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.”
Chapter Two
“You think this is a joke?”
She gaped at him in total incredulity. This half-naked crazy Neanderthal was all but rolling on the pristine white carpet in laughter. He was laughing at this situation? “What sort of idiot thinks losing half a million dollars is funny?”
The infuriating ape straightened up, leaned back on the wall and folded his arms over the muscles of his bare chest, wearing a big, dimpled Cheshire-cat grin. “Life’s too short to get uptight. And since I plan on winning this race, I might as well enjoy the ride to the finish line.”
She gulped. Throwback to a lower stage of evolution he might be, but with his lithe build, bronzed skin, careless dark hair flopped over his forehead and deep, dark eyes that twinkled…well, even in her prejudiced view, Ben Capriati could speed up the average female pulse without trying. There was something so lush and Mediterranean, so inherently sensuous about him a woman couldn’t help but respond to—
Other women, not me! I’m far too intelligent to—
“No comeback? Given your ingenuity in getting in here, I thought you’d be a worthier opponent.” After a moment he added, “You need help? I can always rile you into a reply—babe.”
“You’re—you’re crude.” As crude as George of the Jungle—and every bit as gorgeous, even wearing running shorts instead of a loincloth. Something about him oozed raw sexuality…
So don’t look! I’m not here to do anything but take his prizes or some of them. Just enough to fund the wedding. He’s standing in the way of my story-book wedding to my perfect man.
“Amateur,” he taunted, without malice. “Come on, I’m waiting. Go for it. Hit me with your best shot.”
“We’ll—we’ll see about that!” She studiously kept her eyes above the neck, feeling like a Peeping Tom.
Mr. Hill edged nearer to the door. “Then, Mr. Capriati, if you have no objection to Miss Miles residing here—”
“He has no legal right to object! Does he?” she asked in sudden, confused anxiety. “I mean, if it’s my ticket, too—”
“Hey, no objections from me.” The ape leaned farther into the wall of the entry to the living room, lazy amusement in every feature. He didn’t seem in the least worried by her presence or threats. “Would I object to such gorgeous, charming company?”
“Oh, typical,” she muttered, squashing the twinge of hurt. No man ever had, or ever would, call her gorgeous….
“Typical of what?” He slanted her a rakish, wicked grin as she floundered, deriving great enjoyment from her dilemma. “Of?”
She drew a breath, garnered up her courage and said it. “Of—of modern-day proof that the reversion to the caveman Neanderthal isn’t yet extinct, but alive and well in the male population!”
He grinned at her, as if her insult didn’t bother him in the least. “According to leading anthropologists and paleontologists, Neanderthals were pretty sophisticated dudes, hut dwellers and toolmakers living prior to the Pleistocene era—almost modern man as we know it. Grunting, women-dragging cavemen are considered to be more in line with an earlier period, possibly the Paleolithic. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
Her jaw almost hit the ground. “How did you know—?”
“Let’s say I subscribe to the occasional scientific journal when I’m desperate for entertainment.” His grin slanted sideways, charming and raffish as a Hollywood buccaneer. “Look, Miss—no, that’s ridiculous. If we’re going to cohabit for the next week or so and exchange mutually satisfying insults, we can at least drop the mister-miss farce. What’s your name?”
She froze. “My—my name?”
“Yeah, your name. Like mine’s Ben? You know—Miss, fill-in-the-blank, Miles.” His hands made typing gestures. “The thing other people call you, and you answer to. The semiunique title that stops me from yelling, ‘Hey, lady!’, and half the adult population of Southeastern Queensland from turning around.”
“Do—do you think—” The half-guilty temptation overcame the prompting of her conscience. What does it matter? He’ll be out of my life in a few days. She peeped at him in wistful appeal. “Do you think you could call me Lucy?”
Both eyebrows lifted. “Do I think I could call you Lucy? Is it your name, or isn’t it?”
Sensing defeat, she sighed. “Well, my real name is Abigail—Abigail Lucinda Miles—so everyone calls me Abigail. It’s a quiet, sensible, modest name, like me, but—but I don’t like it. I’d love for somebody to call me Lucy, just once,” she murmured wistfully.
“Um, right.” To her
