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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