Cinderella's Lucky Ticket. Melissa James
dad is—hence the name Capriati. He was born to a pair of Bronx-born Sicilian-Americans who moved to Sydney in the early fifties, when he was seventeen.”
She blinked at the sudden overload of information. “Your father’s American?”
“With a strange half Bronx, half Australian accent to boot.” He laughed. “My mother’s Irish-Australian, and Papa’s family, proud of their Sicilian heritage, have barely forgiven her for the crime—not to mention that they met only two days before his wedding to a nice Italian girl.” An inscrutable look passed over his face. “Mama and Papa got married four months later.”
Obviously, that was a subject to leave alone. “I’m Irish, too—well, my grandparents were, on both parents’ sides,” she said, smiling. “Do the family punish you for being Australian?”
“I was always bigger than them, so they didn’t get too nasty.” He winked again. “Now it’s my turn. Do you have brothers or sisters?”
She shook her head. “My parents had me when they were in their early forties. I was—unplanned.”
“But not unwelcome?”
She gulped more coffee. She’d been having fun; the last thing she wanted to do right now was to think about her life. Her father and mother were always so dedicated to science, her birth and upbringing having been somewhat of an afterthought for them both. Her grandparents had died before she’d been born, and with no other relatives in the country, she’d been brought up in special preschools and advanced learning centres aimed at developing her potential. In all her life, she’d rarely spent time with her parents except in the car, and at dinner. Shush, Abigail, no talking at the table. Your father’s trying to think, and I have papers to mark. “No,” she answered, her voice scratchy. “Not unwelcome.”
“What made you become a science librarian? You said your parents were scientists. Was it genetic, or exposure?”
She shrugged. “I always loved books. I spent a lot of time in the university library after school.” Go read a book, Abigail. We’re busy. “To become a librarian seemed a natural progression. Do you have brothers or sisters?” she asked, to turn the subject.
“Three younger brothers, Joe, Marco and Jack, and just one sister, Sofie—and believe me, she’s enough. She more than outyells all four of us guys.” He mock-grimaced. “She never shuts up. I put a padlock on my door just for some peace when I lived at home.”
“You don’t know how lucky you are.” As a little girl, she’d been scared sometimes that the silence would drive her mad. Oh, how she’d wished for a big, noisy family to love. “Don’t take your family for granted.”
He grinned. “I wouldn’t dare. Now let’s cheer up. We’re out in the sunshine, by the beach—”
She sighed and put her mug down with a rattle. “Ben…”
“Hey, come on, Lucy, give it a rest. A week off won’t destroy the world.” He shook his head. “Do you know what a sexy voice you have, by the way? It’s like a fantasy come to life—”
“You have fantasies, too?” With a wide-open grin of joy she pounced on him. “I’ve always had—”
“Aha!” He grinned at her as she stuffed her runaway mouth with croissant. “I knew there were untold depths to plumb beneath that prim, sterile facade of yours, Abigail Lucinda Miles.”
The croissant nearly choked her. “Sterile. Sterile!” she gasped, in an outrage totally disproportionate to the word.
“Yeah. Like a lab bench. Germfree. Without spot from the world.” Flipping his shades up to rest on his hair, he watched her in amusement, leaning right back until the chair seemed ready to crash on the pavement. “But I suspect the volcano of repressed human emotion is about to erupt all over me.”
“W-well, it’s your fault,” she hiccupped, feeling too indignant to care how she spoke to him. “You called me sterile—”
“I beg your pardon, Ms. Miles. Obviously I was wrong.” He sipped his coffee, still watching her in lazy interest. “So, was the S word the catalyst for this volatile chemical reaction in your emotive recesses to allow you to admit to a fantasy life, or was I somehow involved?”
“The s word,” she returned far too quickly.
“Uh-uh, Lucy. You’re fibbing. The original sexy dreamer’s look was on your face long before I said the dreaded s word. Well, what do you know.” His grin grew wide. “A guy like me—the kind you despise—is a catalyst for your feminine fantasies.”
Hating that he’d plumbed the truth inside her silly, unscientific soul, she mumbled, “It’s not you. It’s the crazy things you say! All that talk of beaches and sun and singing to the president—”
“You like that one?” His voice was soft, enticing. “We could act it out if you want. I’d love to play president to that gorgeous Marilyn voice of yours.”
Don’t go there! But the vision flashed into her mind: plain, uninteresting Abigail Lucinda Miles in a shimmering white gown, singing to this gorgeous caveman—her every breathy word filled with sensual promise….
A caress on her palm, warm and tender as the touch of a wafting breeze. “Tell me your dreams and fantasies, Lucy, and I could help make them come true.”
Lost, helpless, she gazed at him. The man she’d written off as an ignorant caveman understood her better than her own family; he knew more about her in four hours than the man she’d been in love with for six years. For the first time in twenty-eight years she had a kindred spirit—a man who slotted right into those fantasies as if he’d always lived there. If she wanted to play…
Abigail, dear, do try not to be so selfish. Hugh’s work helps humanity.
She bit her lip, frowned, closed her eyes and blurted it out. “No, I don’t want. I don’t want anything from you but my prizes.” She stuffed the croissant in her mouth, jumped to her feet and took off running for the car.
Ben watched her bolt, and sighed. “You and your big mouth, Capriati,” he grumbled. “You should have known it was too early to put the plan in action.” He stalked inside, dumped some money on the counter and took off after her.
Lucy ran as fast as she could, but he caught up to her a minute later. “Lucy, wait.”
“Go away!” She kept stalking down the hot pavement, past sunshine-soaked beach apartment buildings and waving palms and tropical gardens toward the car.
He strode around her, blocking her flight right in a patch of melting, ocean-scented sunlight. He took her jaw in his hand, gently making her look at him. “I was just teasing. And even if I wasn’t, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone has their little dreams, even the scientific giants. Think of them—Einstein, Bell, Franklin, the Curies, Galileo. Without their dreams, the world would be a poorer place.”
Lucy peeped up at him, blinking, as dazed as if she stood on shifting ground. “N-no. That’s not right. Hugh doesn’t dream.”
“Sure he does.” The hand touching her chin moved a fraction, not enough to be called a caress. “What does he do in his line? Treat people, or is he into the research side of things?”
“R-research,” she replied, barely realizing she was purring.
“So he’s looking to find some new cure, something no one else has found. That’s his dream.”
“That’s not his dream, it’s his goal. It’s vital to have goals. My dreams are nothing life changing. They’re just…silly.”
“That’s what they thought about Ben Franklin. People said Einstein was crazy.” Gentle hands fell on her wrists, pushing her sleeves up her arms. The cool sea breeze caressed her heated flesh, and she sighed in unconscious relief. She was so hot…. “Your dreams may not save the world, but if they make