ordinary existence. But Rhys knew when it came to money, especially his kind of money, people didn’t scruple to sell their souls.
Mandy had done just that. Sold herself, and him, to the highest bidder. She’d taken everything he held close and hung it out for the world to see. And she hadn’t even got it right. He’d asked her out on a whim. She’d been working in a café near the hospital; he’d been in there after a long shift. Her effervescence had been so attractive to his tired self. It had been a fun hour, chatting over coffee. The hour became a date, then a string of dates. He didn’t figure ’til later she’d known all along who he was. That the most she understood was the wealth and status his name entailed. Too late he realised he knew nothing of the real Mandy, that nothing they had shared was real, that there was no depth beneath the bubbly exterior. He’d broken it off and then really learned how money had been her biggest motivator.
He wouldn’t be fool enough to trust like that again. Not someone he didn’t know. So he didn’t do one-night stands. He didn’t want to read all about it in the paper the next day over breakfast. Instead he did the discreet dating thing with women from his own social circle. Glamorous, beautiful for sure, but also safe, circumspect and so boring.
Tonight he could do with some anonymity—be able to have some fun and not worry about where the details might surface. He supposed he shouldn’t care, should shrug it off and enjoy the reputation. But he wanted his life to be more meaningful. He refused to be the rich, spoiled playboy spending his days using his money and name to score. And he refused to be used himself.
Life, Rhys knew, was precious.
Unfortunately, that seemed to make him all the more attractive to the gutter press. And with Mandy’s betrayal, telling all to anyone who’d pay enough, he’d been painted as some wounded saint—the earnest ER doctor working to escape the inanity of privileged life and the tragedy of past lessons. And that he wasn’t either.
He looked back over to where the drummer girl sat at the table. Watched as she sat, smiling, her head tilted to the side as she listened to whatever it was that her friend was saying. She nodded, her smile flashing wider as she giggled. He could see the sparkle in her eyes even from this distance. Any sobering memory of Mandy’s sell-out fled from his head as he focused on the stranger’s golden hair and pale-skinned shoulders. His abs tightened. He sure didn’t have saintly urges when it came to her. Maybe, just for once, he could do the frivolity thing. His desire for her was strong enough to tip the balance. Maybe there was a way around his issue of identity.
‘She’s not from here, is she?’
‘Kiwi, I think. Her mates are from South Africa. Met up in the hostel they’re staying at.’
Rhys stared at her some more. Felt those urges bite. Figured she was only going to be in town a night or two—what would she care if his name wasn’t quite the right one? More than ever he didn’t want to be himself any more. He was tired of living with his recollections and his regret. Temptation won. ‘OK. I’m Rhys—she knows that, right? But she doesn’t know anything else. So let’s say I’m Rhys…Rhys Monroe.’
Tim stared at him, his smile slow and full of wicked disbelief. ‘And what do you do for a living, Mr Monroe?’
Rhys frowned. ‘Dunno. What do you think?’
‘Better be something you’re really crap at. The bigger the lie, the more likely they are to believe it.’
‘And you know this how?’
‘Rhys.’ Tim looked affronted. ‘I’m a professional.’ He smiled at the waitress as she put the slices of lemon and dish of salt on the tray. ‘Let’s make you a builder.’
‘A what?’
‘Builder. Carpenter. You know, chippie.’
‘That’s ridiculous. I haven’t a practical bone in my body.’
‘Precisely.’
Rhys gave a grunt of laughter.
‘And no way are you that Maitland guy, heir to all those millions.’
Rhys shook his head. ‘Never heard of him.’
Tim picked up the tray of shot glasses. ‘Well, come on, Monroe, let’s get lying.’
‘I’ll be over in a second. Just got to finalise my persona.’
Tim winked, and, grinning broadly, headed back to the table. Rhys watched, covered by the crowd, as Tim set the tray down in front of them and handed out the shot glasses. She took one. He saw her nostrils flare as she took a sniff. Not so keen. But she did it. So did the others. Tim immediately started handing everyone a second round. She declined that one. He saw the way she pulled in her cheeks, looked over the table, glanced to the bar. Rhys smiled to himself, and summoned the waitress.
Julia and Brooke were barracking for a third shot. Sienna laughed at them. Heart sliding south as she did. Already knowing she was headed for yet another night on the sidelines. The taste of the tequila was bitterly burning her up. She couldn’t handle strong alcohol, would prefer a little wine. Something light—for the lightweight she was.
No sign of the roadie. She tried to tell herself she didn’t mind. Looked around the bar. Loads of men, loads. All looking good, gathering in groups. But the view was tainted. That kick of attraction had been so fierce and so foreign and she’d stupidly pinned more on it than there was. Now looking around, she couldn’t help the feeling the joint was a bit of a meat market—and she didn’t have the goods to set up shop.
Tim had managed to find himself a seat between the two South African beauties. Leaning back on it, talking, he soon had them laughing. The others in the band sat on chairs around them, letting Tim hold court but interjecting with witticisms of their own that had the girls shrieking even more. No doubt about it, they were a polished act and Sienna knew her place was firmly in the audience. She’d leave the participation bit to Julia and Brooke.
An arm appeared over her shoulder. ‘Thought you might prefer this.’ A glass was placed in front of her. Cool, clear water.
‘Then you might like this.’ Another glass was set alongside the first. Pale wine, just the sight of it a balm on her still-screaming taste buds.
He pulled up a chair and sat down beside her, back a little, away from the others. Dressed in black jeans and a black shirt. She could see his forearms. Lightly tanned. Muscular. Capable. He gave her a barely there grin. His face had intensity all over it—accentuated by the shadow on his jaw.
‘Thank you.’ She lifted the water and took a deep sip, needing it more than ever.
He watched. Before she could put the glass back on the table he took it from her. Eyes not breaking their hold, he lifted it to his sensuous, sensitive mouth and drank deeply.
‘You mind sharing?’ he asked belatedly.
Sienna snaked in some air. ‘Not at all.’
Julia’s eyebrows had disappeared under her fringe. Brooke was hammily fanning herself.
Tim dropped forward on his seat, clunking the legs down. ‘Glad you could finally join us, Rhys. Let me introduce you. Julia, Brooke, this is Rhys. And I think you met Sienna earlier.’
A
