Irrepressible You Read online

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek: Three’s a Crowd

  For Tony

  Chapter 1

  ‘What do you think her deal is?’ Alex Crane asked over the heavy roar of rain on the awning of the The Norfolk pub’s beer garden.

  Ben Martindale toyed with the packet of Gitanes he’d just placed on the ale-polished table while covertly studying the lady in question.

  She appeared to be the end product of an improbable romantic liaison between a Kewpie doll and a fifties Barbie. Her artfully curled platinum hair was pulled into a high ponytail that framed apple-cheeked features, and her rather delectable little body was decked out in a red and white polka-dot dress cinched at the waist, red cardigan and black patent leather heels. In the dimly lit surrounds, she stood out like a rare bird of paradise lost in a penguin exhibit.

  If Ben and Alex had been prudent men, they’d have taken all that red as one of nature’s warning signals, but Ben had always been fascinated by things that didn’t quite fit – in fact, he’d made it his business–and Alex . . . well, Alex was full to the brim of that unique blind optimism possessed by a certain brand of Yank who travels abroad. As far as Ben knew, there was no known cure.

  ‘Actress? She’s certainly gained herself an audience,’ Ben replied in clipped British tones. He poured himself a glass of a passable Cabernet Sauvignon, inhaling its earthy aroma, and leaned a little further back in his chair, projecting the boneless placidity of a big cat at rest.

  ‘The sailors?’ Alex looked around the outdoor bar, which was currently infested with an entire battleship’s worth of American sailors on shore leave, some in uniform, some in civvies–all on the prowl. Or as on the prowl as they could be clustered around a bevy of upright outdoor heaters spaced at random. Over the past hour or so, Ben and Alex had watched as they’d approached the lady in packs of twos or threes. Without fail, they’d all been given a double-dimpled smile designed to charm before being sent on their merry way.

  ‘Mmm hmm.’ Ben took another sip of wine.

  Alex frowned. ‘No, man. If she was an actress she’d be playing it up more.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure. She’s certainly entertaining. By the way, if you’re thinking of going over there, just remember, Australian women are a tougher breed than the sensitive plants you’re used to. You’re getting yourself to the hospital if she beats you to a pulp. I prefer my car seats free of blood spatter.’ Ben’s bare-knuckle-boxer’s features momentarily took on the menacing aspect the British tabloids had frequently remarked upon of late.

  Alex chuckled, his liquid-gold voice almost, but not quite, drowning out the rain. ‘Why would she do that? I love Aussie women. They love me too.’

  ‘I know. Too much. Have I told you how little sleep I managed last night thanks to your stellar full-volume performance with . . . Susan?’

  ‘Sarah.’

  Ben waved a hand dismissively. ‘Forgive me. Sarah. When I said mi casa es tu casa, I didn’t mean you and whatever banshee you pick up after your show. And I certainly didn’t request the encore performance, either.’

  Alex shrugged unapologetically. ‘Is it my fault you bought a place with amazing acoustics?’ He narrowed his eyes at the cigarette Ben had just tapped out of the packet and lit. ‘Put that out or you’re a dead man. They screw with my vocal cords.’

  ‘I know,’ Ben said with a wicked grin, but stubbed his cigarette out on the bottom of his brown Italian loafer without taking a puff. He’d quit seven months ago and only carried the French cigarettes around out of habit. They were long past stale. He’d throw them out one of these days. Not yet, but one of these days.

  ‘You coming tomorrow?’ Alex asked, casually belying the fact he was referring to a sell-out performance of Pagliacci. Opera Australia had paid an obscene amount to lure him across the Pacific to play the lead, Canio, and they were getting their money’s worth if last night’s packed house was any indication. Alex possessed the heady combination of pretty-boy Filipino–American features, a golden voice and the grace of Astaire. He was the opposite of Ben, who couldn’t sing for shit, had the features of a hardened criminal and used his tongue to wield words like weapons, usually for comic effect but sometimes for the hell of it.

  ‘Of course. How else will I be able to tell you what you did wrong?’ Ben’s smirk transformed to a scowl as Alex levelled a punch at his shoulder. ‘Bastard. That’s my writing arm you know.’

  ‘You don’t need it.’

  ‘I bloody well do.’

  ‘Just phone your column in.’

  ‘How about you phone your performance in tomorrow? Oh, wait, you always do,’ Ben shot back, only to see his friend hadn’t caught the dig. Instead, Alex’s attention had been snared by the little blonde again.

  Ben sighed. ‘Can you be a little more obvious? You’re looking at her like she’s a postman’s leg and you’re an amorous Labrador. Down, Fido.’

  Alex ignored him, his expression turning thoughtful. ‘You know . . . I’m gonna go for it.’

  ‘At your own risk. What do you think you’re going to achieve? Well, other than being thoroughly humiliated when she sends you packing?’ He returned his gaze to the lady who was currently peering at a small handheld mirror and wielding a tube of lipstick with the precision of a Dutch master. He had to admit he was just as intrigued as his friend was. His fingers twitched in the way they always did when he sensed a good story about to unfold. ‘And please make this amusing. I do have a word count to fill for next week.’

  Alex ignored him, his brow creased in a frown. He was obviously working out what he was going to say to impress the lady, which was both ridiculous and rather endearing. Given Alex’s appearance, success and celebrity, he should have had all the confidence in the world; still, he remained stubbornly oblivious to his own appeal. Ben, on the other hand, knew he could be a charming bastard when he wanted to be and rarely questioned his attractiveness to the opposite sex.

  ‘Watch and learn.’ Alex pushed back his chair, then sauntered with painstakingly deliberate nonchalance over to the woman’s table.

  To Ben’s everlasting amusement, the Kewpie doll was now too engrossed in playing with her phone to notice Alex immediately, which was understandable since the heavy rain and the increasingly raucous sailors had taken the noise level up a couple of notches. When she finally looked up, she went through the same routine she’d performed earlier. She politely flashed teeth and dimples before saying something Ben couldn’t quite hear. Within a matter of minutes Alex had returned wearing a bemused smile.

  ‘Forgive me, but what did I just learn, exactly?’ Ben asked, feigning confusion.

  ‘That she’s waiting for someone.’

  ‘And?’

  Alex reclaimed his seat, his cheeks flushing enough to see even in the pub’s muted outdoor lighting. ‘And that she thinks I would look handsome in uniform.’

  Ben stared at his friend for a few seconds as the words sank in then howled with laughter.

  ‘This is priceless. The great Alex Crane just got pegged as a sailor. You’re not thinking of doing a bit of Gilbert and Sullivan any time
soon, are you? I could see you as a pirate. Oh wait, on second thought, don’t. I don’t think the world could take it.’ Ben took in Alex’s frown. ‘Oh come on. You can’t be offended, surely? You are American. And you know, you all kind of look the same and sound the same to the uninitiated. Why don’t you just go back over there and correct her assumption?’ If it were possible, Ben would package up this moment, put it in a box and bring it out on special occasions when Alex was proving particularly difficult.

  He got to his feet, fully intending to introduce himself to the woman just so he could thank her for the best laugh he’d had in months, only to sit down again when a familiar-looking bloke with long ink-black hair strode over to her table. Rather than receiving the brush-off like so many before him, this contender received an enthusiastic hug and a kiss on the lips.

  Ben nudged Alex with his foot. ‘If it makes you feel any better, the someone she was waiting for is prettier than you and just as well known, if I’m correct.’

  ‘Yeah? Who is he?’ Alex looked around to catch the newcomer taking a seat at the lady’s table, much to her obvious pleasure.

  ‘What?’ Ben asked, distracted momentarily by the woman’s smile. It lit up her face, damn near lit up the entire beer garden.

  ‘Ben?’

  He recovered. ‘If I’m not mistaken that’s Scott Watanabe. He’s a photographer. Just completed a big show in London. Women in War, I think it was called. There was a big write-up in the Times a couple of weeks ago if you bothered with any news outside the fatherland.’

  ‘Huh.’ A flash of chagrin crossed Alex’s features before he shrugged philosophically. ‘Win some lose some.’

  ‘Were you fighting? I missed that.’ Ben abruptly pushed his chair away from the table. ‘Another pint?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Scott!’ Amy Blaine’s baby blues widened in surprise, seconds before she launched out of her chair and threw herself into her friend’s open arms. Standing on tippy toes, she wrapped her arms around his neck and planted a warm, platonic kiss on his lips before firing off a barrage of questions. ‘What are you doing here? When did you fly in? Why didn’t you call me? I would have picked you up from the airport!’

  ‘Hey, squirt. I’ll answer you but you’ve gotta let me go. I’m losing oxygen here.’ Scott contradicted himself by pulling her tightly against his broad chest.

  She allowed herself to revel in the sensation. They’d known each other since she was eight and he was ten. He’d been her older sister’s best friend for a little over twenty years and her own surrogate big brother for just as long. She always missed him whenever he went overseas for work, but his absence had been especially hard this last week.

  ‘Your lungs are big enough so start talking,’ she said, not caring if her meticulously applied make-up was getting smudged against his shirt.

  ‘I flew in late last night and would have called but Jo said you’ve been flat tack this week.’ Scott let her go with one final squeeze and took the seat across from hers.

  ‘That’s an understatement.’ Amy rolled her eyes. Her hair salon and barbershop had been the cause of a great deal of wailing and gnashing of teeth of late. ‘It’s been insane. Mel’s quit because she and Kate broke up again, so it’s down to just Kate, Roslynn, Marissa and me. I’ve had to turn people away.’

  Scott winced in sympathy and she waved a hand, not wanting to dwell on the negative. ‘But enough about me.’ She leaned forward in her chair, chin resting on her hands, as she drank in his too-handsome Eurasian features with a rush of pleasure. ‘What are you doing out on the town when you could be enjoying my company?’

  He gave her a wry smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. ‘I was here to meet someone just now. I promised I’d catch up with her the minute I got back but it looks like that’s not gonna happen. You?’

  Amy echoed his expression. ‘Same. I’ve just been stood up.’

  Scott scowled. ‘Jesus, Ames. That really sucks. Where do you find’em?’

  ‘More to the point, where do they find me?’ Amy’s eyes glazed over with a flash flood of tears that she wiped away quickly with her fingertips, careful not to smudge her mascara.

  ‘Aw, babe.’ Scott reached over and ran a long finger over her up-tilted nose. ‘How about I get us a drink and you can tell me about it? You want another one?’ He nodded to the perspiring glass of house white she’d been nursing for the past half hour.

  ‘I won’t say no.’ Amy allowed herself a small sniff, then forced a smile. ‘Actually, gorgeous, bring us a bottle.’

  ‘That bad, is it?’ Scott asked in a quiet rumble, his eyes sympathetic, his mouth tensed at the edges.

  ‘Yeah, but don’t get all serious on me. Go get us a drink. Make it a bottle of red since I don’t have to worry about scaring a guy off with red wine teeth tonight. Then I want to hear how your show in London went. I can’t believe I haven’t seen you for three months!’

  ‘Three months? Yeah. Probably. Far out, that went quick.’ Scott leaned back, obviously stunned.

  ‘For you maybe, mister, but it was snail’s pace from my perspective. Anyway, wine first, conversation later. Hop to it.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Scott stood up, saluted and about-turned.

  Smile fading, Amy watched his back as he walked towards the bar, side-stepping the puddles formed by the odd hole in the makeshift roof overhead as the rain pummelled on.

  A few seconds later her phone chirped, signalling an incoming message. She ignored it in favour of looking morosely down at her new Bernie Dexter dress. She’d spent ages beautifying herself tonight, just to end up being ditched by text message half an hour after her date was supposed to meet her. It was enough to leave her feeling a little teary, but she refused to dwell on that right now. She looked up and caught sight of the two men lounging at the table nearby.

  The friendly, drop-dead-gorgeous American sailor she’d just brushed off was laughing at something his friend had to say and she felt a sharp stab of longing. Sometimes she wished she was the kind of woman who could have a one-night stand. Over the past couple of years she’d entertained some pretty racy fantasies on the subject but knew she’d never act on them. There was no quality control. She’d never be able to guarantee the man wasn’t a violent lunatic or just another inconsiderate bastard. Given her tendency to attract that particular species of male, she didn’t want to tempt fate.

  The sailor’s friend caught her watching them and raised his wine glass in a salute. Unlike his friend, this man resembled a well-dressed thug. His head of black hair was closely shaven to almost the same length as the stubble on his jaw. His pale eyes–maybe blue, maybe green–were watching her from under heavy lids, and his incongruously sensual lips were pulled into a faint, mocking smile.

  Amy found herself squirming in her seat, uncomfortable with the attention. She knew it didn’t mean anything and she should be used to it by now, but that didn’t make it any less cringeworthy.

  Every time an American naval vessel pulled into the Fremantle port, the entire city of Perth was flooded with horny sailors who tried to chat up any woman–and a significant number of men–who looked even vaguely available. They usually left without much trouble when Amy told them she had a boyfriend. They had definitely never watched her like this guy was.

  She picked up her phone again to mask her discomfort, only to find another message from her absent date. Bastard. When did it become okay to ask someone out, cancel late without a call and then try to confirm an appointment for a haircut and shave a few minutes later?

  ‘There ya go. One bottle of wine as ordered.’ Scott set a bulbous red wine glass in front of her. He looked pointedly at her phone. ‘Am I killing someone?’

  ‘Nope.’ Amy waved her hand dismissively. ‘Just helping me stick pins in a voodoo doll later tonight after we get a bit more drunk and debauched.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Scott searched her features for a few minutes before pouring them both a generous helping of rich oaky red, then
set the bottle on the table between them. ‘So d’you want to tell me why you just gave Alex Crane the brush-off?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Amy was too busy focusing on the wine bottle to take notice of his words. It was an Evangeline’s Rest shiraz. Scott’s family owned the winery. ‘You get this stuff for free m’love. Why are you ordering it at a bar?’

  Scott shrugged and looked entirely unrepentant. ‘I missed the taste of home and I haven’t gotten down to the farm to pick up another case yet. So back to Alex Crane.’

  ‘Alex Crane? Who’s Alex Crane?’

  ‘The famous guy who was chatting you up when I walked in.’ Scott nonchalantly ran his thumb along the base of his glass.

  ‘Famous? How?’ Amy’s eyes narrowed on the American sailor at the next table. With looks like his, she was sure she would have recognised him if she’d seen him in one of the trashy magazines at her salon, not that she’d had the time to look at them lately.

  ‘He’s a popular opera singer. Tenor. He’s only on all the billboards and flyers in the bloody city. You been sniffing the perming solution again, Ames?’

  ‘Opera singer? I thought he was a sailor.’ The mouthful of wine Amy had just swallowed turned to acid in her empty stomach.

  ‘A sailor? Look at him, babe. If he’s a sailor, I’m Popeye.’ Scott paused, then his eyes widened. ‘Oh Jesus. What did you say to him?’

  ‘Only that I had a boyfriend like I always do. He’s a sailor,’ Amy insisted, even as she realised the man hadn’t said as much. She’d not given him a chance. The minute she’d heard his American accent she’d run on autopilot. ‘Bugger.’

  This time Scott couldn’t contain his booming laughter and she gave him a glare dark enough to singe his socks off before twisting to furtively study the men at the next table. The sailor, maybe opera singer, was looking the other way, but his friend was still openly scrutinising her with a cat-that-ate-the-cream smile as if she were part of a joke. If what Scott had just said was true, she probably was.

  She twisted back around. ‘Scott, tell me I didn’t just insult an international celebrity? Please, please, just tell me you’re joking. That would top off a truly crappy day.’