Unconditional (11 page)

“But…” His smile turned to that devilish grin I remembered from the airport bathroom two weeks ago, the one that made my sex flutter and my heart race. “If you really
want
to go to Triptych, I’m happy to drive us.”

Damn, she had.

Heat flooded my checks. Again. Goddamn it, I was blushing more on this side of the planet than I ever had back home. WTF? “What about your bodyguard?” I asked, hoping to ruffle his feathers a little. I needed some kind of upper hand here.

It didn’t work. All he did was grin. “I’ve seen his doodles. Don’t think drawing is his thing.”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”

Raph laughed and held up his hand. “I know. But c’mon, you have to admit, that was funny.”

I couldn’t stop my lips twitching.

Raph’s grin stretched wider. “Ah, there it is.”

“What?”

His gaze met mine. “Your smile. I haven’t seen it since the airport. So? Breakfast at Triptych? My treat?”

I opened my mouth, ready to say no even if a warm yumminess was blooming in my belly.

“Or,” he went on before I could, dark eyes glinting with the same mirth I could see dancing on his lips, “we could just stick with our normal routine and I could follow you to the bathroom and we could make out there?”

“Are those my only two options?”

He nodded. “’Fraid so.”

I let out a sigh. A maelstrom of butterflies whipped up a storm of nerves inside me. “Breakfast it is then. But only if I’m allowed to laugh at your drawings.”

“Deal. Now hurry the hell up, will you? I’m starving.”

I rushed through my shower—which, given the strict water usage rules at Mackellar House, was the quickest shower I’d ever taken—and tugged on my clothes after the fastest towel-drying ever. As a consequence, my skin was a little damp when I shoved my legs into my shorts and yanked my tank over my head. That meant I kept squirming in my seat as we drove to Triptych, trying to inconspicuously separate my clinging clothes from my body.

Raph kept giving me curious sideways glances, but he thankfully didn’t say anything. By this stage, my meds had kicked in and my tremors had subsided. I was grateful for that, at least, even if I did look like I had ants in my pants.

His car was nothing like I’d expected. For some reason, I’d placed him in a sleek, expensive number, like a Porsche or the kind of car Iron Man drove. Instead, he walked me to a beat-up baby-pickup-looking thing with a row of massive spotlights attached to a thick metal bar in front of the grill.

Inside, on the passenger seat and floor, there were empty Red Bull cans, empty chip bags and a stack of books with titles like
Statistics for Veterinary and Animal Science
,
Biofilms and Veterinary Medicine
, and
Pathologic Basis of Veterinary Disease
.

“Just some light reading,” Raph said, expression deadpan as he gathered them all up and shoved them—along with the Red Bull cans and chip bags—in the narrow space behind my seat.

I thought of my
light
reading
back in my room—the latest Stephen King novel, three
Girlfriend
magazines I’d brought from home and my copy of
The Age of Global Warming
. To my credit, there were also the required text books for my study at University of Sydney, but apart from when I’d been in class and lectures, I hadn’t paid them that much attention.

Thirty minutes of casual chatting—and squirming—later, we pulled into an empty space near the café. I was enjoying myself already, damn it. Yes, there was a part of me that desperately wanted to discover Raph was a boring slug when we weren’t making out in public bathrooms. Unfortunately, he wasn’t.

He was funny with a dry sense of humor a lot like my dad’s.

That wasn’t helping my situation any, but I was laughing too much to really care. As we climbed out of his car—he called it a ute, which must be some unique Aussie term for pickup—I was momentarily confused when he reached behind the driver’s seat, withdrew a baseball cap and pulled it low over his eyes. “Aren’t we going inside?” I asked, watching him over the roof of the ute.

He looked at me from his side, lips curling. I couldn’t see what his eyes were doing; the sunglasses he wore were so damn dark it was like gazing into two fathomless black holes. “Yep.”

When he didn’t offer any further elaboration on the cap and sunglasses, I shrugged. “Okay.”

Walking around to where I waited for him on the footpath, he took my hand. My heart leapt into my throat so freaking fast I almost choked. Oh boy, his fingers threaded through mine felt nice. No, more than nice. Wonderful. Incredible. Amazing.

Perfect.

Smile stretching wider, he leaned closer to me, his dimple flashing from his right cheek. “I’m sort of famous, remember,” he whispered, as if sharing an important secret. “Don’t want to be swarmed.”

At first, I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. And then I remembered the paparazzi at the airport the day I met him. “Shall I call you Bruce?” I whispered back, unable to hide my own smirk.

His dimple creased deeper. “Bruce it is. Let’s go draw naked people.”

We entered the café.

And I stumbled to a halt.

There were three completely naked men and two completely naked women of various shapes and sizes perched on stools scattered around the interior. Bustling about them were wait staff dressed in the typical uniform of black pants, shirts and long, snug white aprons, delivering orders to the patrons sitting at tables circling the models. Most of those eating in the café were doing so while casting long gazes at the naked man or woman closest to them, a fork or sandwich in one hand, some kind of drawing implement in the other.

“Shit,” Raph muttered at my side, his grip on my hand firm. “We didn’t bring anything to draw with. Or on, for that matter.”

I looked up at him, caught the tension in his jaw as he looked about the café. Was he really concerned about that? Or about someone recognizing him?

Turning my attention to the diners nearest us, I walked over to one table populated by two young men who looked my age and gave them my shyest smile. “Hi,” I said, really emphasizing my accent. “I forgot to put our drawing supplies in the car and Bruce—” I flicked Raph a quick glance over my shoulder, “—is about ready to explode. Do you think you could possibly lend us some paper and a pencil or two?” I caught my bottom lip with my teeth and turned on the coy charm. “Please?”

“Give me your phone number and I will,” the guy closest to me said, smile wide.

“How about I just buy it from you?” Raph’s deep voice sounded beside me as he held out his hand. I caught a glimpse of a bright green note—Australian money is very colorful, by the way—in his fingers, and the guy with the one who’d asked for my number snatched it away.

“Done,” he said, ramming the note—one hundred dollars, can you believe it?—into his pocket and nudging his friend with his elbow. “For another you can have our table as well.”

“Deal.” Raph produced another green note from his wallet and held it out.

My belly flip-flopped. Holy crap, he’d just paid two hundred dollars.

Two hundred dollars.

The two guys jolted to their feet, scooped up their coffee mugs and sketches and, with a nod at Raph, vacated the table, leaving us with a collection of what looked like charcoal sticks, pencils and erasers.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” I said, dropping into the closest seat.

Raph lowered himself into the seat beside mine, dimple flashing again. “Me either. I must like you or something.”

His quip sent tingly heat straight to the junction of my thighs. My pulse quickened.

Thankfully, a waiter appeared, saving me from trying to stumble through a lame response.

We placed our orders—me, egg-white omelet with baby spinach and grilled tomato, Raph, banana-caramel pancakes with a side order of bacon—and then turned our attention to the model perched on his stool a few feet away.

“Wow,” I breathed before I could stop myself.

He was, umm, how shall I put this? Large. Everywhere. And I mean
everywhere
. And hairy. Really hairy. His man-boobs rested on his round gut, a gut that hung low over his groin, a groin that…well…I’m sure porn stars would have been envious of what hung between his legs. I couldn’t stop looking at it. Damn, it was…I don’t know what it was. Part mesmerizing, part gross, part…

“You’re staring.” Raph’s whisper jerked my gaze upward and, God help me, I discovered the model
watching
me.

Heat flooded my cheeks again with blush number 242 and I blinked.

“Here.” Raph thrust a charcoal stick at my hand. “Have at it.”

More than a little flustered, I looked at him. I hadn’t really thought sitting in a café studying a naked person would be so confronting, but oh boy, was it ever. Or maybe it was the fact the naked man
knew
I was looking at him that messed me up? I had grown up in Plenty, Ohio, after all. Naked people didn’t just sit around waiting for people to draw them in Plenty. Not in cafes, at least.

Hand shaking—this time from unsettled nerves, I’m happy to report—I took the offered stick of charcoal and gave Raph a smile in return.

He plucked a pencil from the table and, grin playing with his lips, lowered his sunglasses a little and winked at me. “Masterpiece time, American girl.”

And with that, he started drawing.

A horse.

I burst out laughing.

He’d finished his first sketch of the horse—wearing stilettoes, I might add—by the time our breakfast arrived. I was halfway through my first sketch of Mr. Check Out The Size Of That Thing. I lowered my charcoal stub, studying what I’d created so far.

Can I say, as an artist, I make an awesome tree-hugging greenie.

Raph, it seemed, agreed with my self-critique. “So you’re going for an abstract approach?” he asked, mirth dancing in the question.

“Hey.” I pouted, studying my abysmal drawing. “It’s not that bad.”

He laughed.

We ate our breakfast quickly. Surprisingly, I found myself returning to my drawing often, making little adjustments to Mr. Check Out The Size Of That Thing’s image. I still hadn’t attempted to draw his schlong, a fact Raph pointed out with a smirk.

I wanted to tell him to concentrate on his own drawing, but when I looked at his page I discovered he’d not only sketched another horse—this one with a koala wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap riding on its back—yeah, I got the joke—but a really impressive drawing of our model’s large, hairy hand resting on his meaty, hairy thigh.

“Are you sure you shouldn’t be studying art?” I asked in a low voice.

Raph chuckled. “My father would kill me.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Why?”

He studied his artwork. At least, I think he did. He still wore those dark sunglasses that hid his eyes. “It’s a given I follow tradition and take my place in the family business when I finish studying.”

I didn’t miss the taint of embittered melancholy in the declaration. Nor the tension that claimed him as he spoke.

“What
is
the family business?” I asked. I couldn’t help myself. Raph was such an enigma. One I wanted to know more about. The fame by marriage, the lofty arrogance at university, the concern when he’d found me unstable, the playful flirting this morning, the scorching kisses…if I wasn’t careful, I’d fall for him.

And as I’ve pointed out, falling for anyone is not allowed. Not in Maci Rowling’s world.

Lifting his focus from his sketch, he tossed me a smile, one that said he was done being resentful. “Farming. Remember I mentioned all the koalas on our property a fortnight ago? When we were discussing global warming and koala mating habits? Right before you left with Osmond?”

At the mention of Brendon, my belly tightened a little. I don’t know why. Because I was messed up? Confused? Conflicted?

A skanky ho currently falling in lust with two hot guys?

Pretending not to be unsettled at all, I made an
ah
sound. “That’s right,” I said, nodding with mock brevity. “Maybe I should call you Farmer Bruce from now on?”

“Maybe. What have you been calling me up until now?”

“Asshole,” I answered honestly.

Raph laughed. “Yeah, let’s go with Farmer Bruce.”

“Farmer Bruce it is.” I grinned. “It suits you.”

He snorted.

A few moments of silence later, after we picked at our food and worked on our sketches, he fixed me with a contemplative gaze. “Why koalas? I’ve been meaning to ask since the underwear party. I know your dad was Australian, but is that the only reason?”

Adding some extra hair to my drawing—God, our model really
was
hairy—I let my lips curl in a soft smile. “When I was eight we went on a family vacation to San Diego. We spent a whole day at the zoo and almost half of that day in the Australian section. I remember Dad getting a loopy, dreamy look on his face as we walked through it, like he was home again. Mom kept giggling at him, especially when he’d tell us these long, funny stories about encounters he’d had with whatever Australian animal we were looking at. Like how he got pushed into a river by a kangaroo, or had his lunch stolen by an emu. It was awesome. But the best bit for me was when we got to the koala exhibit. They were so gorgeous. I wanted one straightaway. From that point onward, I was obsessed with them.”

Raph grinned. “Define obsessed.”

I laughed. “By the time I was thirteen, I had over fifty stuffed koalas in my bedroom.”

“Oh boy. Yeah, that’s obsessed. So I guess you’ll go a little silly if I tell you I hand-raised a koala when I was ten?”

I gaped at him. “Are you serious?”

He nodded. “I told you one of Australia’s largest koala colonies lives on our property. I found a baby koala whose mum had been killed by a feral cat and I took it home and cared for it until it was old enough to return to the wild.”

“Wow.”

Raph smiled at my awestruck response. “It was pretty cool. But boy, do those buggers have claws on them. This scar here—” he lifted his right arm above his head and pointed at a pale white line running the length of his triceps, “—is the result of Kenny trying to get away from our dog.”