Unconditional (5 page)

Heather laughed. “No. His older sister married the Crown Prince of Delvania a few months ago. One of those rare commoner-meets-royalty-and-they-fall-in-love stories. It seems to be a trend with Australian women. The same thing happened a few years ago with Mary Donaldson from Tasmania. She met a guy at a pub during the Sydney Olympics who turned out to be the Crown Prince of Denmark. Four years later, they’re happily married.”

I frowned. The butterflies were stirring again. “So Raph isn’t royalty? What’s with the bodyguard then?”

“Since the wedding, he’s become a reluctant celebrity, very much like Pippa Middleton since Kate married William. Of course, her
butt
is more famous than she is.”

I must have looked confused, because Heather gave me another one of those looks that told me she thought I was a clueless American.

“Pippa Middleton is the older sister of the woman who married Prince William. You know, the British royals? Australia is still a member of the colonies, as much as I wish we weren’t. So of course
all
the media talked about for months before the wedding ceremony was what the bride was going to wear, what the vows were going to be. Then when the wedding took place, all everyone talked about was Pippa’s arse and how good it looked in her bridesmaid dress.” She sniggered. “So when Raph’s sister married the prince and he was photographed at the wedding looking very yummy in his tux, the media went into an absolute frenzy. There are Facebook fan groups out there dedicated to him. I’m pretty certain there are also groups dedicated to
his
butt as well.
Cosmopolitan
magazine named him one of Australia’s sexiest men last month. I’ve heard he can’t leave campus without being mobbed by screaming girls who want to touch him, and word is the royal family wants him protected. There’s a rumor there’s a nutjob stalker obsessed with him. There’s also a rumor the Delvanian princess wants him for herself. They’ve been photographed enough together at royal events for the media to already start talking engagement and marriage.

“Plus, just about every girl who’s ever been near him, even just sat beside him in a class, sells her story to
Woman’s Day
, or
New Idea
—they’re trashy magazines women in their forties read, by the way. Oh, I’ve even heard he’s been hit on by one of the professors here. And apparently women keep sending him their undies. How gross is that?”

“So,” I said, trying like hell to keep up with her machine-gun-fire answers. “Raph Jones is famous because his sister married a royal, a princess may have the hots for him and he looks good in a tux? Is that it?”

“And he has a reputation for being arrogant and standoffish.” Heather plucked my Victoria’s Secret bra from the tangle of clothes in my suitcase and inspected it. “Even the girls he dated before the whole famous-for-being-famous thing say he rarely showed that much affection and wasn’t big on kissing.” She eyed me with a curious smirk. “Except he kissed
you
.”

The butterflies in my stomach fluttered at the statement. I looked at her, unsure what to say. Unsure what to
think
, to be honest. Now that I knew who my mysterious restroom kisser was, I was completely clueless why he’d kissed me. What had been going through Raph’s head at the time?

Giving up on trying to tidy the innards of my suitcase, I dropped onto the mattress beside it and gave Heather a frown. “Maybe he secretly wants the fame and attention? Maybe that’s why he kissed me? Maybe he thought I’d post it on Facebook or tweet about it or something?”

“Yeah, right. The guy spends most of his day snarling at anyone who even
looks
like they’re thinking of taking a photo of him with their mobile phones. Trust me, attention and fame aren’t what he wants.” She held my bra up to her chest, studying the way the lacy cups covered her T-shirt-covered boobs with a grin. “Maybe it was chemistry. A spark between you both? They say his sister asked the crown prince for a kiss before she knew who he was. They ran into each other in one of the Starbucks in the city. He spilt coffee all over her, and when he asked if he could do anything to make it up, she jokingly said he could kiss her.” Raising her attention from my bra and her boobs, she smirked again. “Perhaps it’s a family thing— to kiss complete strangers in weird places?”

I let out a wry snort. “Yeah, that’s it.”

Inside, I was a trembling mess of confused uncertainty. I tried to remember the words Raph had said to me after the first time he’d kissed me. Something about the way his sister had met the prince. Now I knew about his sister, it made sense that he’d thought I was making a reference to the kiss between her and the prince in Starbucks. The thing was, even if that had been the case—which it wasn’t, we both knew that the second he mentioned it—that still didn’t explain why he’d granted my request. Nor why he’d kissed me a second time.

The memory of his lips on mine played with my sanity. There truly wasn’t anything
average
about his kiss at all. It was incredible and amazing and even now, I wanted him to kiss me again. Despite the fact he was a grade-A jerk, I really wanted to feel his lips on mine. Feel him slide his tongue over mine. Feel his body pressed to mine.

At the thought of Raph Jones holding me in his arms so our bodies touched, a wickedly delicious throb began deep between my thighs.

The second we’d looked at each other I’d forgotten everything else. I’d stood there in the bathroom, completely neglecting the need to pee, and done something I never ever do—flirted. And he’d flirted back and flashed his dimple at me and kissed me. Twice. Instant sexual connection.

A spark.

It was the silence from Heather that made me realize I was staring at the door. I blanched, heat flooding my cheeks. Damn it. Busted.

“Don’t tell anyone about the kissing thing, okay?” I asked.

Heather studied me. “Okay. On one condition.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “What’s that?”

“When he kisses you again, you text me immediately.”

I snorted. “Err, no.”

“No to the texting?”

I shook my head. “No to the kissing again. Not happening. I don’t do kissing.”

Heather threw back her head and laughed. And laughed. “Maci, by the way you were looking at Raph earlier, you don’t only want to
do
kissing with him. You want to
do
all sorts of other things as well, like f—”

“Okay.” I leapt to my feet, snared Heather’s elbow and pulled her up. “Shower time.”

She laughed at my woeful attempt to silence her. “You’ll see. You’re here in a foreign country with a guy notorious for not kissing already laying one on you. A guy, I might add, who was practically making love to you with his eyes only a moment ago. Of course you’re going to—”

I shoved her to the door, shouting, “la la la,” as I did so. My cheeks weren’t just hot, they were on fire.

By the time I got Heather to the door and flung it open, she was describing in euphoric detail what Raphael Jones was going to do to me. I’ve got to say, it was the most unorthodox way of making a new friend I can possibly think of. I liked it, even if I did think she was a deluded motor-mouthed lunatic. At least she was happy about it.

And she hadn’t made any mention of my stupid shaking left hand. Even though she couldn’t have missed it, she hadn’t said a word. For that alone, she was lovely.

“Oh,” she burst out a second after I propelled her from my room into the corridor. “Do you wanna come to the gym with me tomorrow morning? Of course you do. I’ll come get you at eight, okay?”

Raph’s door was shut and he was nowhere to be seen. I checked. I opened my mouth to tell her working out would be a good great idea and closed it when Raph’s door opened.

Without looking at me, he walked out of his room, closed the door behind him and made his way along the corridor, stopping at the room three down from mine. He knocked on the door once with a short, sharp rap.

Heather shot him a look and then turned back to me. “Enjoy your shower, Maci,” she damn near shouted at me, grinning. “And I’ll see you tonight at the party.”

I tried not to look at Raph. Unfortunately, I failed. Before I knew it, my gaze was on him.

And before I could look away, he was looking at me.

“Oh,” Heather called, now striding past Raph, her smirk wide. “Don’t forget the theme. Underwear. Make sure you wear that sexy bra and knickers thing you packed. I reckon the guys will be lining up to meet you.”

Raph scowled, banged on the door again with furious force and barged in.

My face on fire, I retreated into my own room.

Heather might be wonderful, but this would be the shortest friendship in history. I was going to kill her.

Letting out a dramatic sigh—you know, the kind where your lips actually wobble a little at the end and you look like Maggie Simpson burping—I crossed to the bed and stared at the mess of clothes in my suitcase. I needed a plan of attack. Stress was trying to take charge of my brain and I couldn’t let it.

I could call Mom, but she would instantly hear it in my voice and freak out. I did not want her freaking out while I was on the other side of the world. When a Parkinson’s sufferer freaks out, their brain takes them to a very dark emotional place. Depression decides to muscle in on the situation and then you’re left with a stumbling, trembling, stuttering bag of glum misery, entertaining ideas best not entertained. Ideas like how the world would be better off without you in it.

I know this not only from watching my mom go through it.

Chewing on my lip, I dug my toiletry bag out from the tumble of clothes in my suitcase, along with a pair of shorts and my college T-shirt (Go Plenty Woodchucks!).

Plan of attack—take my long-overdue meds, take a shower, wash my hair, brush my teeth, put on new panties and bra—although not my Victoria’s Secret combo, given I was wearing it tonight in front of a horde of complete strangers. Well, complete strangers and Heather and Raph—followed by shorts and T-shirt. (Go Plenty Woodchucks! Ra Ra Ra!).

After that, and only after that, I’d call Mom, tell her I was awesome, tell her I’d met a bona fide Australian celebrity already—omitting the part about it being in the men’s public bathroom
and
about the kiss—and then have a nap.

Fuck, I was tired. Hopefully, when I woke the trembles would have subsided enough that I could spend the Mackellar House party walking about in my Victoria’s Secret underwear without my left hand shoved under my right armpit.

When I finally found the communal bathroom, I had to swallow my little gasp of surprise at the sight of three guys washing their hands.

They all stopped talking to each other and regarded me in the long mirror that covered the entire wall above the basins.

I offered them a smile that was meant to be cool, calm and confident, but probably looked like I had gas. “Hi.”

The one closest to me, who looked like he could bench-press a semi-trailer, grinned. “Ah, you’re the American?” He nudged the guy beside him with his elbow. “Ando said she was a looker.”

The one on the end, the leanest of the three who was wearing a
Walking Dead
T-shirt, smiled at me in the mirror. “What do you think of Australia so far?”

“So far, so good,” I answered, hugging my clothes and toiletry bag to my chest. “Strangely enough, I’ve spent a lot of my time in bathrooms.”

All three guys laughed. The semi-trailer bench-presser chuckled. “Well, when you gotta go, you gotta go, I guess.”

For an awkward moment, no one moved. They stood at the basins, looking at me in the mirror’s reflection. I stood inside the doorway, looking at them.

“All right,” Walking Dead finally burst out. “We’ll let you shower in peace. Have fun.” And with that, he hustled his friends past me.

Just as they were about to leave the bathroom, the biggest of them swung back to me. “You going t’night? To the undies shindig?”

I blinked. God, his accent was thick. “The what?”

He grinned. “The party tonight. Only wear your underwear. You going?”

I nodded, feeling my cheeks heat. That was another thing I wasn’t going to tell Mom—first night in Australia and I was planning on wearing nothing but my panties and a bra in public. God, she would kill me. Wheeee.

“Excellent.” His grin stretched wider. It was cute. In fact, so was he. In a geeky kind of way. “See you then.”

And then I was alone.

Turning from the door, I let out another dramatic breath and studied the four empty shower cubicles before me. There were two bathrooms in Mackellar House. This one on the top floor—my floor—and one on the second floor. Heather told me the showers in this one had hotter water. She’d also told me there was a strict ten-minute shower duration limit, thanks to the water restrictions imposed on Sydney due to the country’s ongoing drought.

Ten minutes to wash and condition my hair, clean all my…areas…that required cleaning and shave my legs. I could do that. Knowing a guy could walk into the bathroom to go to the toilet or use one of the other showers at any time would make it easier to be quick.

Picking the shower bay next to the far wall, I hurried in, deposited my clothes and toiletry bag on the small bench, locked the door, checked I’d locked it, checked again, stripped off my dirty clothes, checked once more on the door—yep, locked—and then turned on the water and stepped under the spray.

It wasn’t until I’d finished all the cleaning tasks, had de-stubbled my legs and was in the process of sudsing up my hair with apple-scented shampoo, that an important thought dawned on me.

I hadn’t brought a towel into the bathroom.

Come to think of it, I hadn’t brought a towel with me from home.

Was there a towel in my room?

Holy shit, I didn’t have a towel.

I was having a shower in a strange bathroom on the other side of the world in a three-story dorm full of complete strangers and Heather and Raph (natch), and I had no idea how I was going to dry myself after.

Great.

Excellent.

Awesome.

Perfect.