Harlequin KISS August 2014 Bundle (45 page)

‘I ate it, but I haven’t boiled an egg since. And,
really, why boil an egg when you can pop out to a café and have one perfectly poached with some sourdough toast?’

‘And that’s the only thing you’ve cooked? The egg?’

‘I’ve made two-minute noodles—as recently as yesterday.’

‘Didn’t you help out at home when you were a kid?’

‘That was the problem.’ She ran a finger along the pristine edge of one of the cooker tops. ‘My hippie
parents are vegetarian. It was all bean sprouts, brown rice and tofu—which I actively detest—when I was growing up.’ She gave one of those exaggerated shudders that she seemed to luxuriate in. ‘Tofu casserole! Who wants to cook
that
?’

She opened an oven, peeked inside.

‘You’re clearly a
lapsed
vegetarian.’

She turned to face him. ‘Capital L, lapsed! From the moment I bit into a
piece of sirloin at the age of fifteen—on a Wednesday, at seven-thirty-eight p.m.—I was a goner. I embraced my inner carnivore with a vengeance. Meat and livestock shares skyrocketed! And two days later I tried coconut ice and life was never the same again. Hello, processed sugar! I don’t have
a
sweet tooth—I have a shark’s mouth full of them!’

‘Shark’s mouth?’

‘Specifically, a white
pointer. Did you know they have something like three hundred and fifty teeth? Fifty teeth in the front row and seven rows of teeth behind, ready to step up to the plate if one drops out.’

This was more interesting than the make-up of a golf ball, but not quite as intriguing as the calorific benefit of a passionate kiss.

And he wished he hadn’t remembered that kiss thing—because it came
with a vision of her kissing the Viking embalmer.

Sharks. Think about sharks.
‘The only thing I know about sharks’ teeth is that they can kill you,’ he said.

‘Hmm, yes, although the chance is remote. Like one in two hundred and fifty million or something. You’ve got more chance of being killed by bees, or lightning, or even fireworks! But that was just an illustrative example. So! I’m
a processed-sugar-craving carnivore, to my parents’ chagrin.’ She stopped. Took a breath. ‘Seriously, I must have the metabolism of a hummingbird, because otherwise I’d be in sumo wrestler territory. You know, hummingbirds can eat three times their own weight every day!’ She ran a hand down her side and across her belly. ‘Not that I can do
that
, of course,’ she said sadly.

‘No,’ Leo agreed.
‘You’re not exactly skinny.’

A surprised laugh erupted from her. ‘Thank you, Leo. Music to every girl’s ears!’

‘That wasn’t an insult. I’m a chef—I like to see people eating.’

‘In that case, stick with me and you’ll be in a permanent state of ecstasy.’

And there it was—
wham!
—in his head. The image of her licking the glaceé off her spoon. Ecstasy.

He swallowed—hard. ‘You
could take a cooking class.’

‘I think the cooking gene was bored out of me by the time I left the commune.’

‘The commune? So not only are your parents hippies but you lived on a
commune
?’

‘And it was
not
cool, if that’s what you’re thinking. Less of the free love, dope-smoking and contemplating our navels, and more of the sharing of space and chores and vehicles. Scream-inducing.
If you have any desire for even a modicum of privacy do
not
join a commune.’ She did the twinkle thing. ‘And, really,
way
too much hemp clothing. Not that I have anything against hemp—I mean, did you know the hemp industry is about ten thousand years old? Well, probably you didn’t know and don’t care. But you have to admit that’s remarkable.’ Stop. Breathe. ‘However, let’s just say that I don’t
want to wear it every day.’

Oddly enough, Leo could see her wearing hemp. On weekends, down at the edge of the surf, with her hair blowing all over her face and her polish-free toes in the water.

It must have been the mention of the commune, because that was not a good-time girl Sunshine Smart image.

Enough already!
‘Let’s move on,’ Leo said.

‘What about plates, cutlery, glasses,
serving dishes? You’re sure everything will be here in time?’

‘Yes, it will all be here. And it is all brand-new, top-quality, custom-designed.’

‘Not that I have any intention of telling you how to stock your restaurant...’ She bit her lip. ‘But can you send me photos?’

Leo sighed heavily. ‘Yes, I can send you photos.’

‘Excellent. And can I see the bathrooms?’

She took
his arm again, and he didn’t quite control a flinch. Thankfully Sunshine seemed oblivious, although he was starting to believe she was oblivious to approximately nothing.

Escorting her into the men’s and women’s restrooms as though they were out for an arm-in-arm stroll along the Champs-Elysées felt surreal, but Leo knew better than to argue. He wouldn’t put it past her to start imparting
strange-but-true facts about the toilet habits of some ancient African tribe if he did, and his nerves couldn’t take it.

At least she looked suitably dazzled by what she found. Ocean-view glass walls on the escarpment side, with the other walls painted in shifting shades of dreamy blue. Floors that were works of art: murals made of tiny mosaic tiles, depicting waves along the coast. And everything
else stark white.

‘I could live in here—it’s so beautiful!’ Sunshine marvelled.

‘And I will, of course, send you a photo of the toilet paper we’re using,’ Leo deadpanned as they walked back to the dining area.

Sunshine looked at him, struck, lips pursing. Leo could almost see the cogs turning.

‘You know,’ she said slowly, ‘I read something somewhere about a pop star who has
red
toilet paper provided when she’s on tour, so do you think—?’

‘No, I do not,’ he interrupted. ‘Forget the red toilet paper.’

The nose was wrinkling. ‘Well obviously not
red
. I was going to suggest a beautiful ocean-blue. Or sea-green.’

‘No blue. Or green. You’ll have to content yourself with your victory over my growing hair.’

Sunshine laughed, giving up. ‘It’s coming along
very nicely.’

She ran her hand over the stubble on his head and his whole body went rigid.

Leo stepped away from her, forcing that hand to drop and simultaneously dislodging her other hand from his arm. ‘And so are your eyes,’ he said, just for something to say—and didn’t
that
sound bloody fatuous? How could eyes
come along
? They were just there—from birth!

Although...hmm...something
about them wasn’t right. Her pupils were a little bigger than they should be, given all the light streaming into the room.

Why were they standing so close that he could see her damned pupils anyway? It wasn’t a crowded nightclub. They were the only two people in a big, furniture-free space. There was nothing to bump into. No reason for them to occupy the same square foot of floor. He took
another step back from her.

She was considering him with a blinking, slightly dazed look that worried him on a level he didn’t want to acknowledge.

And there went that tic beside his mouth.

‘I saw my parents yesterday,’ she said, and her voice sounded kind of...breathy. ‘They like the new natural look—as you could imagine. Mum talked about sending you a thank-you card, so brace
yourself for some homemade paper and a haiku poem. Apologies in advance for the haiku!’ Stop. Little laugh. ‘But strangers are doing a double-take when they look at my eyes now, which makes me feel a bit naked.’

‘Don’t knock naked. I’ve had some of my best moments naked,’ Leo said, and wondered what the hell was happening to his brain. Disordered. That was what it was. You didn’t go from
talking about hair to eyes to nakedness. At least
he
didn’t.

In fact there was altogether too much talk of underwear, orgasms and sex between them as it was, without tossing
naked
around.

He took yet another step back. Tried to think of something to say about homemade paper instead, because he sure knew nothing about haiku poetry. But Sunshine was giving him that dazed, blinking look,
and he couldn’t seem to form a word.

‘Yeah, me too,’ she said.

Leo had a sudden vision of Sunshine naked, lying on his bed. The almost translucent white skin, the long chocolate hair. Voluptuous. Luscious. Steamy hot. Smiling at him, sea-eyes sparkling.

He shook his head, trying to get the image out of his head.

And then Sunshine shook
her
head. ‘So! Tables!’ she said, and
took hold of his arm again—and this time it seemed to hit him straight in the groin.

Leo, looking everywhere
except
at Sunshine, had never enthused so happily about inanimate objects in his life. The choice of wood for the chairs; the elegant curved backs; the crisp white tablecloths and napkins; the bar’s marble top and designer stools. And still his bloody erection would not go down!

Go down.
Sunshine Smart going down. On him.

Bad.

This was bad, bad, bad.

Walking a little stiffly, he showed her the outdoor terrace. Talked about welcome cocktails. Described the way the decking had been stained to match the wooden floor inside. Back in. Suggested positions for the official table. Indicated places for dancing—except that Caleb had told him that dancing was likely
to be off the agenda, so why he was pointing that out was a mystery. Just filling the space with words.
Any
words. Waiting for that erection to subside.

And at the end, when she looked at him with those twinkling blue and green eyes of hers, he still had a hard-on and he could still—
dammit!
—imagine her naked. On his bed. Kneeling in front of him. Walking towards him. Away from him.

Help!

‘Can you email me the layout so I can refresh my memory when I need to?’ Sunshine asked. ‘Oh—and tomorrow I’ll have the invitation design to sign off. Are you happy for me to do it, or would you like to see it?’

‘I’d like to see it,’ he said, and couldn’t believe he’d actually said that. Because He. Did. Not. Care.

‘I could email it.’

‘No. Not email.’

Sunshine pursed
her lips. Her ‘thinking’ look—not that he knew how he knew that.

‘I really do have to be in the store tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Some new stock is coming in and I have a very specific idea for the display. And you’re working tomorrow night, right?’

‘No—night off,’ he said, and was amazed again. He
never
took a night off.

She brightened. ‘Great. Where shall we meet?’

‘I’ll cook.’
Okay. He had lost his mind. He was
not
going to cook for Sunshine Smart. He never cooked for girlfriends. And she wasn’t even that. Not even
close
to that. Even if he did want to have sex with her.

Damn, damn, damn. Goddamn.

Sunshine’s eyes had lit up like a Christmas tree. ‘Really?’

Could he back out? Could he? ‘Um. Yes.’

‘At my place?’

No—not at her place. Not anywhere.
‘Um. Yes.’ So he had a vocabulary problem today. Brain-dead. He was brain-dead.

‘Just one teensy problem. Most of my kitchen appliances have never been used.’

‘I love virgin appliances.’
Arrrgggghhh.
Again with the sexual innuendo. He was clearly on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

‘In that case you will have an orgasm when you walk in my kitchen.’

Orgasms. Oh. My.
God.

Sunshine checked her watch. ‘And, speaking of orgasms, I’d better go.’

Huh? What the
hell
?

‘I’m being taken to that new Laotian restaurant the Peppercorn Tree
tonight,’ she said, as though that explained anything. ‘I checked the menu online.
Very
excited!’

Okay, he got it.
Whew.
It was the thought of
food
making her orgasmic.

And then her words registered. ‘Being taken’.
As in date.

‘Gary or Ben?’ He just couldn’t seem to stop himself from asking.

‘Neither of them. Tonight it’s Marco.’

Marco
. Marco
?
Three
men on a string now?
Not to mention the calligrapher. And the hairdresser. And there was probably a butcher, a baker, and a candlestick-maker in there somewhere.

‘You sure there was no free love on that commune?’ he asked, and thanked heaven
and hell that he sounded his normal curt self.

‘Love’s never free, is it?’ Sunshine asked cryptically. And then she smiled. ‘That’s why I’m only interested in sex.’

Before Leo could think of a response she tap-tapped her way out of the restaurant, clearly with no idea he was having a conniption and might need either medical or psychiatric intervention.

FOUR

TO: Sunshine Smart

FROM: Leo Quartermaine

SUBJECT: Photos

Attached are the images we discussed yesterday, plus the restaurant
layout with a sketchy floor plan.

I’ve also included a photo of the toilet paper. White.

I’ll be making pasta tonight, and bringing some homemade
gelato.

LQ

TO: Jonathan Jones

FROM: Sunshine
Smart

SUBJECT: All going swimmingly—and shoes!

Darling!

Checked out the venue yesterday—scrumptious. Caleb has
photos.

Your shoe design is attached. As requested, not too over the
top! Black patent with a gorgeous charcoal toecap. The shoes will work
brilliantly with the dark grey suit and red tie.

I’m sending Caleb’s design to him directly—he says you don’t
get to see his outfit before the big day! And you have the contact number for
Bazz in Brooklyn to get the shoes made, so make an appointment, and quickly
because he’s super-busy.

Leo’s are next. And, speaking of Leo...drumroll...tonight he’s
cooking me dinner!

We’ll get onto the wedding menu tonight too. I’m thinking we
should lean towards seafood, but with a
chicken alternative for those who are
allergic, and, of course, a vegetarian (dullsville) option.

Sunny xxx

PS: Was Marco Valetta always such a douche? Had dinner with him
last night and he spent the whole meal talking about his inheritance—scared his
father is going to gobble it up on overseas travel. Seriously, let the man spend
his own money any way he wants! Marco
thought he was going to get lucky, but
after banging on all night about money and then suddenly switching to the
subject of lap dances??????? As if!!!! He is SO off my Christmas card list. I’ll
bet Leo Quartermaine would never be such a loser.

PPS: I saw a statistic recently that said about twenty-five
million dollars is spent on lap dances each year in Vegas alone. Amazing!!!!

TO: Leo Quartermaine

FROM: Caleb Quartermaine

SUBJECT: Loving the Sunshine...

...and I don’t mean the New York weather, which is icky-sticky
right now.

Just warning you, bro, that my custom-designed shoes are
eye-poppers. I love them—but I’m the flamboyant type. Better prepare
yourself!

Love the invitations, love the save-the-date, love the fact
that you sent Sunshine a photo of the restaurant toilet rolls (yep, she told
me). Think I love Sunshine too if she can get you to do that. Jon tells me half
the male population of Sydney is in love with her—gay and straight—so I’m in
good company.

Also glad about your hair—go, Sunshine! And glad about
South.

Can’t wait to marry Jon. Seriously, I don’t care where
or how
we do it, as long as we do it. The party is just the icing on an already
delicious cake.

Your turn now. Hope you’re out there hunting instead of
spending every spare minute slaving over assorted hot stoves.

And please tell me the bunny-boiler Natalie is under control.
If she turns up at the reception I am getting out the power tools and going for
her.

CQ

Sunshine lived
in an apartment in Surry Hills. The perfect place for
people who didn’t cook, because wherever you looked there were restaurants.
Every price range, every style, and practically every ethnicity.

Leo had sent a ton of supplies and equipment ahead of him,
because he had a shrewd understanding of what he could expect to find in
Sunshine’s
cupboards—i.e., nothing much—and the thought of overbalancing the
bike while lugging a set of knives was a little too Russian roulette for his
liking.

He’d been cursing himself all day about offering to cook for
her. Cursing some more that he’d offered to do it at her apartment—his own, with
a designer kitchen and every appliance known to man, would have been so much
easier. But then, of course, he wouldn’t get to see what her place was like.
And, all right, he admitted it: he was curious about that. He imagined boldly
coloured walls, exotic furniture, vibrant rugs, maybe some kick-ass paintings or
a centrepiece sculpture.

He buzzed the apartment and she answered quickly.

‘Leo!’

He could hear the excitement in her voice. How
did she
do
that? Could she really, truly, be that enthusiastic
about everything?

‘Yep.’

‘Fourth floor,’ she said, and clicked open the door to the
lobby.

She was waiting for him, apartment door wide open, when he got
out of the lift.

Her hair was piled on top of her head—kind of messy, but very
sexy. She was wearing an ankle-length red kaftan in some silky
material that
managed to both cling and flow. It had a deep V neckline and was gathered at the
base of her sternum behind a fist-sized disc of matching beads. Voluminous
sleeves were caught tightly at the wrists. She looked like a cross between a
demented crystal healer and a Cossack dancer—but somehow bloody amazing.

His eyes, inevitably, dropped to her feet. She was
barefoot.
Good God! Stop the presses.

‘I am
so
looking forward to this,’
Sunshine confided, and puckered her lips.

Leo steeled himself, and after the tiniest hesitation she went
right ahead and laid the kiss on him.

‘That pucker was enough warning, right?’ she asked with a
cheeky smile. And then she rolled right on before he could answer. ‘And I was
right—trout
do
not
have especially thick lips. So!
This way,’ she threw over her shoulder, and walked to the kitchen.

She gestured to three boxes on the counter. ‘Your stuff arrived
about ten minutes ago.’

‘Good. I’ll unpack everything,’ he said, but he was more
interested in the uninterrupted view into her apartment afforded by the
open-plan kitchen.

And it was...disappointing.

White walls. No paintings. A serviceable four-seater dining
suite in one section of a combined living/dining room in a nondescript, pale
wood—pine, maybe. The couch was basic, taupe-coloured. A low coffee table in
front of the couch matched the dining suite. There was a television atop a
cabinet that matched the other furniture. Carpet a similar shade to the couch.
Absolutely nothing wrong with any of it, but...no. Just
no
!

He nodded towards the living room. ‘What’s with the
porridge-meets-oatmeal thing out there?’ he asked, shrugging out of his leather
jacket, and tossing it onto one of the stools on the other side of the kitchen
counter.

‘Oh, I thought you’d like it.’

Leo was speechless for a moment. Seriously?
That
was how
she saw him?

When she came to his apartment she would see just how wrong she
was!

Not that she
would
be coming to his
apartment. But if she
did
...

Nope, he had to address this now or he wouldn’t be able to
cook. ‘You’ve seen my restaurants—do they look like they’ve been furnished from
a Design for Dummies catalogue?’

‘I guess I didn’t imagine you did that
part personally. But
there’s nothing intrinsically wrong with a neutral colour palette, you know!
And... Well...’ She waved a hand at the living area. ‘This part wasn’t me, or it
would be very different.’

‘So who was it?’

‘Moonbeam—and she just went for quick, basic, affordable. Out
here and in her own room.’

‘But aren’t twins supposed to...you know...have the
same
taste?’

‘Negativo.’

‘So that’s a no, is it?’ Leo asked dryly.

‘A big no way, José.’

Eye-roll. ‘So, no?’

‘Okay! No.’ Matching eye-roll. And then she smiled softly.
‘Unlike me, Moon didn’t care about
stuff
.’

‘What did she care about?’

‘Life, the earth, the universe...et cetera.’

‘So it stands to reason she wouldn’t expect you to make a
shrine out of a few pieces of pine, right? Why don’t you change it?’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I just...can’t.’ She looked at the boring furniture as though
it were some Elysian landscape. ‘Don’t you ever want to freeze a moment?
Just...
freeze
it? Hang on to it?’

‘No, Sunshine, never,’ he said. ‘I want to move on. And on and
on.’

She turned to him. ‘You’re
lucky to be able to see things that
way.’

‘Actually, it’s the
absence
of luck
that made me see things that way. The desire to
change
my luck. To have more—a better life. To
get...everything.’

Their eyes caught...held.

And then Sunshine gave that tiny shake of the head. ‘Anyway,’
she said, ‘there’s quite enough me in this apartment. I just keep it behind
closed doors because it’s scary for the uninitiated.’

Was she talking about her bedroom? ‘Closed doors?’

She pointed at a closed door at one end of the living area. ‘My
office.’ Pointed at another closed door behind her. ‘Bedroom.’

Leo’s mouth had gone dry. Over a freaking
room
? No—over just the
thought
of a
room! But he couldn’t help it. ‘Show me,’ he said.

She twinkled
at him. ‘You’re not ready for that, Leo. But think
a cross between Regency England and the Mad Hatter’s tea party in the office,
and Scheherazade meets Marie Antoinette in the bedroom...’

He looked at the bedroom door hard enough to disgust himself.
What did he think was going to happen? An ‘Open Sesame’ reveal? Why did he care
anyway?

‘So! Leo! How do we start this
gastronomic enterprise?’

Leo dragged his Superman-worthy gaze away from the bedroom door
and refocused on Sunshine—the vivid, unique, laughing eyes; the luxuriant hair;
her free-spirited yet glamorous dress; her naked feet.

‘You’re not wearing any shoes,’ he said.
Duh!
Of course she knows she isn’t wearing shoes! They’re her
feet, aren’t they?

‘I’m generally
barefoot when I’m at home. But I do have a
lovely pair of black beaded high heels that I wear with this dress if I’m going
out.’

He could picture her, tap-tapping her way into South with
sparkles on her feet, the red silk billowing. He knew he was staring at her
feet, but they were very sexy feet.

And then his eyes travelled up. Up, up, up... To find her
watching
him, her eyes dazed and wide, lips slightly parted.

She licked her lips.

‘Sunshine...’ he said.

‘Yes?’ It was more a breath than a word.

‘Um...’ What? What was he doing?
What?
‘Feet.’
Doh!
‘I mean shoes!’ he
said desperately. ‘I mean mine.’

She looked down at his feet. ‘I like them. Blue nubuk. Rounded,
desert boot-style toe. White sole.’ Her eyes were travelling
up now, as his had
done. ‘Perfect with...’

Holy freaking hell.
He hoped she
couldn’t see his erection as she got to—

Argh.
He saw the swallow, the
blink, the blush. She’d seen it.

‘Jeans,’ she finished faintly.

Disaster. This was a freaking disaster.
Say something, say something, say something.
‘I meant for...for
the...the wedding,’ Leo said.

And, really,
it was a valid subject. Because he was starting to
get curious about what she would design for him. Although it would probably end
up being the shoe equivalent of a Design for Dummies pine bookshelf: plain black
leather lace-ups.

‘Oh!’ She took a breath, smoothed the front of her dress.
‘Well! I need to see what you’re wearing first, remember?’ She blinked, smiled a
little uncertainly. ‘So! Pasta? I even bought an apron!’

Food. Good. Excellent. Something he could talk about without
sounding stupid or crotchety or boring or...or crazed with inappropriate
lust.

Because he could
not
be in lust
with Sunshine Smart. They were polar opposites in every single possible,
conceivable way. Like light and dark. Bright and gloomy. Joyful
and...
Oh, for God’s sake, get over yourself!

‘You’ve got pots and pans, right?’ he asked.

‘Yes. And most of them are even unpacked.’

‘
Most
of them? How long have you
lived here?’

‘Two and a half years.’

Leo ran his hand over his head. If he’d had hair he would have
yanked it. Two and a half years was long enough to unpack
all
the pots and pans. ‘I need a medium
saucepan and a large frying
pan. And what about bowls? Plates? Cutlery?’

‘Oh, plates and stuff I have.’

‘You get all that out while I unpack the food.’

She started humming. Off-key.

Leo peeked as she opened cupboards and slid out drawers. Just
the bare minimum.

He opened the fridge to stow the wine he’d brought—empty except
for butter, milk, soda water,
and a wedge of Camembert.

Freezer: a bottle of vodka and half a loaf of bread.

The kitchen had one of those slide-out pantry contraptions,
which he opened with trepidation. A jar of peanut butter. A packet of lemon tea.
A box of sugary kids’ cereal. A tin of baked beans that looked a thousand years
old. And—sigh—three packets of two-minute noodles.

‘Right,’ she said
proudly, and pointed to the pot, pan, bowls,
and forks she had lined up on the counter. She reminded him of a hyperactive
kitten being given a ball of wool to play with after being cooped up with
nothing all day.

‘How old are you?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Twenty-five—why?’

‘You look younger. You act younger.’

‘So I’m fat
and
immature?’

‘You’re not fat.’

She laughed. ‘But I
am
immature?
Just because I can’t cook pasta? How unfair. I’m not asking you to design a
boot, am I?’

‘Yeah, yeah. Just go and put on your apron,’ he said, and then
wondered what he thought he was doing as she hurried towards a tiny alcove off
the kitchen. What
she
thought she was doing! She
wasn’t going to be in the kitchen with him! She didn’t
cook! She had scoffed at
the idea of cooking classes. So she didn’t need a goddamned apron.