped to her feet to check on the chicken.

  “Is that all?”

  “No. Ash. You’re funny and sweet and sexy. Why wouldn’t I want to share your bed?”

  “I have burn scars on my face and chest,” he snapped. “No one can honestly look at me and say they don’t want to look away. I’m The Beast.” He raked her with a harsh glare.

  “Of course I see your scars. I’m not blind, but I see your kindness, your smile and so many other great things.”

  Ash sipped his beer, his gaze slicing and dissecting. “Okay,” he said, but his tight jaw indicated his real opinion on the subject.

  Well, damn. That sliver of mistrust went both ways. She was a penniless nobody and would remain that way if Elizabeth had her way. Why was he interested in her? Offering her help? There were invisible strings somewhere. Charlotte wanted to demand answers too, but instead she added the vegetables to the roasting dish and returned the chicken to the oven. “Tell me about the party.
How dressy will it be? Will my flapper dress work?”

  Despite his protestations, she did owe him, and going to a party was a small way to repay his kindness.

  * * * * *

  “Where have the reporters gone? The photographers?” Charlotte asked as Ash drove them to the party later that week. “All week they’ve jumped out of the bushes whenever I poke my nose outside.” They’d made her feel caged.

  “We’re in luck,” Ash said. “Rita Brooks, the soap star is filming a movie here. Most of the reporters are chasing her and her current boy toy while she’s staying in Auckland.”

  “I wish I could shake her hand and thank her in person.” Charlotte wondered how famous people coped with the constant glare of publicity even as she experienced a wave of relief. The tension between them had dispersed with each passing day, and they seemed to be friends with benefits again.

  Ash aimed a wry smile at her before pulling up for a traffic light. “Their absence does make a change.” He paused and shot her a glance before accelerating. “You realize the reporters will learn your name tonight.”

  She shrugged, pretending the notoriety didn’t bother her. “I figured someone would spill details soon anyway. Tell me more about the party. Is there anyone I should try to impress?”

  “No, be yourself and have fun. Dance with me and let me cop a feel in the dark corners.” When he pulled up at the next set of lights, he leaned over to brush a kiss on her cheek. She breathed in the clean scent of him, the aftershave she’d opened and sniffed in the bathroom when she was feeling lonely during the day. Not that she’d ever confess her silliness to him. It would make her seem tragic and clingy. Not the impression she wanted him to receive.

  Instead she flashed a grin. “Funny. Will I know anyone there?”

  “I doubt I’ll know half the people,” Ash said. “But I’ll introduce you to my friends. Don’t worry. You’ll have fun tonight.”