song for the senses.”
Lucy turned to look at him in despair. What was this man, fate’s punishment for her secret life? “Jessica?” she croaked.
“Hmm.” Ben’s hand glided in slow appreciation along the dash. “My Jessica. She reminds me of an old flame of mine. Long and sleek and fast, oozing sensuality.”
She shook her head to clear the graphic image. “Listen to yourself. You’re talking about a car, Ben. A car! Honestly, don’t you think of anything but sex?”
He grinned. “Not when you rise to the bait every time. You’re like a wriggling fish on a hook. I can’t resist.”
“Does Jessica exist?” she demanded.
He gave her a rueful grin. “I wasn’t laughing at you this time—just teasing you a bit.” He touched her face, smiling whimsically. “You look so adorable when you gape at me. Or when you blush. Especially when you blush.”
She bit her lip, feeling the tide of color fill her cheek. Every time she thought she had him pegged, he said things that were so completely enchanting….
“Yeah, that’s the one. It’s cute, sweet—and so sexy.”
The violin symphony in her head came to a screeching halt. “I’m engaged. You shouldn’t be saying things like that to me!”
He shrugged, keeping an obvious distance. “It’s just harmless fun, Lucy. Talking doesn’t have to become doing.” He gave her a genuinely puzzled look. “Haven’t you ever flirted before—just for fun? I’m not going to proposition you.”
“I have more important things to do with my life.” Heat scalded her face now. Had she ever flirted with a man? Did she know how? “This is a ridiculous conversation.” She leaped out of the car and stalked ahead of him to the main boulevard.
Within seconds he’d caught up with her, and led her to an outdoor restaurant in the sunshine, across from the beach. “You would frequent a café that becomes a bar at night,” she muttered.
“You really need to lighten up, Lucy.” He seated her at a table, sat down opposite her and waved a hand over the glorious vista. “Look at it. Soak it in. Warm sun, white sand, the sound and scent of surf, the beautiful people strolling by.”
“With nothing better to do than stroll,” she remarked, trying to ignore those seductive sights and scents. “Don’t they work?”
The waitress arrived, and they gave their orders; then Ben leaned back in his chair, face tilted up to the warm, cloudless sky. “Should people spend all their time working?”
“Why not? Man is a working animal, and—”
“Are you talking about yourself, or your fiancé?” She felt herself crimson with guilt and confusion. The incredulity was plain in his voice as he asked, “You mean your fiancé doesn’t even take days off to spend time with you?”
She bit her lip. He’s a stranger. He can’t make you cry. “He’s a dedicated scientist, helping people in need. And at least he works, not like some people.”
He leaned back in his chair, pushing his sunglasses farther up his nose. “You know, that’s a bad habit of yours. We met less than two hours ago, yet you think you’ve got me all figured out. What if you’re wrong?”
“Maybe I did jump to conclusions—but you did, too, in judging Hugh without even having met him,” she pointed out.
He bit his lip; a quirky, rueful grin emerged. “Touché, my friend. Good call. So I did. Very immature of me.”
“You’re right, I shouldn’t have said it—but look at you.” A hand swept over him. “You’re here doing nothing at all. You win those wonderful prizes, and use them to foster a sedentary lifestyle instead of getting a decent trade—”
Ben’s mouth quivered with the need to laugh. Man, she was cute when she was off on one of her tangents and so totally different from any other woman who saw him as Ben, the doctor, with all the potential for a comfortable lifestyle it implied, that he couldn’t resist keeping up the beach-bum image. He’d finally met one young, unmarried woman who didn’t see him as a potential source of future funds, and somehow it charmed him. “I’m thirty-one, Lucy. Do you think anyone’s going to take me on as their apprentice now?”
Their orders came, and the glorious scent of warm caffe latte and fresh, hot croissants assailed her roiling stomach. She snatched up a croissant and buttered it, spreading thick jam over it, and gulped down the first mouthful with an ecstatic sigh. “Maybe not—but any college would take you as a student,” she mumbled, her mouth full. “You could have a decent job—maybe with computers—within months. It could change your life!”
“Ick. Can’t imagine sitting on my butt at a computer all my life.” Ben buttered his croissant as she wolfed hers down with an ecstasy so strong she couldn’t contain it. “And I’ve already done the university-college trip. I don’t plan on repeating it anytime soon.” He grinned and winked at her.
Her tirade halted abruptly. Oh, why did he have to smile like that? He made it a species all its own: warm, intimate, as if she was the only woman in the world…. She gulped down coffee, scorching her mouth. “You’ve been to university?”
He lifted the shades, highlighting the thick black lashes fringing his eyes: dark, exotic, with the luscious, inherent sensuality of a Mediterranean background. She’d always had a guilty passion for Italian men. “Ask nicely, Lucy, and you shall receive.” When she frowned, confused, he said softly, “Say my name in the sexy voice of yours, and I’m putty in your hands.”
She struggled, torn between indignation and temptation, but it seemed she’d left her self-control behind in Sydney, and she couldn’t resist. “Have you been to university—Ben?”
“Aaah, that’s the one.” He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. “I’ve been to university. I endured years of it, so I’ll never go back, whether it makes me a dropout or not.”
She wanted to condemn him for his lack of staying power, but she was led on by a raging curiosity to know more about the sort of man who’d not only always been off-limits, but was also her secret fantasy. A dark, dangerous bad boy. “And you’re Italian?”
“My dad is—hence the name Capriati. He was born to a pair of Bronx-born Sicilian-Americans who moved to Sydney in the early fifties, when he was seventeen.”
She blinked at the sudden overload of information. “Your father’s American?”
“With a strange half Bronx, half Australian accent to boot.” He laughed. “My mother’s Irish-Australian, and Papa’s family, proud of their Sicilian heritage, have barely forgiven her for the crime—not to mention that they met only two days before his wedding to a nice Italian girl.” An inscrutable look passed over his face. “Mama and Papa got married four months later.”
Obviously, that was a subject to leave alone. “I’m Irish, too—well, my grandparents were, on both parents’ sides,” she said, smiling. “Do the family punish you for being Australian?”
“I was always bigger than them, so they didn’t get too nasty.” He winked again. “Now it’s my turn.
