The Price of Fame (11 page)

And last night he’d let his mouth run away with his common sense and told her things about himself he’d never told anyone.

Work, he reminded himself, pushing all erotic thoughts
and bad judgements and trust issues away. He had a program to write and by God he was going to do it.

His determination paid off and he worked solidly for the rest of the day and well into the night, only rolling into bed for a couple of hours’ sleep before doing it all again.

Late in the afternoon on the following day, he rewarded himself with a swim, then sat in the shady surrounds to catch up with the real world in the day’s local newspaper.

But on page three, his own face stared back at him, beside a large graphic that could have been plucked from one of his games. The caption read,
Dom Silverman
:
The Secret World of Nic Russo?
Included in the article was a small photo of him and Charlotte on board a yacht and speculation about their relationship.

He didn’t bother to read it. Betrayal stabbed at him, its black stain spreading like sin in front of his eyes as he wrenched upright and snatched up his mobile.

When her phone rang and Charlotte saw Nic’s number, her heart stopped, then began pounding. How many times in the last twenty-four hours had she started to ring him before reminding herself Nic didn’t want anything more meaningful than what they’d had?

Then remembering how she’d left him without a word, she pressed the connect button with a mix of excitement and apprehension. ‘Hello, Nic. Did you get my text—?’

‘Why, Charlotte?’ The words weren’t what she’d expected, nor were they spoken in that sexy tone she’d grown so accustomed to hearing; they were tight and remote and filled with such cold anger a chill shivered down her spine.

‘I’m sorry.’ Her hands started to tremble; she pressed her free hand against her heart. ‘I thought it was the best way, under the cir—’

‘Was it for the money? Your inheritance not what you expected?’ His sarcastic tone tore at her sudden fragility.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘That reporter on the beach,’ he said in frigid tones that burned and froze at the same time. ‘You told him about me. About Dom Silverman.’

‘No! That’s not true.’ Her legs turned to water and she sank to the floor. ‘What happened?’

‘An article in the newspaper
happened
. Interesting coincidence, wouldn’t you say, that it appears the day after you skip off back to Australia?’

He made it sound as if she’d done a moonlight flit with his life savings. ‘Oh, Nic, no …’ Charlotte’s fingers clutched her phone tighter, pressing it to her ear as if willing the words to convince him. ‘Please, Nic. Believe me. I’d
never
do that to you.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I swear on my parents’ graves that it wasn’t me.’

A long, tense silence followed. Surely he knew her well enough to understand that she’d never use the memory of her parents in such a way if she didn’t mean it?

‘How the hell, then, did they find out?’ He spoke each word as if chewing on leather.

‘I don’t know. Oh …’ Unless that reporter at Tullamarine … Could she have been listening in on her conversation with Suzette? Charlotte tried to recall what she’d said, then wished the floor would open up and swallow her. ‘Oh, no …’

‘Okay, let’s have it.’

She tried to explain, tripping over her words. She’d referred to Nic by his real name … but she’d mentioned
Utopian Twilight
in the same breath. A couple of mouse clicks and anyone would have the knowledge at their fingertips.

‘You still don’t know how to deal with the paparazzi, do you?’ She could practically hear his teeth grinding together.
‘Never,
never
, say or do anything in public that you don’t want the world to know about.’

‘Nic …’ She willed herself not to cry. ‘I don’t know what to—’

‘Tell me your address and I’ll send a car for you tomorrow at five p.m. He’ll make sure you’re not followed and you’ll meet me at Montefiore Hill at six.’

North Adelaide’s Montefiore Hill overlooking the city was a favourite spot for snogging and lovers’ trysts.

Not this time.

She heard the abrupt click as he disconnected. He was flying back to Adelaide tomorrow. Not for a close reunion but a confrontation.

W
HEN
the car ferrying Charlotte cruised into Montefiore Hill’s car park during a rain storm, she knew the red sports car parked alongside had to be Nic’s. She got a quick glimpse of him as he exited with an umbrella and opened the passenger door for her.

He didn’t waste time with rain-drenched greetings, bundling her inside and rounding the car while the rain drummed on the roof. The cab drove off and he slid in beside her, smelling of winter and wet wool.

Black jumper, black jeans, black eyes. A formidable contrast to her vibrant island lover and her heart thundered with apprehension—and desire. Even under such circumstances her body seemed to have a will of its own.

‘Nic …’ she began, then trailed off beneath his gaze. To escape its intensity she looked at the city lights through the blurred windscreen.

He shifted closer, his warmth invading her space, but he didn’t touch her. ‘I’m not happy with you, Charlotte.’

‘I screwed up big time, didn’t I?’ When he didn’t reply, she went on, ‘I hope you trust me enough to know I’d never do anything to hurt you. I understand you don’t trust easily after everything you’ve told me, but I—’

‘I’ve decided you were telling the truth.’

She let out a slow breath. ‘You don’t know what a relief
it is to hear you say that.’ Even if his words were clipped and remote. She allowed herself to relax against the soft leather seat for the first time in what felt like a life sentence.

‘So now we deal with it. Together.’

She turned to him, incredulous. Droplets of water still shimmered in his hair. ‘I’d’ve thought you wouldn’t want anything more to do with me.’

‘I’ve given it plenty of thought over the past twenty-four hours. We all make mistakes.’

‘That’s very generous of you but I don’t deserve it. Because of me, you’ve lost your writing anonymity—’

‘It’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.’ Watching her, he stroked the ends of her hair with light fingers. ‘Maybe it was the universe’s way of telling me it was time.’

‘And now our names will be linked and splashed all over the gossip columns and—’

‘The name Nic Russo is known in Fiji but it doesn’t have the same media exposure in Australia.’

‘Until now.’

He acknowledged that but smoothed the hair behind her ear and drifted his fingers to her cheek. ‘I’m more concerned about the Barossa wine princess; I know how you hate publicity.’

‘I can handle it. I’m getting better at it.’ Her breathing stalled at the barely there caress and she leaned into his touch, drew in his familiar scent. ‘You didn’t have to come all the way to Adelaide to hold my hand.’

‘True. But maybe it’s not only your hand I want to hold.’ His voice dropped to its husky low register as he reached over her and the back of her seat reclined smoothly. He fused his mouth to hers, swallowing any reply she might have made, and his taste—warmer and smoother than the
best whisky and all the sweeter for its familiarity. One hand slid beneath her jumper and up beneath the edge of her bra to cup her breast and tease a nipple.

‘Nic … wait …’ she managed when he finally lifted his lips to tug on her ear lobe. ‘We’re in a public place.’

‘Relax. No one’s around.’ He leaned back slightly to look at her, those sensual lips curved, his eyes twinkling with the city’s reflected light. ‘You’ve never been parking in a Ferrari before?’

‘Um … no.’

He unsnapped the top stud on her jeans, slid his hand down her belly and inside her panties. ‘About time you did, then …’

Urgency pummelled Nic as she arched against him, her moans echoing his. He plunged his fingers into her wet heat while the rain continued to lash the roof. A few frantic seconds and he had her jeans down to her knees, his own jeans unzipped and—at last—he was ruthlessly riding her where only she could take him. No patience, no control, no finesse. Just blind, searing passion as they flew together over that mindless pinnacle.

They readjusted their clothes in silence. Nic had been fooling himself into thinking this thing with Charlotte was finished. He wanted more—just a few days, a couple of weeks maybe, get her out of his system, then he could focus on work. ‘Come back to my apartment.’

She was finger-combing her hair but paused to look at him, her eyes wide, her lips plump. Ravished. Adorable. ‘I’ll drive you home tomorrow,’ he told her, then leaned across to smooth those lips with his and murmured, ‘I want to make love with you again. All night.’

‘Me too,’ she murmured back.

Moments later Nic swung out of the deserted park and headed for Glenelg. Probably faster than he should, considering
the slippery road conditions but he couldn’t wait to get her fully naked, to feel her body pressed up against his again.

‘I guess you’ll be going straight back to Fiji, then,’ she said as they cruised through an amber light. ‘Especially with this cold weather.’

‘I’m here now; might as well stay on a bit.’ He glanced her way. Her hair was temptingly tousled, her hands clasped tight on her lap. ‘Are you still planning to go ahead with the fashion show idea? I could stick around if it’s not too far away, give you some support. If you’d like.’

‘Yes, I am, and I’d love for you to be here for it. Suzette’s supplying the bridal gowns and formal wear and the models and I’m going to contact the attendees with money to burn. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of weeks to organise.’

‘Bridal?’

‘Suzette’s speciality.’

‘No
lingerie
?’ When she didn’t answer, he flicked her a grin. ‘Brides want something special at the end of the big day to wow their grooms with, don’t they? You make a stunning model—I’ve seen you firsthand, remember.’

‘I know what you’re thinking, Nic, and you can forget it.’

‘Pity.’

‘Since you’re here,’ she went on, switching topics fast, ‘those opera tickets I mentioned are for tomorrow night, if you’d like to join me. If you’re not busy …’

‘Guess I could give it a try.’ He squeezed her thigh. ‘On the condition that you come home with me after.’

‘Deal.’

The following morning, Charlotte slid out of bed before Nic woke. In their hurry to get naked last night, she hadn’t
given the apartment more than a glance, but she took note of the bathroom now as she coiled her hair on top of her head and waited for the water temperature to rise.

Black. Masculine. No pretty-smelling soaps—and why would there be?—just a shelf stocked haphazardly with the usual generic bottles and shaving gear. Glass and chrome gleamed in the sunlight slanting through the frosted window, the lack of colour relieved by a couple of thick red towels. It was spacious enough with a deep spa and a shower stall big enough for two.

Ignoring the supermarket-brand gel dangling from one of the twin heads, she lathered up with her own tiny ‘Charlotte’s Meadow’ travel soap, glad she’d had it in her handbag.

The cheery voice of a radio announcer was her first and only clue that she was no longer alone. She glanced up and noticed twin speakers mounted on the wall, catching a shadowy blur of movement beyond the steamy glass screen as she did so.

‘Mind if I join you?’

Just hearing that husky morning voice turned her knees to jelly as the screen door opened and Nic stepped in behind her.

‘I … ah …’ She bit back a moan as his hands slid over her shoulders to tweak her nipples into tight little buds. ‘I thought … you were asleep.’

‘I was.’ He nipped at the side of her neck with his lips. ‘But then I smelled this perfume and had to investigate.’ He leaned further, took the soap from her hands. ‘It’s been driving me mad for the past two weeks.’

‘You can thank my emergency soap supply, then.’

‘Of course,’ he murmured. ‘On every princess’s travel essentials list.’ His big body was pressed up behind her and he was obviously ready to get on with things.

‘Laugh if you like,’ she said, primly. ‘I’m not going to change.’

‘And I wouldn’t want you to. It was made for you, this scent,’ he murmured, nipping her ear lobe, his breath mingling with the steam that rose around them, closing them in, shutting everything else out.

‘As a matter of fact, it was.’ It was hard to concentrate when his erection was nudging her backside and his hands were busy drawing soapy circles around her breasts. ‘Exclusively … In Paris … Years ago.’ It had cost a bomb but she still imported it on a regular basis.

‘So what can I smell … Jasmine?’

‘And honeysuckle, sweet mandarin, black rose … amongst other things …’

‘It reminds me of a lake at sunset with mist swirling low on the ground and the sky burnished with colour.’

‘You should be a writer …’

‘And you’re there, facing the water, in something long and smooth and glowing like fire to match the sky. Then I come up behind you and kiss your neck like this …’ His lips nipped and pressed across her nape. ‘And the dress dissolves like gold dust under my hands.’ Those hands glided over her skin, and every dip, every curve he touched sang his praises.

‘Your perfume was the first thing I noticed about you,’ he murmured against her ear.

‘It was?’

‘You were in front of me in the check-in queue at Tullamarine.’

‘Oh …’ How could she not have known? How could she not have felt this connection between them that had become as much a part of her as the air she breathed?

An arm reached in front of her and he set the soap on its dish, nudging closer. She spread her legs in invitation,
or maybe it was surrender, as he pushed inside her, holding her upright with his strength and warmth.

‘And I fantasised about doing this …’ he said, pushing deeper, harder, his hands sliding over her belly, and lower, between her thighs where she wanted him with the most desperate of wants.

And Nic couldn’t imagine a better way to start the day than with a fantasy come to life. ‘I have to tell you, the back of your neck’s an obsession of mine.’

He played light fingertips over her nape, worked slowly up from the base of her skull and into her silky hair. And she responded like a harp carved and tuned exclusively for him, her sweet sighs like angels’ music to his ears. Working his fingers higher over her scalp, he felt the shiver that moved through her.

‘That feels … amazing.’

‘So do you …’ He thrust once more—deeply—and her slick heat tightened like a glove around him. ‘So do you.’

They ate breakfast overlooking the ocean. The rain had passed but it was still cold outside, the wind hurling itself against the glass and whipping up white tops. Charlotte studied his apartment, minimalist in the extreme, compared to his Fijian house, which felt like a home. Miles of glass, stern black and chrome furniture—not even a cushion or house plant to soften the austerity. A typical bachelor pad.

Munching on a slice of toast, she wondered if he brought women here, but was beginning to realise his privacy was paramount. No doubt he graced the bed of many a woman’s boudoir, however. ‘You have an office here too?’

He indicated a closed door on the far side of the living room. ‘It’s pretty basic but the light and the view make up for it.’

‘Loads of inspiration, then.’

He poured himself another cup of coffee. ‘I do my most creative work in Fiji. Adelaide’s mainly where I work on the programs.’

Charlotte rose, carried her dishes to the dishwasher, loaded them. ‘Since I’m at Glenelg, I might take a stroll down Jetty Road before I leave, if you’re not in a hurry.’

‘Fine by me.’ He rose too. ‘I’m going for a run on the beach.’ He stretched, giving her a glimpse of tanned taut abdomen beneath the hem of his windcheater. ‘If I know women at all, I’ll be back before you but just in case …’ He walked to the fridge, took a key off a hook, handed it to her.

Not wanting to disturb him if he was working, Charlotte let herself in an hour later. When she didn’t see Nic, she called softly and knocked at his office door, turned the knob.

Locked.

Her buoyant mood slipped a bit. More interested in spending time with Nic than browsing boutiques, she’d cut her trip to the popular shopping strip short, and beaten him back. The locked door in his own home was also a surprise. Was that his habit or was it to keep her out? Did he still not trust her? No, it was an added security measure, she told herself. His work was valuable, and after what Angelica had done who could blame him?

On the positive side, having the place to herself gave her time to arrange her purchase of four plump red cushions along the sofa before he returned. She set the happy plant on the glass coffee table. A nice welcome home, she decided, pleased with the effect, and the cushions would be a reminder of their time together every time he sat on the sofa to admire the view.

She spent the time tidying his bedroom and en suite, then progressed to the kitchen. She was wiping down the
benches when he blew in looking wild and windswept and bringing with him the scent of the sea.

She used the tea towel to wipe her hands. ‘Hi.’

‘Back already?’ His expression told her he wasn’t used to coming home to company. ‘What woman cuts short a shopping expedition?’

‘This woman.’ She reached up on tiptoe to kiss him. ‘I was beginning to think you’d run back to Fiji.’

He tucked his hands in the back pockets of her jeans to pull her hips closer but his eyes held a hint of reproach. ‘Not without telling you, I wouldn’t.’

‘Okay, message received and understood.’

Nic kissed her again, still somewhat distracted by the newness and surprise of having someone waiting for him in his apartment. ‘I didn’t expect you back yet so I stopped in at that café down the beach a bit …’ He trailed off at the sight of his cushion-festooned sofa, the greenery on the table, and heard the first alarm bell clang. ‘What’s all this?’

‘I thought they’d make it a bit more homely.’

‘I don’t need cushions.’ Or homely. Cushions were women’s work; they did
not
suit a bachelor’s apartment. ‘I hardly ever sit here.’

‘Well, you should,’ she said, behind him. ‘You shouldn’t be chained to your desk all day …’

‘It’s what I do. And I won’t be here long enough to fuss over any plant.’