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‘I’m sure.’ That was the whole point. It was sexy and revealing but no way could anyone get underneath to discover what was below. The ribbon across her lower abdomen stopped a hand sliding up, the ribbon at the neck stopped fingers sliding south. Perfect.
She teamed it with a short black A-line skirt and high-heeled sandals. Her legs were her best feature and she intended to make the most of them. If dreams were going to come true, then she had to help them out a bit. She massaged moisturiser down the length of them. Then discreetly adjusted the strap of her underwear—a teeny, tiny lace-fronted G-string. Knickers like she never usually wore. But she was reinventing herself. And tonight she’d be as in-your-face frisky as she could get. Ribbons reached halfway down her skirt. She was covered far more than the bikini woman on the beach but was as naked as she’d ever been.
‘That’s a vamp outfit.’ Julia stood back and surveyed her before sharply turning to her pack which had its contents spilling over the dorm floor. ‘I gotta find me something to compete with that. Time to get ready and glamorise.’
As Julia’s ample breasts provided more than enough competition, Sienna wasn’t letting the comment go to her head. She’d never be page-three pin-up but with her legs emphasised, and her back drawing attention from her front, she might do OK.
Brooke’s voice came distantly through the top she was squeezing into. ‘Is the lead singer cute? You want the singer, right?’
‘The singer is all yours. In fact the entire band is all yours.’
Brooke’s head popped through the neck of her top. ‘So who is it you’re after? The bartender?’
Was it so obvious she was after someone? ‘No.’ She came clean. ‘The band has a guy helping out.’
‘You’re going for the roadie?’ Brooke shrieked.
‘God, don’t tell me he’s the technical guy? Not the sound and lighting geek?’
Julia sounded appalled.
Sienna giggled. ‘I’m not sure what he does. He was helping with their equipment.’
The others sent her pitying looks. ‘OK, if you’re sure. We’ll leave him to you.’
They sat on the beds, stared into tiny compact mirrors and worked hair and make-up. Sienna twisted her hair up. Put on her mascara and gloss with a slightly heavier hand than usual and wished the hostel allowed drink in the bedrooms.
This was ridiculous. She was getting worked up—and dollied up—over nothing. He probably wouldn’t even be there. She almost succumbed to the urge to cancel there and then. Time for a mental slap on the cheek. This didn’t matter. She was in a foreign city, free to do as she pleased. If he was there, then she’d have a great time; if he wasn’t, she’d still have a great time.
Uh-huh.
She really wanted to see him again—wanted to replay the moment she’d sizzled like a drop of water in a pan of hot oil. Just another look would be enough.
Uh-huh.
‘Right, girls, let’s go have ourselves a blast.’ Julia gave a foxy twirl.
Sienna couldn’t stop the giggles bursting out. She was such an idiot. But seeing as she was dressed to kill, she might as well go and make the most of it. She could just dance at least—as she used to with her best friend Lucy. Go and dance and have a laugh.
As they linked arms and strode down the street, Sienna soaked up some of the confidence the others oozed.
She didn’t arrive until well into the second set. Rhys was at the bar, half hidden but in a place that gave him a clear view of the door—so he’d see her the minute she got there. She was with two other women. They looked like fellow tourists—tanned, relaxed, riveting. The other two were staring at the stage, she was looking around the audience. He stepped back into the shadows as her gaze swept over the bar. He wanted to observe for a while. Still deciding how or even if he would make a move. He glanced at Tim. Saw he’d seen their arrival because he winked at them. Immediately he looked straight to where Rhys stood, flashing him a huge grin.
The band wrapped up the set a song early and headed straight to her—all four of them. But it was Tim, as always, who got there first, and who less than subtly cast a glance of pure appreciation over the other two. Rhys watched for a while, wanting to see if she spent that killer look on any of the others. He saw her smile, saw her introduce her friends, but then she seemed to quieten, let the girlfriends do the talking and the flirting as they headed to the table in the back corner reserved for the band. He saw her glance around before sitting. She was looking for someone. It had better be him.
Tim came up to the bar. Ordered a tray of tequila shots, his usual modus operandi, then came to where Rhys stood.
‘Doc, Doc, Doc. Why are you hiding out here? There’s a lady at that table all wrapped up with your name on her.’
Rhys frowned. He didn’t want his name out anywhere. Just for once.
‘Rhys, you can’t go doing the hardworking serious doctor thing all your life. You have to cut loose and have some fun some time. Hell, they’ve ordered you to take time off. Have a holiday, for heaven’s sake. There is your holiday.’ He jerked his head back towards the table.
Rhys managed a tight grin. They had. Made him take a fortnight. Said he was accruing too many days—a liability on the budget. They didn’t want to owe him three months or more. So he’d been forced to take a break. He didn’t much like breaks—they meant he had too much time to sit and think. He preferred to keep busy.
‘Come on, dude. When was the last time you had a one-nighter?’
It was all right for Tim. His every action wasn’t watched and subsequently detailed in the gossip pages of the local rag. If Rhys was seen within five feet of a woman it was reported the next day as a new relationship—possible wedding bells every time. The exaggeration and speculation was exhausting. The prying of paparazzi keen to rustle up a story out of nothing invaded what he’d hoped could be an 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