Getting steamy with a millionaire...

Morgan had come from Paris to see her new inheritance for herself - a row of shops in a Melbourne suburb. Their spokesman was successful millionaire gelateria-owner Saxon Ciantar, and he made certain she knew where she stood: she was their evil landlady and they were at war!
 

But Saxon soon began to see glimpses of the real Morgan she did her best to hide beneath that prickly exterior. She'd put her heart and emotions in the deep-freeze long ago, and Saxon's mission was to kidnap her to his luxury mountain pad, fast-thaw her with his searing touch - and bring her to a very steamy surrender!

---

Morgan pushed her large sunnies higher onto her nose then stared across Como Avenue, the ice cold Melbourne street in which the cabbie had left her.  She rubbed fast hands down her arms to ward off the insidious chill in the air.  And she frowned.  This was reason she had spent twenty-four hours seated on planes, fifteen of those hours next to a guy who hadn’t showered in at least a week?

When lawyers had contacted her in Paris less than two weeks earlier with the news that she’d inherited five shopfronts in Carlton, she’d been silly enough to allow herself to imagine a quaint florist, a charming café, maybe even a funky boutique or two.

But considering the bequest had come from her grandfather on her mother’s side she ought to have known better.  The Kiplings had two great talents; self-preservation, and intra-family disharmony.  Passing on prime real estate in a move of last minute conciliation would just have been out of character.

As it turned out, her inheritance offered a city full of savvy shoppers a drycleaner, a real estate agency with faded advertisements lining a cracked window, an Indian restaurant with dusty red curtains and crazed vinyl chairs haphazardly lining the footpath, and a place called Jan’s Wool and Fabric with a sign so old it was missing the tenth digit which had been added to all Australian phone numbers many years before.

The final shopfront was the building’s saving grace.  With new signage, golden down lights and clean windows, the façade of the Bacio Bacio Gelataria was like a sunburst of panache within the hotchpotch of ancient, dilapidated outlets.  And though the idea of gelato seemed ludicrous considering it was at most five degrees outside, it was enough for Morgan to decide to start her stealthy reconnaissance there.

She stamped her half numb feet against the cold cracked concrete, took a gulp of her lukewarm, over baked, congealing, takeaway coffee for courage, and checked the street before crossing, reminding herself to look right first and last.  Yet while nearby Lygon Street hummed with constant traffic, Como Avenue had none. 

‘You sure ain’t in Paris anymore,’ she told herself before jogging across the empty road.

v

Saxon sang along with his favourite Elvis Costello CD as he turned Bessie, his beloved midnight blue 1968 MkII Jaguar, off Lygon Street and into Como Avenue.

When she purred to a full stop in the staff parking area at the back of the run of shops, he gave her his habitual loving stroke of the dash, and told her what a good girl she was before getting out.

‘Sheesh,’ he said to no one in particular when the freezing wind whipped about his face and leached through his jeans.

He didn’t remember it having been this cold in years.  Not since the halcyon days of cruising Lygon Street in nothing warmer than a T-shirt and Levi 501s, the tape player in his hotted up Monaro cranked loud with Billy Joel while his similarly under-dressed cousins shouted offers to the lucky ladies on the sidewalk as they thundered by.

He pulled his beanie tighter over his ears and his sheepskin collar higher around his neck.  Not all was lost.  The sky was crystal clear indicating fresh snowfall on the northern mountaintops.  He might still get the chance to take Bessie for a run up to Mt Buller before the week was out.  Skiing, mulled wine by the open fire, with a little Tom Jones on the CD player.  If he played his cards right perhaps even a warm willing ski bunny in faux fur and tight pants might help take the edge off.

The sound of a distant tinkling bell split the air, drawing him out of his daydream.  He’d know the sound of that particular bell anywhere.  For him it meant business.

He popped a stick of cinnamon gum in his mouth, waiting for the peppery sweetness to warm him as he jogged to the back door of the shop.  He knew he ought to just give his cousin Darius his weekly kick in the pants and leave Trisha to handle the customers.  But the thrill of the chase warmed his blood more than any Tom Jones song ever had.

Nope.  Darius wouldn’t get much of a wave before he spent a busy lunch hour doing what he did best.  Selling ice-cream to Eskimos.

 

v

The soft tinkling of an old fashioned brass bell heralded Morgan’s introduction to The Bacio Bacio Gelataria.

She slid her knee length knitted scarf from around her neck and tied it around the handle of her oversized designer bag - one of a trillion freebies she received as a perk of working as a photographic set designer for a top fashion mag in Paris.  Then she strolled deeper into the room, her creative eye skimming over numerous visual delights.

Rendered walls were painted a deep golden yellow bar one feature wall covered in an impression of Tuscan hills.  A huge gleaming bronze espresso machine took up a tidy portion of the long mahogany counter top, leaving the remainder of the space for curved glass cabinets, cleverly backlit to make the most of at least three dozen long trays filled with towering swirls of multi-coloured gelato, flat spoons sticking out the top of each perfect mound like the first flag on Mount Everest.

It was the kind of place someone in her job dreamed of stumbling upon.  A perfect blend of colour, texture, and lighting.  It bombarded the senses in such a way it sold not just foodstuffs, but an image, a feeling.  She could imagine men in fedoras crowded around the several tiled wrought-iron tables talking football spreads and planning heists, and little kids in newsboy caps sticking their noses against the large window, wishing they hadn’t spent the last of their pocket money on some silly toy.

It was a pity she was here on not nearly so pleasant a task as scouting out a Chic Magazine set.  A great pity.  Instead, by the end of the week she would have to have made a decision: up the rent astronomically to make the place viable, or sign off on the plans burning a hole in her bag and raze the building to the ground. 

 

v

Once inside, Saxon replaced his beanie for a black Bacio Bacio cap, left his leather jacket over a chair in the staff room, and tied a deep red apron around his waist, tightening the knot in front.

He tucked his hair behind his ears, decided he’d better get a hair cut before his mother saw him again, and then hastened out into the warm inviting surrounds of his home away from home to find a woman had entered his haven.

He slowed.  For this was not just any woman, but a woman who deserved a second glance.  And a third.  And dinner and a movie and at least an attempt at a nightcap.

Blonde she was.  Dirty blonde with luscious waves trailing long and unkempt down her front.  Huge dark sunglasses covered half her small face.  At least three gold chains hung around her slim neck, carrying oversized charms that jingled against one another as she moved through the room, giving her a kind of musical quality.  And poking out from her ridiculously high-heeled bronze sandals the nails of her dainty toes were painted working-girl-red.

Actually she was kind of small all over; the class of woman his father would say fit nicely into one’s pocket.  Her pint-sized loveliness was sheathed in a tight gold V-neck top that adhered lovingly to some seriously eye-catching curves, like caramel sauce over ice-cream.  And a now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t sliver of skin between the bottom of her top and the top of calf-length cargo pants kept him riveted for a good thirty seconds.

Saxon made a concerted effort to rein in his libido which had become overexcited astonishingly quickly for such a cold winter morning.  For simmering just below the initial wham bam thank-you ma’am attraction he felt a thread of residual discomfort, like a red flag waving in the very corner of his sub-conscious.  Something about this woman was making him itch.

He caught Trisha’s eye instead and motioned that he’d get this one.  The grin on Trisha’s face told him she’d been more than half expecting it.  He curled his lip and it only made her giggle behind her hand before she snuck out the back to take her morning break before the lunch rush set in.

Alone with the mystery woman Saxon leaned on the counter and began his signature pitch that had sold a million gelatos and turned his family’s one small suburban shop into a trans-Tasman empire.

 

‘What’s your poison?’ he asked.

A Night with the Society Playboy  |  Hired: The Boss's Bride  |  The Magnate's Indecent Proposal

Falling for the Rebel Heir  |   Steamy Surrender  |  Millionaire to the Rescue  |  Billionaire on Her Doorstep

Getting Down to Business  |  Meant-To-Be Mother  |  Wanted: Outback Wife  |  A Father in the Making  |  The Shock Engagement  

home      biography     bookshelf      blog stuff    fun stuff      my place      writing tips      get in touch