Pretty Hot (The Pretty Trilogy Book 1) Page 2

  In other words, diversionary tactics: look, pretty pink sparkles—now sit quietly and read!

  Dragging in a ladder from the store cupboard, I leave the door open. It’s still blisteringly hot and humid outside despite the late afternoon hour, but a whole day in the frigid air conditioning has my bones aching for a little natural warmth. A sudden scent of frangipani on the scant, warm breeze reminds me of home, and as I stand in the doorway, memories I’ve tried hard to suppress play out in my mind, frame by reluctant frame.

  Shane stands in the doorway, murmuring endearments into his phone.

  Clearly it’s not me on the other end of the line.

  The thoughts, dark and bitter, cause my stomach to coil. I’ve been through the stages: sadness, anger, denial. And I’ve bought the bloody books, before finally reaching a place of acceptance. I accept that my ex-fiancé is a whore.

  ‘She’s a stripper for fuck’s sakes. It’s a bucks’ night thing!’

  An absolute whore.

  Shuddering at the memory, I wrap my arms around my elbows and force myself back to now. Music. That’s what I need, that and a bucket-sized glass of red, but first things first. Flipping open my laptop, I select a random playlist, and angry-girl music fills the room. I begin to sway realising that this song could actually be my personal anthem as, in the words currently being belted out, I’m determined to move in the right direction.

  My spirits lift as I dance like there’s no one watching because, well, there isn’t. Always a little self-conscious on the dance floor, I relish any opportunity to get my groove on alone. Sad but true. It’s one of my guilty pleasures; friendlier on the bum than chocolate cake and a lot less daggy than the air guitar. I let the lyrics of strength and defiance fill me as I lift a foot onto the first rung of the ladder, mozzie net and hammer tucked firmly under my arms, picture hooks dangling like broken teeth between my lips.

  Humming still, I climb as high as my nerves and heels allow, reaching toward the ceiling. Footwear notwithstanding, I manage to bash a hook into submission, achieving my goal as the bright pink fabric falls to the ground in luxurious folds.

  In retrospect, I probably should have ditched my heels at the foot of the ladder, but clearly too busy dancing like a loon, I find myself balanced almost at the very top. Still, a person of my stature needs all the help she can get, and as someone short and smart once said, the higher the heel, the closer to heaven I am. I snort at the thought . . . just as the toe of my shoe glides past the aimed for rung.

  Maybe wearing heels on a ladder will get me to the pearly gates quicker than I’d like.

  The ladder rocks, parodying a dance, as my foot barely catches a lower tread. My heart leaps into my mouth, and in a panic to avoid broken limbs during my first week, I struggle and overcorrect . . . and the ladder dances perilously again.

  ‘Fuck meeee!’

  The expletive, yelled through gritted teeth, sounds detached and strangled. Not surprising, considering I’m about to meet the ground fast and on an involuntary basis, when unexpectedly, my flailing is halted, the ladder planting itself on the floor with a resounding thump. I’m no longer falling but lying against a chest, a very solid, male chest, as my heart continues to do a pretty good impression of a dryer full of wet running shoes.

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it customary to offer dinner first?’ The chest pressed against my back rumbles in a voice refined and deeply masculine.

  My heart moves into my throat. I swallow hard, my resulting reply somewhere between a ‘what’ and a grunt. Attempting to unhook my foot from the offending rung, his hands, long-fingered and elegant, I can’t help but notice, steady my arms.

  ‘And even then I don’t always put out.’ Is that an English accent?

  I twist my head over my shoulder, the retort sat at the end of my tongue dissolving immediately. Wow. His eyes, they’re startling. Almost amber in colour with long inky lashes by way of a frame. He has the kind of eyes you read about in books; eyes that weaken knees and knicker elastic all with the mere quirk of a brow. Was that pinging I just heard?

  As I try to fire my dazed synapses—with about the same effectiveness as a caveman with two wet sticks—I get the impression he’d like very much to laugh. Probably at me rather than with, as he attempts to master the smile building on his generous mouth.

  Generous, pouty and bite-able.

  Bite-able, really? I’ve got to stop reading those kinds of books.

  Stock-still and half turned, one hand grasping the metal frame of the ladder—probably a sensible precaution due to a high probability of an oncoming swoon—I become aware the stranger has spoken, his lips moving as my brain scrambles to catch up.

  ‘There’s nothing I like more than a pretty mouth full of dirty words, so really, thanks are unnecessary.’

  My mouth works soundlessly as I remember Niamh describing a guy she’d once dated as having “eyes put in with a sooty thumb”. The description suddenly makes sense. But did he just say . . .

  ‘You want me to thank you for telling me I’ve got a dirty mouth?’

  ‘I think you’ll find I said you had a pretty,’—his eyes flick almost imperceptibly to the orifice in question— ‘mouth.’

  Oh, well that’s a bit different. Jesus, you could hang your coat off those cheekbones.

  ‘Would you like me to call maintenance? The caretaker?’ An eyebrow rises in enquiry, his gaze sliding the length of my body and to the hammer on the floor.

  ‘How about you just let go of my arms and let me down.’

  Rich laughter fills the room as he does so, leaving one hand outstretched between us. ‘Ms Saunders, I presume?’

  With a terse nod, I place my hand in his, unable to stop studying him from his head down. Mediterranean skin, the kind that reminds me of warm caramel, and an incongruous dusting of freckles across an aquiline nose. Dark hair falls a little too long across his collar in a style that screams touch me, I’m artfully messy. I resist the invitation, but only just.

  ‘I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,’ I reply curtly and with an inward cringe. Please tell me I did not just come over all Regency Period in front of a seriously hot guy. Quick, someone pass me the smelling salts. Or possibly a gun. ‘And just how do you know my name?’

  ‘The door,’ he replies, amused.

  Ah, yep. There it is, painted within a picture of a sunflower the size of my head. As I don’t have an answer that doesn’t include some kind of serious blush, I opt instead to straighten my clothes. Viewed from under my lashes, I can tell he’s tall but it’s his face that takes my entire focus. It’s a face that could easily belong to another time; ancient Greece or Rome, but that feels too generic somehow. Less warrior and more lover, his dark, strong features are softened by his too full lips. Still, I can almost see him in a breastplate and a helmet. Or maybe just a helmet.

  Willing away the images, I bend down to pick up the hammer at the moment he does the same.

  ‘Ow! Watch what—’

  ‘Have you got rocks in your head?’

  His hand flies to his nose. My own, meanwhile, covers my thumping skull.

  ‘If you’d just minded your own business, this wouldn’t have happened.’ Placing the hammer on a rung of the ladder, I rub my head, the sharpness having developed into a dull thud.

  ‘What, I should’ve left you to fall?’ His tone is highly incredulous, even spoken through the hand covering his mouth as he pinches the bridge of his obviously sore nose.

  ‘Better than dazzling girls off ladders and trying to lay them out.’

  ‘Dazzling?’

  His sensual mouth quirks in the corner. It’s hardly surprising he’s laughing at me; I wouldn’t win any prizes for scintillating wit or grace right now. I pull away, casting my gaze around for something to say, something that doesn’t make me sound any more of a loon.

  ‘So, new girl, what do you do when you aren’t causing bodily harm to strangers?’ He stops my denials with a raised hand. �
�First you fall on me, then you attempt to break my nose.’

  ‘Third time’s a charm,’ I mutter in an undertone.

  He smiles again, this time sort of devilishly, like there’s more to be heard in my mumblings as he holds out his hand. ‘I’m Kai, by the way.’

  ‘Kate,’ I reply, giving his hand a solid business-like shake. ‘Sorry about your nose, and, um, thanks for your help, but I’m all good.’ I extract my heated hand, aiming for calm and aloof.

  ‘That I can well imagine,’ he replies, adding depth to his smile and a squirmy feeling to my insides.

  At that point, the music changes, filling the room. Recognizing the song, my mouth returns to a gaping sort of panic as I anticipate the opening line—something about pants being around feet and not, I sense, to put on clean ones.

  Suggestive lyrics swirl around us as Kai tilts his head, fixing me with a considering sort of look. His eyes shine almost gold in the light, the eyes of a cat basking in the sun and enjoying itself just a little too much.

  Heat unexpectedly crawls its way from the pit of my gut, torching every inch of my skin. I force myself away from the effects of his gaze, turning as his hand catches mine.

  ‘The pleasure was all mine.’ With a last cryptic smile, he turns to leave, dark coloured slacks hugging his narrow hips and coating his fine behind.

  I release a quiet breath, low and long, feeling a bit wobbly. Not quite done with humiliating myself, I’m fanning my face with a hand—possibly a reaction to the heat from the now open door, or his GQ worthy butt—when he turns, catching me mid-flap in the act. Hand wrapped around the door handle, his smile turns to laughter.

  ‘I’ll close it, shall I? It is a little hot in here.’

  Seriously, I wouldn’t know subtle if it was stamped on my head.

  I’m done for the day, quite literally, as I pack away my laptop, my heart beating just a little too fast. I wonder if he’s a teacher from the boy’s campus; it’s plausible, though he must be a very well paid one judging by the cut of his clothes. Definitely more boardroom than the classroom, I love a man in French cuffed shirts. I suppose he could be their principal though he looks a bit on the young side, and surely a principal wouldn’t flirt with staff? Yeah, like that’s never happened. Maybe he’s a parent here for a teacher conference. Eww, I hope not. There’s nothing worse than a pervy dad.

  Strange, though it is after hours, so there are no cultural issues to address; a lone man wandering around the campus should be okay. Men arriving at Al Mishael during school hours are announced over the P.A. system before they’re allowed into the building, giving staff practicing the dress code of hijab the opportunity to cover. I’ve learnt a lot this week, things I’d never considered before. Like how some Muslim women cover, in varying degrees, their hair and their bodies when outside the home. At first it seemed odd but I suppose early Christian women did it, and to a certain extent, nuns still do.

  Still, the first time “men on campus” was announced over the air, I had to swallow the bubbling urge to shout woot! The announcement was so surreal, it seemed like a valid response. Somehow, I don’t think my colleagues would’ve seen the funny side.

  I’m learning fast, but this was the first real conversation I’ve had with a man since arriving in Dubai, if I discount the frequently odd conversations I’ve had during my daily taxi rides. This morning’s was a classic, culminating in me very firmly informing the driver—Ronald, let’s call him, in honour of his bright orange hair—that my very good self was indeed having a boyfriend and not interested in attending the parties and the discos on his arm.

  I’ve never been into gingers, especially not the badly hennaed ones.

  But maybe I’m reading way too much into my conversation with this gorgeous man. Had I imagined the stranger’s innuendo? I certainly enjoyed it, despite my best attempts, but I think I read the nuances just fine. Maybe he’s like that with all the girls. But all the girls in a conservative school?

  Ridiculous. I’m behaving like a schoolgirl myself, having been dazzled by a man so hot he’d melt the undies right off any girl’s butt.

  Enough! I need to remember why I’ve taken this job, maybe even re-read a few chapters of that awful self-help book. Look for the chapter on getting your head and cooch to achieve some kind of simpatico. I’d best reacquaint myself.

  Grabbing my bag, I head to the exit.

  There was definitely something about him, though, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

  Oh, but I think you’d like to, sings a small voice in my head.

  Chapter Three

  ‘I know a guy who lives in this building.’

  Niamh pushes oversized sunglasses onto her head as we step into the foyer, resplendent with cream tiles and gold accents, but more importantly, fabulously cool after the oppressive heat outside.

  ‘Lives with his roommate in a two bedder.’ Her toes are dangerously close to my unruly trolley-case as she holds the door open, moving adroitly to one side.

  ‘Is he a teacher?’ I ask, pocketing my own sunnies.

  ‘Nah, building surveyor or something like that. Quite fit, mind, and I saw him first.’ As we enter the elevator, she brings out her phone, tapping the screen.

  ‘Niamh, pay attention.’ I say this like I’m talking to a grade two kid. ‘I’m off men and I really can’t be arsed to keep repeating myself. Not interested, not looking and not at my best, see?’ I hold an index finger in the direction of my hair, the humidity giving it twice its usual volume, and not in a good way. It’s an affliction I avoid acknowledging in the elevators mirrored walls.

  ‘Erm, hello? Babetown,’ Niamh replies, grabbing the waistband of my Capri pants. ‘Population: You.’

  An apartment is part of my employment package, and I’ve been housed in a building a few blocks from a mall so large it even has a ski slope inside. Skiing and shopping in the desert does seem just a little bit mad, but Niamh says the weather is so extreme most of the year that outdoor pursuits are almost impossible. I suppose it makes sense that there are alternatives, but snow in the desert is a bit over the top. Thankfully, I’m not the outdoorsy type, and my building has both a pool and a gym for its residents’ use. I don’t suppose I’ll be skiing anytime soon, but I’ve promised myself I’ll visit the gym. Who knows, maybe I’ll even step inside. In aiming for a whole new me, Kate the gym bunny still seems a step too far.

  ‘Who vommed porridge?’ Niamh places her bag on the hall table as she enters the very neutral room.

  ‘It’s . . .’ I struggle for the appropriate adjective as I try to pull the key from the lock.

  ‘Padded cell.’ She sniffs, unimpressed. ‘Porridge walls, floors and furniture. Complimented by eau d’ turpentine. Open a window, would you?’

  I eye the sofa which is remarkably like the one I’d left in Australia. ‘The lady in admin said they were renovating, that’s why I couldn’t move in last week. Oof, it’s stuck.’

  ‘Get yourself some bright throw cushions,’ Niamh says, walking around the room. ‘Introduce a bit of colour. Bring a bloke back here and he’ll think you’ve brought him to the psychiatric ward.’

  Again with the man thing. As if. ‘It’s fine.’ More than fine. ‘Just a bit impersonal, that’s all.’ I wheel in my solitary case, placing my handbag on the kitchen worktop, which happens to be very close to the front door.

  ‘At least it’s all new,’ she says, lifting a throw pillow from the sofa, plumping it up and distractedly placing it back.

  ‘Are they all like this, do you think?’ It is small and very plain. And a bit like a dentist’s waiting area. Not that I’m complaining, just curious. ‘What about your friend, the one who lives here?’

  ‘Remember that old movie with Tom Hanks where he’s a little boy trapped in a grownup’s body?’

  ‘Big?’

  ‘Is he ever!’ And now I know more than I need to. ‘I dunno,’ she says with a sigh, ‘I’ve only been inside his place once and it was far too messy
to tell.’ Her gaze travels the room. ‘We’ll go to Ikea or something at the weekend, and I’ll come and pick you up for a bit of grocery shopping tomorrow, yeah?’

  ‘Thanks. I saw a mini-market on the corner on the way in, that’ll do for now.’

  ‘Grand. I’ve gotta love and leave ‘ya, babes. I’m off to have my brows threaded, and I’ve a facial booked later. The traffic’s bound to be mad.’

  I push the hair back off my forehead, eyebrows comically high. ‘Why do your brows need sewing back on?’

  Unimpressed, she picks up her purse. ‘A social life, Kate, requires effort and grooming, especially out here. Now, haul arse and make a bit of effort yourself. Go catch some rays by the pool. Any paler and you’d be on the slab.’

  ‘Pale says the ‘ranga from Dublin. That’s rich.’

  ‘I’m auburn, not feckin’ orange. I do not in any way resemble an orang-utan. And I’m supposed to be pale. Or freckly, and I know which I prefer. You, on the other hand.’ She eyes me disparagingly. ‘Aren’t you Aussies meant to be all bronzed and gorgeous after living on the beach?’

  ‘You know I hate the sand,’ I mutter.

  ‘Then you moved to the wrong place, didn’t you? Bathers. Pool.’ She makes a shooing motion with her fingers. ‘And by the way, your new neighbours are keepin’ an eye out for you.’

  ‘They are? But I don’t . . .’ My shoulders sag, sensing rather than seeing her smug expression. There’s no point arguing, especially when she isn’t listening.

  ‘Grand,’ she says, delighting in my defeat. ‘Consider them crash test dummies; a chance to practise your social skills. Good for a nice hard bang all in good time. ’