Читать книгу Cinderella's Lucky Ticket - Melissa James - Страница 9

Michelson Laboratories, Sydney, the present time

If it weren’t for the monkeys, she’d never have dreamed of doing it. But there they were as usual, loud and smelly, spoiled and loved. The collective set of final straws that broke her own particular camel’s back, and changed her life.

Leaning in the doorway of the laboratory, Abigail Lucinda Miles felt the usual rush of frustrated sorrow. Of course he was still in his crumpled lab coat, leaning over his cage of beloved chimpanzees. “Hugh. You’re not ready.”

Her fiancé started, spilling his eyedropper onto the petri dish. He turned to her, his tanned, handsome face and brilliant blue eyes cool with displeasure. “You do remember that this experiment is vital, and every vial of scent costs hundreds of dollars?”

She sighed, digging her hands into her pockets. “Yes, I know, Hugh, but we’re meeting our parents in an hour at Bringelly’s to discuss the wedding…”

He added another cautious drop to the clear dish, his blond hair glinting in the light, like a Nordic god. “What—?” Then he sighed. “Oh, yes. I forgot. Can you hold them off an hour or two?”

“I don’t think they’ll mind,” she replied, but couldn’t hold in the weary smile.

The chimps jumped up and down in their series of connected cages, screaming, cackling. He swiveled back to his simian friends, his eyes on fire with eagerness. “You like that one, babies?” But seeing no sign of his long-expected reaction, he sighed. “It’s just another few months, then we can do other things.” He grabbed her shoulders, his eyes blazing. “Abigail, we’re so close. With one breakthrough we’d get the corporate funding we need, and I could move on to—”

“Getting married?” she asked, in wistful hope.

“Have I been neglecting you again?” He kissed her nose. “I thought you understood why I’ve had to concentrate on this the past few months. Sorry, baby. I’ll take Saturday off and devote the day to our wedding.”

“Really?” Her eyes lit up. “I’ll show you my dress. It’s white tulle, with a lovely tiara—and I found a great florist—”

“No wonder you’re feisty today.” His hands fell on her shoulders, breaking into her dreamworld with tender impatience. “Honestly, you scare me at times. You change as swiftly as Jekyll and Hyde. You’re on that Lucy kick again.”

Sizzling color raced up her cheeks. “Well, it is my name—well, my middle name. Abigail Lucinda Miles.” She would not give in to the sneaking shame she felt every time her parents or Hugh chided her about her “Lucy kick”—she wouldn’t!

He smiled at her over his goggles. “But it doesn’t suit you. My Abigail is quiet, modest, sensible—just like you are. But when you get on that Lucy kick, you’re illogical and wild, wanting silly things. I know what’s right for us, snooky. A small, simple at-home wedding with no tizzy dress or fuss, and funnel our efforts and funds into the experiment for now.” He smiled, winked and slapped her rear. “You can be sure I’ll be at the church on time.”

“We’re not having a church,” she muttered. “I don’t like organized religion. Do you know that about me, Hugh? Do you see me at all anymore?”

“Mmm, hmm.” Jotting down notes on the chimps’ reaction to the latest scent, he didn’t look up.

Sudden tears stung her eyes. “Hugh, do you really want to marry me, or is it because I’m Professor Miles’ daughter?”

“Hold on a tick, sweetie, just finishing these notes…” Hugh scribbled a little more, then he looked up with a slightly harassed smile. “Now what was that?”

Lowering her face to hide her confusion and sorrow, she shook her head and said the words he expected, needed her to say right now. “Nothing, Hugh. It’s not important.”

His voice filled with warm approval. “Good girl. I know it’s hard now, but we’ll take a late honeymoon when I’ve completed my experiment. We’ll go anywhere you want once I hit the big time.”

She shuffled her toe against the bench, and the words popped out against her will. “If you’d supported me when I wanted funding for my theory on organic growing of apples in arid areas, we could have enough money by now to—”

He sighed as he worked on a new scent. “I’ve told you a dozen times, baby, your idea isn’t feasible. You’re a librarian. A perfect scientist’s wife-to-be, quiet and supportive.” He gave her that quick, I-wish-you’d-go-now-I’m-busy look. “Now I really need to get back to work, all right?”

A chimp squealed. Hugh swung around, eyes blazing beneath the goggles, and started scribbling down data on the scent he’d just used. “Yes! Yes…the combination of high floral with the…”

She was invisible again. She could stand in front of him and he’d see through her, right to those petted, spoiled monkeys…

A minute later she trudged down the street to her car in the warmth of the spring evening, kicking rocks. “Is it so much to ask, to have him participate in our wedding day?” Lovely gardens and horse-drawn carriages, lace and tulle and orange blossom…Lost in dreams, she sighed. Right now, she’d settle for Hugh just waiting for her at the end of the aisle without a petri dish or a cage of chimps to distract him.

You’ll never have it—Abigail, an inner imp mocked. You’re doomed to go from neglected child to forgotten wife. You’ve lived on campus since birth. You don’t know anyone, and nothing about the world apart from theory and thesis. You’ve never been outside Sydney, barely away from the university. Face it, you’ve got nowhere else to go.

She kicked another rock. “If I’d got my apple experiment I’d have something besides the wedding to concentrate on. I’d have my wedding…and if I funded his experiment I’d get Hugh’s attention….”

Her mother’s words of last week drifted into her mind, in that cool, lecturing tone that always made her feel so childish and selfish. “His work is vital, Abigail. Don’t get so worked up about things that don’t matter in the overall scheme of things. Hugh’s research helps humanity for life. Try not to think of yourself all the time, dear. It’s only a wedding. He’ll marry you one day. Surely you can wait a few more months…or a year?”

W-well…of course she could, she’d done it before, but—but it was so embarrassing to have to cancel the wedding again….

She sighed, climbed into her old coupe and turned on the radio, letting the easy-listening music soothe her. Her eyes closed; her head fell back on the seat. “I’m better now. I’m fine. I’m happy.” The mantra of her mother’s analyst helped the panic subside. She drove home to her one-room flat, tidying her messy bun, reapplying lipstick, buttoning up her cardigan at each set of red lights. “What’s wrong with a simple wedding, and taking a honeymoon when his experiment’s complete?” She turned into the driveway, winking foolish tears away. “We’ll have a second wedding when he makes the big time….”

Try if, Abigail, that horrible inner imp mocked. Six years and he’s still no closer to his dream…and neither are you.

“Stop it. Stop it!” She shook her head to clear it, and yanked open the mailbox.

At least that brought her a little gift. Oh, joy…a fat envelope with a big, glossy sweepstakes brochure inside. She gave a whoop of delight. Reading these brochures, dreaming of winning, was her secret fantasy—a harmless double life Hugh and her parents knew nothing about. With a smile of mingled anticipation and guilty pleasure, she ripped it open.

“Congratulations to Ben Capriati, the winner of Lakelands Children’s Charities Sweepstakes Draw 224! Here’s Ben outside his grand prize, a lovely waterfront home on Queensland’s sparkling Gold Coast. Having bought the hundred-dollar option book of tickets, Ben also won two luxury cars, a boat and a Bali holiday….”

She gazed at the dark, brawny, raffishly smiling man in the black leather jacket, jeans and work boots. Lucky Ben Capriati. Even rough-riding bikers had their dreams come true.

Lucky Ben’s lady. A beautiful home, two cars, a boat and a dark, rugged man who wouldn’t forget to take her to dinner if she stopped putting monthly reminders on the calendar….

She gasped at that renegade imp taking over her mind. “Stop it. Stop it!” She read on, refusing to look at the handsome jerk with the five o’clock shadow, concentrating on the prizes he’d won. “…with ticket number…huh?” Grabbing her ticket from her purse, she checked the ticket number against hers. “What? But—but surely that’s—” She snatched up the brochure, her amazed, hungry gaze taking in the winning-ticket number, and her own. “He won?” she cried. “It’s…mine! He. Won. With my ticket!”

Minchin Hills, Gold Coast, Queensland

Another day in paradise…

Ben Capriati let himself in the back door of his gorgeous home, sweating from a midmorning barefoot run on the sandy shores of his exclusive beachfront neighborhood. Time for a lazy dip in the resort-style pool, then maybe he’d do lunch by the beach. Ah, Queensland, the glorious Sunshine State! Nine hundred kilometers north of Sydney, but a million miles from his regular life.

He’d promised himself a vacation throughout all his years of university and medical school, working two jobs to get through, and then those long, frenetic shifts at the inner-city hospital in Sydney as an intern and then resident doctor. And now, he was finally free to begin his life and profession—and this was the perfect start, a refreshing week or two before he left for the hot, dusty town of Monilough, and the Outback practice awaiting him in northwestern New South Wales.

Fun and games for one glorious week, sun and heat and Bay-watch-type babes strolling beneath a blazing clear sky, getting a tan before his eyes. And at the end of the vacation he’d sell the lot, and buy a house in the Outback town he’d signed up to help.

Now, he had the world on a string. For the first time in his life he had something wonderful all his own without working his butt off to get it, and nobody could take it from him.

Meanwhile, the pool calls! He stripped off his T-shirt and grabbed a towel.

Rap-rap-rap. Bang-bang-BANG!

He swiveled around at the aggressive belting at his door. It wasn’t a neighbor; in upscale Minchin Hills, the residents were too elegant, too refined to be so loud—or too worried about what the neighbors would think. So he faced the inescapable conclusion. Uh-oh. They found me…

A second thunderous knock jolted the house, making the door shudder. He stalked over and pulled the door half-open, rolling his eyes. Here we go! “I was wondering when you’d show up—”

“To claim my prize, you mean? You thief!”

Hmm. That gorgeous, breathy voice definitely didn’t belong to any member of his rowdy family. But—a thief? He opened the door the whole way, looked at the speaker and blinked again.

No way!

This mousy, cardigan-clad little drudge owned the sexy Marilyn voice? He couldn’t begin to guess her age with the grotesque dark shades hiding her face—not to mention the outfit. Yikes, bright green culottes and a fuzzy pink cardigan—and with that bundled-up bun, she could be a refugee from that seventies show his sister Sofie liked. Or was it The Fly? The tortoiseshell shades certainly gave her a bug-eyed look, all right.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt you…”

He dragged his attention to the voice in the background. A harassed, anxious, middle-aged man in a brown suit stood behind the woman, wringing his hands.

Ben said mildly, “May I ask what this is about?”

Hanging onto a musty tartan suitcase as if it was her only friend, the cardigan lady pushed past him, marched through the entry, plopped the case down and flung herself on his sofa…but by the simple act of nervously chewing on her thumbnail, she ruined the effect of her belligerent performance.

Ben’s eyebrows rose, checking out the suitcase, thrown between them as if it was a gauntlet. Well, given its dust, mold and moth holes, it could have come from the same bygone era.

The harassed suit-man wrung his hands again. “Please, Miss Miles, if you’ll only wait till we sort this out—”

The time-warp lady stopped chewing her finger, pulled off her shades and squared her shoulders, as if for courage—and her messy bun disintegrated. Trails of glossy, dark, twisting curls fell around her face—and she seemed to grow younger, prettier, before his bemused gaze. “Sure.” Her breathy voice brushed past Ben’s ears with a wickedly sexy effect. “I’ll, um, just wait here until you sort it out.”

Ben leaned on the doorpost in deep, quiet enjoyment, watching the queer pageant unfold before him—the nervous wreck in the doorway, and Mighty Mouse on his sofa. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. You can.” The aforesaid mouse glared at him with indignant blue eyes, her creamy face flushed and rosy. Yeah, she was young all right, and like no drudge he’d ever seen—more like a babe in hiding. “You can get out of my house!”

His eyebrows shot up. O-okay. This gal needed a diagnosis, and fast. She’d focused her anger onto a complete stranger—and she’d called him a thief. Paranoid delusions? “Sorry, Miss—Miles, was it? I think you’ve made a mistake.”

“I didn’t make a mistake.” She pointed with a stabbing motion at the suit-man. “They gave you my ticket!”

His gaze followed the accusatory finger. “Ticket?” he asked of the suit-man, hoping for a sensible answer, since the cutie in the cardigan appeared to be in severe need of Prozac—no, Xanax. She needed calming down…yeah, if she got her hands on any uppers right now she’d ruin his chance at future fatherhood.

The man smiled in half-cringing apology. “Mr. Capriati, do you remember me? I’m Ken Hill, director of Lakelands Children’s Charities Sweepstakes Draw—”

“Of course! I thought I knew your face.” Ben stepped forward to shake hands. “What’s this about my ticket?”

“My ticket!”

He swiveled back to meet her glare head-on—and then he couldn’t tear his gaze away. Maybe it was the wild dark curls cascading around her waiflike face in such sweet disarray, or the pink-lipped half pout, all but begging to be kissed. “Fine, your ticket,” he agreed, to placate her.

She smiled in triumph at Mr. Hill. “See? He admits it!”

“Whoa.” He lifted a hand. “I don’t admit to anything until I know what I’m admitting to.”

She tossed her head. “You stole my prizes!”

“Uh-huh.” He tried not to grin. This gal was nuts! Cute, but nuts. “Can you explain how I managed that when we’ve never even met?”

“Okay, it’s his fault!” She pointed at Mr. Hill who still stood dithering in the entryway.

“Well, um—” Mr. Hill stammered, “it seems there’s been some confusion with the winning ticket in your draw, Mr. Capriati. It appears you and Miss Miles received the same numbered ticket.”

“It’s my ticket!”

Ben smiled, trying to soothe her. “How about we let Mr. Hill tell his story before we fight over whose ticket it is?”

Mr. Hill’s wrinkled face lightened, looking intensely grateful for the intervention. “We’ve been experiencing, ah, technical difficulties with the system of ticket distribution—”

Cardigan Cutie jumped in again. “What he means is their lawyer embezzled all the money set aside for new computers, and the system crashed the day they made up our tickets.”

“Uh-huh. Go on, Mr. Hill,” he murmured.

Mr. Hill sighed. “Unfortunately, Miss Miles is right. Our computers have now been replaced, but the day we sent out your tickets the old computers glitched, and sent out two copies each of twelve sets of tickets, but with different names on each set. The glitch affected the winning ticket, plus the one-off prizes. At the moment, we’re unsure to which of you the win belongs. Miss Miles came to our office this morning—”

“Threatening litigation,” she said. How did she manage to sound smug, breathless, nervous, exhilarated and terrified at once? “They didn’t notify me about the mix-up. They hoped I’d never find out!” She lifted an eyebrow as Mr. Hill squirmed. “W-well?”

Ben looked into her eyes. Calm her down, or there’s no telling what she’ll do next! “Can we please let Mr. Hill finish what he’s got to say first?”

The girl tossed her head, her face mutinous…and this time he couldn’t hold back the grin. Flying dark curls, roses-and-cream skin, pouty mouth, big, scornful Irish eyes and a sinful whisky voice against a crazy circus getup. Man, she was right out of the ordinary—and her apparent addiction to possessive italics only added to her unconscious appeal. With the right outfit, she’d hit the big-time honey league—and if she’d shown up for any other reason, he might’ve helped her to discover the fact. As a lifetime connoisseur of good-looking women—but only in the past seven years when he found a spare minute or two—he’d rate this one at least a 9, maybe 9.5 out of 10. Apart from the charity-bin duds, of course.

“Um,” Mr. Hill went on, “since this has no precedent, I explained to Miss Miles that we’ll need time to sort out the legalities. But she insisted on coming to the house—”

“Or I’d take it to the media.” She looked absurdly pleased with her inventiveness, like a little girl who’d pushed a chair to the cookie jar. “The ticket’s as much mine as yours. These prizes should be mine. So here I am—here I stay—and you can’t make me go. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.” She looked at him in defiant, half-scared challenge, as if she’d surprised even herself with her own audacity. As if she’d scooped up a dozen cookies in her hands already, and expected him to snatch them away from her any second.

That was it. He was gone. Ben’s mouth twitched once, then again, before he gave in and burst out laughing.

She jerked up on the sofa and clutched the sides of her cardigan together, gaping at him in the most comic, kissable indignation he’d ever seen. “You’re laughing at me?”

“Can’t—can’t—” He doubled over, hanging on to the wall for balance, his stomach hurting with the uncontrollable gusts of laughter. He couldn’t figure out if she belonged in a museum or an asylum. “You’re a riot, babe. A five-foot-two cardigan-clad home invader, and I can’t make you go?”

A shudder ran through her. “Don’t patronize me, Capriati—” his name spoken in total distaste “—and don’t call me babe. It’s a demeaning term designed to relegate women to sexual objects.”

“Okay, Miss Miles,” he laughed, amused by her indignation, and her dislike of him—meeting a woman less than eager to please was a rare thing for him. “I agree possession is nine-tenths of the law—but you’ve missed a vital point. With myself also in possession, you only have four and a half of those nine…and since I possess the keys I can pick you up, dump you on the doorstep and retain my nine without a hassle.”

She gasped, jumped to her feet and pointed at him like a lawyer in court. “Try it, you ignorant ape. I’ll sue you for assault. With Mr. Hill to act as witness in court for me—” Mr. Hill visibly paled at her words, and edged toward the door “—I’ll get everything!”

Oh, man, this was an even better way to spend a vacation! A challenge, a crazy scenario, and a smart, pretty, slightly off-the-wall girl who wanted to beat him instead of winning him over. Yeah, this was gonna be fun! Aiming to rile her, he winked. “Go for it. I dare you to try.”

“Try? I’ll win. I’ll win the lot!” She stood quivering before him, flushed with fury, her lovely eyes shooting sparks at him. She was so spitting-mad sweet he wanted to scoop her up against him and pet her until she purred….

Something inside him skidded to a shocked halt. What was going on here? Why wasn’t he furious at this unannounced invasion of his house? This feeling of utter delight at the prospect of spending a few days with her—even if she gadded about in those trailer-park-reject duds—was completely insane.

Ben was a guy who usually went with his gut instinct—he had to in his career, it often saved lives—but this whole scenario was too weird to trust. Somehow it felt as if this girl, this Miss Miles, was meant to come here to him. As if it was—fate, kismet, serendipity. Or—

Oh, no. It can’t be! Not the Capriati Curse!

All his life he’d seen the effect of this ridiculous Curse on the men in his family. In a hundred and fifty years none had beaten the fate laid down by the furious Sicilian wisewoman. Her daughter’s broken heart led her to place the Curse upon his careless, flirtatious great-great-great-grandfather, who’d ended up falling madly in love with a shy, stuttering girl who’d made him wait for her for seven agonizing years while she nursed her sick mother before she’d marry him.

Not that he’d cared. For when a Capriati man loved, the woman was always an absolute opposite to him, yet he remained hopelessly in love for the rest of his life.

It had even happened to Papa. Mama had been his fiancée’s bridesmaid-to-be. He’d met her only at the wedding rehearsal two days before the wedding. The very public furor created by that case of Capriati love made him shudder, every time he thought about it.

In fact, every case of Capriati love made him shudder in absolute horror. Capriati men lost their heads and any semblance of control over their lives whenever they lost their heart. His was staying intact, thank you very much.

No way. No way! This Curse will not happen to me—and it definitely won’t be with a stitched-up lunatic like this one!

No way. If this was the Curse acting on him, he’d fight destiny with a smile, and defy fate with a laugh. “Then I guess it’s showdown, or standoff, Miss Miles. We’ll just have to find out if this house is big enough for both of us.”