no rights where I am concerned. You asked me out. I declined. You asked me again, so I made it quite clear that any further attentions of yours are unwanted. I don’t think that is rude. That is my right, to not be pestered by spoiled and arrogant men who have not had no said to them nearly often enough. My answer is and always will be no, Prince Ali. Hear it and take heed of it, because if you ever make contact with me again, I will have you arrested for stalking!’
She whirled and swept out of the box, swishing her way down the steps and out of the stand. She half expected him to charge after her but he didn’t, for which she was grateful, because she knew if he dared lay a hand on her, she would strike him across his arrogant face. Her hands were gripping her handbag with white-knuckled intensity, but they would have loved any excuse to lash out physically at him. A verbal assault was not nearly enough to soothe her temper.
Charmaine didn’t stop her angry retreat till she had reached the car park, and her car. But even as she climbed in behind the wheel of her rented blue car and started up the engine, she was still shaking inside.
The sight of the sheikh’s stunned face suddenly filled her mind and she groaned. She had gone too far this time. Way too far.
Normally, she said her nos to such men much more politely and tactfully. Something about Prince Ali, however, had brought out the worst in her. She wasn’t sure what. Possibly because he was armed with far too many attractions for most females to resist. Goodness, those eyes!
Charmaine imagined he’d been very successful in seducing then carelessly discarding many silly Australian girls in the past. Such thoughts had her blood heating in her veins again. When she went to reverse out of her spot, she did so recklessly and almost backed into another car. She must have missed it by an inch.
Giving herself a rigorous mental shake, Charmaine forcibly calmed herself before resuming her exit from the car park. The last thing she wanted was to have an accident. She had to be in Fiji on Monday, on a photo shoot for the cover of a sporting magazine.
Stop thinking about the man, she lectured herself as she drove off at a relatively sedate speed. And stop feeling guilty. Men like him don’t have feelings like ordinary people. They have egos, and desires, both of which are well catered for. So he wanted you for a moment today. And he didn’t get what he wanted for once. Big deal! He won’t go to dinner—or to bed—alone tonight. There will be some other foolish female to soothe his ego and satisfy his desires. You don’t have to worry about him. Or even think about him.
But she did think about him, on and off for the next week. Guilt, she supposed. Being so openly rude was not part of her usual public persona. When out and about, she kept her feelings well hidden, covering the darkness within under a cloak of sweetness and light. The way she’d treated the sheikh had been quite uncharacteristic and strangely troubling.
Finally, however, all thought of him was gone, banished from her mind as she got on with her life and her life’s work. Charmaine was on a mission these days, and that mission had no time for men. Certainly not men like Prince Ali of Dubar. She’d finished with that type many years before. More recently, she’d finished with the nicer types as well.
The media would be surprised to know that Charmaine, the Aussie model who’d been voted by more than one glossy rag as one of the sexiest women in the world, now lived a celibate lifestyle. There were no boyfriends or lovers any more. And definitely no secret patrons, she thought sneeringly. The very idea!
Of course, Charmaine had enough business nous to realise that news of her nun-like life would not do her career any good. Being seen as sexy and sexually active was part of her image. So she continued to be snapped by the media at premières and parties on the arms of handsome young men, usually hunky male models who had a sexual secret of their own, namely that they were gay. And she continued to model the most daring of clothes, often without any visible underwear.
Charmaine kept her public profile high, and her image extremely sexy. She earned more money that way. And money was the name of the game these days. It took millions, she’d found out since she started up the Friends of Kids with Cancer foundation, to fund cancer research, as well as make the lives of children already suffering from cancer more bearable, not to mention their poor families’ lives. Millions and millions!
Sometimes, Charmaine surrendered to depression over the enormity of the mission she’d set herself. Could she really make a difference? But most of the time she was filled with the most dogged determination. She would do anything she could to raise money for her own very personal cause and crusade.
Anything at all!
CHAPTER ONE
OCTOBER, the second month of spring in Sydney, eleven months later…
‘I have to admire your courage, Charmaine,’ Renée said as she glanced up from where she’d been studying the lunch menu. ‘Have you thought about what kind of man the highest bidder for your dinner-date-with-Charmaine prize next Saturday night could be?’
‘A very rich man, hopefully,’ Charmaine replied with a flash of pearly white teeth. ‘My total target for the banquet and auction is ten million dollars.’
‘He could be a right sleazebag, you know,’ Renée warned. ‘Or an obsessed fan.’
Charmaine smiled again over at Renée, who was not only the owner of the modelling agency she was currently contracted to, but a nice person, too. Even nicer now that she was happily married and expecting.
As much as Charmaine was cynical when it came to rich and handsome men, she had to concede that it looked as if Renée had found a one-off in Rico Mandretti. Who would have thought that the playboy king of cable-TV cooking shows would turn out to be good husband and father material?
But he had. When Charmaine met the A Passion for Pasta star in person for the first time the other night, he hadn’t flirted with her one bit. A good sign. Not that she could be absolutely sure of Mr Mandretti’s loyalty and sincerity, she supposed. She and Renée did not mix socially so she didn’t know Renée and Rico as a couple at all. Her own relationship with Renée, though friendly, was strictly business. Charmaine never confided her personal secrets or innermost feelings to the woman.
‘I don’t care what kind of man he is,’ Charmaine said truthfully, ‘as long as he pays a good price for the privilege. You don’t have to worry about my safety, Renée, though it’s sweet of you to care. It is clearly stipulated on the auction programme that the dinner date is to be held the following Saturday night in the By Candlelight restaurant in the Regency Hotel, which is a public place. If there’s even a hint of trouble, I’ll be out of there like a shot.’
Renée had no doubt she would be, too. Charmaine was one tough cookie. Much tougher than the image she projected on the catwalk and in photographs. There, she was all soft sex kitten, her looks and manner creating an unusual combination of sensuality and innocence which always fascinated men and rarely alienated women.
Renée had often tried to analyse what exactly it was about Charmaine’s looks which managed this miracle. Where did that air of innocence come from? Perhaps from her fresh, flawless complexion or maybe her long, straight fair hair which fell in a simple curtain to her waist. Certainly not from her full, pouty mouth, almost too voluptuous figure or her come-to-bed blue eyes.
The contradictory nature of Charmaine’s beauty was as elusive as her inner self.
Renée suspected that no one in the modelling industry knew the real Charmaine, certainly not the male models she occasionally dated. Renée knew for
