His Brand of Beautiful Read Free

her bed.
    He swore and bent to retrieve it. Groping across the carpet, his hand hit a paperback instead and knocked the book out. The blonde on the cover had his interest in a heartbeat.
    White bed. White bra. White stockings. Tate opened at a dog‐eared page.

    Jesus .
    Blood rushed to his groin. He had a sudden flash of Christina on the bed beside him, her body bare and beautiful, lips moving as she read aloud from the page.
    He shoved the book back like it burned his hand.
    “She’s not your type, schmuck.”
    Christina was soft, manicured, city. Put her under the Australian outback sun and she’d wilt like a glasshouse fern.
    He stared at the door, at the fluffy white robe hanging from a hook in the Baltic pine.
    Smart thing to do would be walk right out through that door . Problem was, he didn’t feel like being smart. Not right now.
    His eyes lit on an empty packet of fake fingernails on her bedside table.
    “Fake it, till you make it,” he told himself, loosening his tie.

    ****

    When Christina entered the kitchen, heads snapped up. One look at the expression on her face was enough to get every woman churning through her handbag in search of lipstick.
    “He’s that good, CC?” said Lacy Graham, twirling on a chrome‐legged bar stool at the kitchen bench. A black velvet cap with Hens’ Night scripted in shining sequins squashed her dark curls and from the stem of her champagne flute a red and white tag fluttered, marked Bride‐to‐be—Refill now .
    Christina gave Lacy’s shoulder a squeeze. “Thank me any time. You’ll be so glad I didn’t leave it at dinner and dancing. That would have been so tame.”
    Marlene Langton, a thick‐bodied woman with hair the colour and texture of a fluffy tabby cat, put her fingers to her mouth and whistled.
    Lacy poked her tongue at her colleague. “Don’t get too excited, Marls. I am so not pulling his zip down with my teeth.”
    “Finish this and you might.” Annabell refilled her sister’s glass.
    “No one’s pulling zippers down with their teeth,” Christina said with finality, parking her own Hens’ Night cap on her head without needing a mirror to get the angle just right. If anyone attacked Tate’s zipper she was pretty sure she’d have to kiss her brand consultation goodbye.
    Christina retrieved her glass, tapped her fingernails on the flute just to hear the crystal peals and thought about the scratch of stubble she’d felt when she kissed Tate’s cheek.
    Lacy narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “What’s your story, CC? I haven’t seen that look on your face in years; not since—”
    “Leave it, Lace,” she said, anticipating Lacy’s next words. Not since Bram.
    “You know he’ll be at the wedding, don’t you? Michael couldn’t not invite him.”
    “I know. It’ll be fine, don’t worry. I promise not to throw my drink over him.” She took a sip of champagne. Flat . The rest hit the bottom of the kitchen sink and fizzed as it slid down the drain. She didn’t want to think about Bram. It was more fun thinking about Tate.
    And stubble. And zippers.
    Lacy’s smile broadened. “You sly dog. And with my stripper too. I should take a spotter’s fee.”
    “Stow it, Lace. Between the new brand and this charity run you’ve conned me into, who has the energy for a bloke?”

    Lily Malone
    Lacy laughed. “You Clays are obsessed. Michael makes me brainstorm brand names every night before bed. I’m sleep‐talking wine brands.”
    “Did he tell you the latest?”
    “Where is this gorgeous stripper when I need him?” Lacy pleaded. Then she sighed and waved her hand: “Oh, go on then. You won’t give up until you get it off your chest.”
    “I thought we could tie the new brand to a program sponsoring Aboriginal kids—”
    Lacy nearly choked on her drink. “Are you sure, CC? That’s a pretty touchy subject.”
    “And this is why I need a brilliant strategist! Most people will think exactly how you just did, Lace. But my idea is to