With This Fling... (6 page)

‘That’s because the bodice of this dress fulfils that function, not because it’s a feminist convention of the late last century.’

‘Noted,’ he said.

‘I would, however, have made a wonderful suffragette,’ she told him. ‘There are
many
principles of equality that I adhere to.’

‘Wonderful,’ he said dryly. ‘Power-based selective feminism. Can’t wait to experience that.’

‘Oh, I dare say you already have,’ she murmured. ‘How long were you engaged?’

‘One year. And Sarah opens her own doors.’

‘As is her choice,’ said Charlotte magnanimously. ‘Did you live with her?’

‘No. I spent most of that time in PNG. In my defence, Sarah knew I’d committed to a three year project there
before
we became engaged.’

‘Perhaps she thought she could tolerate the wait,’ said Charlotte. ‘And discovered otherwise.’

‘Yes,’ he said heavily, and won several points for honesty. ‘That’s pretty much what happened.’

Not a comfortable topic of conversation for Greyson Tyler, decided Charlotte. Plenty of skeletons in that cupboard.

‘Sarah’s a smart woman,’ he continued. ‘Capable. Loyal. Lovely. I want her to be happy. I want her to realise that calling off our engagement was a good decision and that one day she’ll meet someone who
can
fulfil all her needs, not just some of them.’

‘Idealistic,’ murmured Charlotte.

‘Practical,’ he countered.

‘If you say so. You know what’s interesting when you speak of your Sarah?’ said Charlotte. ‘You never speak of passion. Or longing. Or needing to wake up beside her. Did you never feel that? Not even in the beginning?’

Grey stayed stubbornly silent.

‘I see,’ she said gently. ‘Then I guess she
is
better off without you.’

They drove the next twenty kilometres in silence.

‘So when did we meet?’ asked Charlotte, determinedly breaking the silence.

‘Three months ago when I was in Brisbane for a conference. I stayed a fortnight longer than planned because of you. We kept in touch. How does that sound?’

‘Plausible. I’m liking the implied passion. Let’s face it; you’re not offering commitment, progeny, or fiscal support. There’s got to be
something
in it for me.’

‘There is. A back-from-the-dead fiancé who suffered the ignominy of almost being eaten by cannibals.’

‘Something else,’ she said, not above a little needling of her own. ‘I’m thinking that if I really was the free-spirited type, I’d probably only want you for the sex. Outrageously intimate sex of the most delectable kind. The kind of passionate tour de force a woman would go out of her way to encounter.’ Charlotte lifted her sunglasses and favoured him with a sultry glance. ‘How does that sound?’

‘I’ve no complaints,’ he said gruffly.

‘Excellent,’ she murmured. ‘I
do
hope you can keep your end of the pretence up.’

‘It’s up.’ God, what was it about this woman’s voice that had him reacting like an oversexed schoolboy? Grey suffered that knowing gaze of hers drifting down his body in silence. He suffered the lift of her elegant eyebrow and the tiny tilt of generously curved lips.

‘Stop it,’ he muttered.

‘Practice makes perfect,’ she said airily. ‘I’m a method actor.’

He put the radio on, a man in need of a diversion. ‘Tell me about your work,’ he said, and then just as quickly decided against hearing it. Given the effect of her voice on his body, it was probably best if she didn’t speak at all. ‘No. I’ve changed my mind. Don’t speak. Take a nap or something. Pretend you had a tiring night.’

‘I
did
have a tiring night,’ she said. ‘I dreamed of you.’

Greyson Tyler quite unknowingly brought out the worst in her, decided Charlotte as they drove up a steep and winding track to his parents’ weekender on the river. Tall gums and rocky undergrowth stretched before them and a vast river flowed behind them, placid and serene. None of it could stop the butterflies from starting up in her stomach. None of it could match the man beside her when it came to arresting views. He’d dressed casually in old jeans and a white linen shirt with a round neck. The shirt
could
have looked effeminate, but not on those shoulders, and not with that face.

No, with those shoulders and that face and that lean and tight rear end of his, the metro
shirt served only to emphasise the blatant masculinity of the body beneath.

‘Ready?’ he asked gruffly.

‘Ready,’ she said with far more confidence than the situation warranted. ‘Just as soon as you open the car door.’

He got out and came round to her side of the car and opened the door. He put his hand out to assist her graceful exit. He even managed to hide his impatience with the whole antiquated process.

Almost.

‘Thank you, Greyson,’ she said magnanimously as she flowed out of the car and into his arms, one hand still in his and one hand covering his heart as she pressed her lips to that strong square jaw. ‘You’ll figure out this game yet.’

‘I already have,’ he murmured. ‘It’s about torture, and touch, and it’s dangerous.’ His mouth hovered over hers. His eyes promised retribution. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘And a gentleman is born.’ Charlotte smiled in slow challenge, but peripheral movement made her glance beyond Greyson. A trim, well-preserved older woman had come out onto the deck of the house and stood watching. ‘I think your mother’s watching us.’

‘Good,’ he murmured, and kissed her. Not
swiftly or perfunctorily, but with a sensual abandon that a mother probably didn’t need to see.

‘How am I doing so far on the led-astray-by-passion front?’ he murmured when he’d finished with her.

‘Quite well,’ she offered, her words little more than a strangled squeak. ‘Mind you, Gilbert would never have subjected me to such kisses in front of his mother. Gil had more sense.’

‘Pity he wasn’t
real,’
said Greyson silkily.

Cheap shot. So was the hand she deliberately let brush across the well-packed front of his jeans as she sailed past him and summoned up what she hoped was a meet-the-parents smile. Charlotte wasn’t all that familiar with parents, hers or anyone else’s, but mentioning this tiny snippet to Greyson
now
would only alarm him.

‘You must be Charlotte,’ said the older woman with a smile. Not entirely friendly, not exactly brimming with antagonism either. Greyson’s mother was reserving judgement. ‘We’ve heard a lot about you of late.’

‘She’s lying,’ said Greyson, coming up the deck stairs behind Charlotte and putting his hand to the small of her back as he leaned in and pressed a light kiss to his mother’s perfectly powdered cheek. ‘I told her you lectured at the
university and that she’d be meeting you on Sunday. That’s
all
I told her.’

‘Thus ensuring a week’s worth of rampant speculation,’ Greyson’s mother said dryly before turning her attention back to Charlotte. ‘Call me Olivia,’ she said. ‘And I promise to limit my curiosity to the basics. Age. Weight. Intentions …’

Charlotte twirled on the ball of her ballet slippers and ran smack bang into Greyson’s chest.

‘The door’s that way,’ he rumbled.

‘I know.’ She stared up at him, more than a little panicked. ‘I really don’t think I can do this.’

‘Coward,’ he said next. ‘Think of your reputation.’

‘I’m thinking it’s shattered beyond repair anyway,’ she said to his shirt covered chest.

‘Then think of mine.’

‘Yours seems pretty robust from where I’m standing.’

‘Not if you run out on me.’ Greyson put his lips to her ear. ‘Please, Charlotte. Just follow my lead.’

Charlotte didn’t stand a chance against a pleading Greyson Tyler. Charlotte straightened. Charlotte turned. Greyson’s mother stood waiting by the sliding door into the house. Maybe
intimidation came naturally to her. Or maybe Charlotte was just oversensitive when it came to mothers and wanting to impress them and knowing instinctively that she wasn’t going to. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, summoning a smile. ‘Slight moment of panic on my part. I hadn’t really thought through my intentions towards your son. Nothing to worry about though. I’m pretty sure I only want him for the sex.’ Nothing but the truth.

Olivia blinked, and turned her gaze on her son.

‘What?’ he said blandly and ushered Charlotte through the door. ‘It’s a start.’

There were more people inside. Neighbours and family friends, Greyson’s father. Half a dozen faces in all. Someone handed Charlotte a frosty glass of white wine, and Greyson a beer.

‘Thank you,’ murmured Charlotte, and promptly drained half of hers. Greyson was far more restrained. He only took one mouthful of his.

‘I hope you’re not lactose intolerant or allergic to seafood,’ said Olivia, offering up what looked to be trout dip with rosemary flatbread on the side. ‘Grey didn’t seem to know.’

‘I eat almost anything.’ Charlotte tried a mouthful of bread and dip. Nodded as she
chewed and swallowed, with every eye still firmly fixed upon her. Perhaps they were assessing her manners. Perhaps they’d overheard the sex comment. ‘This is delicious. Thank you.’

Grey’s mother smiled warily and moved on, offering the plate around to all her guests. Conversation resumed. Gazes drifted away. Charlotte took a deep breath. Follow his lead, Greyson had told her, only Greyson was now being talked at by a grey-haired gent who seemed wholly disinclined to include her in the conversation. Charlotte sipped at her drink more cautiously now and surveyed her surroundings. Large covered deck, an array of comfortable chairs. Stainless-steel gas barbecue groaning with sizzling seafood kebabs. Lots of older couples and one other younger woman around Charlotte and Greyson’s age, standing a short distance away. A beautiful buttoned-down blonde with forest-green eyes and an air of quiet suffering.

Probably Sarah.

Bohemian, Greyson had requested of Charlotte. Free-spirited. Now she knew why. The contrast between herself and the lovely Sarah couldn’t have been more extreme.

Sarah smiled tentatively at her. Charlotte smiled back.

Awkward.

‘Hi, I’m Sarah,’ said Sarah, in the absence of anyone else willing to make the introduction. ‘The ex-fiancée.’

‘Charlotte,’ said Charlotte. ‘Greyson’s … friend.’

‘I know,’ said Sarah quietly, and that was that. Or maybe not, because Sarah was still speaking. ‘How long have you known him?’

‘A few months.’

‘Not long.’

‘No, not long.’ Not when compared to a lifetime.

‘Long enough to fall in love with him?’ Sarah asked next.

‘Sarah …’ said Charlotte, helpless to reply in the face of the other woman’s pain. Where the hell was Greyson? When did it become
her
job to break this woman’s heart?

‘It’s okay,’ said Sarah. ‘Heaven knows he’s easy enough to love.’

‘Oh, not at the moment,’ murmured Charlotte. ‘At the moment I’m more of a mind to wring his neck. You?’

Sarah looked startled. Then a tiny smile appeared. The shrug of an elegant shoulder. ‘Now that you mention it …’

‘Exactly.’ Charlotte smiled in full. ‘The man’s a menace.’

The man in question looked up from his discussion with the white-haired patriarch. The man in question paled a little when he saw them together. Kudos to him when he rapidly excused himself and headed their way.

About damn time.

‘He minds you,’ said Sarah. ‘He’s nervous.’

‘How can you tell?’ asked Charlotte.

‘Shoulders,’ said Sarah. ‘His carriage. The way he keeps glancing at you. He can’t read you. He doesn’t know what you want.’ Greyson’s ex glanced back at Charlotte. ‘That’s interesting.’

‘No, I’m pretty sure that’s just me,’ said Charlotte. ‘Hard for Greyson to know what I want when I hardly know myself. I really can’t blame him for that one.’

‘Blame who?’ said Greyson, reaching them.

‘You,’ said Charlotte and smothered a smile when his eyes narrowed upon her. ‘It’s okay though. I’ve decided not to. For now.’

‘Good of you,’ he murmured.

Sarah was watching them closely. Sarah the psychiatrist who’d known how to read Greyson since childhood and who in the space of a three-minute conversation had already unearthed Charlotte’s greatest flaw. ‘Sarah and I have
been getting acquainted.’ Charlotte bestowed on him a very level look.

Greyson bestowed on the lovely Sarah a very level look. Sarah blushed and looked away.

‘I might go and see if Olivia needs any help with serving the food,’ said Sarah finally, after a long and awkward pause. ‘Nice meeting you, Charlotte. Grey.’ And then Sarah was gone.

‘Nice manners,’ murmured Charlotte.

‘What did she want?’

‘I guess she wanted to meet me. Get it over and done with.’

‘Don’t underestimate her, Charlotte.’ For a moment Greyson looked troubled. Concerned, and not for Sarah. ‘For all Sarah’s good points, she’s not without claws.’

‘Greyson. Sweet man.’ Did he really think he was telling her something she didn’t know? Charlotte smiled, really smiled at him and had the pleasure of seeing Greyson relax and smile back. ‘No woman is.’

‘So …’ he murmured. ‘You know what you’re doing, then.’

‘Hardly,’ she murmured. ‘Do you?’

‘Sometimes. Right now, for example, I’m about to introduce you to my father. He’s the one over there captaining the barbecue.’

But Charlotte hung back. ‘Is he a Sarah fan too?’

‘He’s very fond of her, yes.’

Great.

‘Relax. He’ll be fine,’ said Greyson as if reading her mind. ‘And so will you.’

For an Associate Professor of Archaeology, with all the staidness the position implied, Charlotte Greenstone didn’t hold back when it came to playing the part of free-spirited bohemian. She could tell a story of old bones and bring to life the heat and the dust and the excitement along with it. She could open a person up and rifle around inside until she found something they could both discuss with passion and verve. She had manners, and a great deal of charm, some of which was polished, and some of it innate.

Grey watched Charlotte bespell his father within minutes of her starting up a conversation with him about the vagaries of catapults versus castle walls. He watched her as she talked oysters with his father’s fishing buddy and recipes with his wife. He watched his mother’s friends tread carefully with her, wanting to find fault with her manners or her demeanour, and discovering to their consternation that they could not.