The Price of Fame by Anne Oliver

taking the quick route to his gate, they’d retraced their steps along the beach.
    Us
. She’d coupled them together and it had triggered that familiar sensation that the walls were closing in around him. It spelled long-term and commitment.
    Not for Nic Russo. And he believed in being upfront and open about it. No false expectations. He drank deeply, paced to the end of the balcony and back. At least he was honest and Charlotte said she admired that about him.
    So a couple of weeks … Romantic didn’t have to mean complicated. Hell, no. He knew what women liked and it was a matter of pride that he’d never left a lover unsatisfied. They always understood his rules going in and were only too happy to play the game his way.
    Of course, there were those few who hadn’t played by those rules; those who’d tried to insinuate themselves into his life with home-cooked meals and gifts and, sometimes, in desperation, tears. Nic was immune to those tricks.
    But Charlotte was unlike any other lover. She was fun and witty and sensual, but she was
more
. More than the sexually vibrant woman she’d allowed him to see. He’d glimpsed an inherent shyness and insecurity she worked hard to hide. She’d just come out of a serious relationship, which made her vulnerable to no-strings guys like him.
    She’d tried to get him to open up about his past. And she’d wanted to soothe. To share. To understand. And for one unguarded moment he’d found himself strangely tempted.
    But there was that thorny issue of trust. The brilliant, beautiful and devious Angelica had taught him people weren’t always as they seemed and his fingers tensed on the can.
    Just because he and Charlotte had a deeper than usualrapport going didn’t mean he wanted to book the resort’s wedding chapel. A couple of weeks would be enough of an indulgence before getting back to what he did best. Work.
    Stretching out on the wicker sofa, he breathed in the garden’s damp night fragrance and concentrated on the soothing sound of the sea and the evening breeze on his skin.
    Maybe she wouldn’t be sleeping yet either. He punched the sofa’s cushion into shape behind his head. Maybe she’d be spread out on that big bed, those pearls around her throat, reliving their passion. Would she touch herself, remembering how he’d touched her …?
    It was a long time before he slept.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    C HARLOTTE inspected her holiday wardrobe the following morning. She didn’t want to fade into the background today. She wanted to dress the way she was feeling—sunny and happy. She wanted to fit in with the island culture.
    She wanted Nic to notice.
    With an hour before she was due to meet him, she headed for the central facilities and shops. She chose half a dozen picture books and jumbo crayons for Kasanita’s class. Then she tried on clothes, finally settling on a bright tropical print dress in lime and hot pink. It reminded her of the way Nic’s eyes had all but set her sarong on fire last night. Before he’d taken it off her.
    Not her usual choice, she thought, staring at her reflection back in her room. And she liked it: being someone different. Here in Fiji she didn’t need to worry about being recognised. Here she wasn’t a big name’s daughter or a politician’s partner. She could be herself. She wasn’t entirely familiar with the freedom of anonymity. Feeling as if she were dancing on air, she reached for her hat.
    She was walking along the cool elevated breezeway towards the concierge desk on her way to meet Nic when she saw him on the lawns below chatting with a couple of female staff members. She paused at the balustrade. He wore khaki shorts and a white T-shirt with a black turtlemotif, his slightly dishevelled hair catching the breeze, his smile blinding, even at this distance.
    Like Flynn, he was a people person, charm and charisma personified. Another pretty girl joined them. Nic hugged the new arrival’s shoulders, she smiled back and said something