The Boy Toy - Nicola Marsh Page 0,19

be a lot to take in,” Pia said. “Why don’t I give you some preliminary information and do some fact gathering from your agent who referred you as to exactly what’s needed for the audition, and we’ll set up our first official appointment for tomorrow?”

“Sounds good,” he said, waiting while she printed out a stack of documents and bundled them into a folder, when what he really felt like doing was bolting out of there without looking back.

He inhaled a deep breath and blew it out. He could do this. Whenever the doubts crept in, and that would be often over the next few weeks, he had to focus on the kids’ project and providing Amelia with the money to get their program up and running.

He knew how badly those kids needed help. His empathy was what got him started alongside Amelia in the first place, poring over funding applications and rental spaces and the sheer, overpowering number of poor kids with speech problems.

Rory couldn’t let them down.

He always paid his dues.

“Thanks,” he said, taking the folder she held out to him. “What time tomorrow?”

“Does three suit?”

“I’ll be here.”

He managed a terse nod as he left her office. Thankfully, Samira wasn’t anywhere to be seen, and as he strode from the flashy building, his funk over the dialect coaching eased as he wondered if she’d actually take him up on that booty call.

Ten

You are so busted.” Pia pinched Samira in the same spot she used to when they were kids, between her armpit and her fifth rib, and Samira elbowed her away.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

A total lie, because after she’d fobbed Rory off to Pia yesterday, she’d bolted and hadn’t returned her cousin’s texts or calls since. They had ranged from a slightly curious IS HE THE RORY? to NICE BOY TOY to U BETTER SPILL to a rambling voice message this morning, “Sam, you better tell me everything about Rory Radcliffe, or I’m going to tell your mom you’re screwing a gora when she’s hell-bent on setting you up, and you know what she thinks of Aussie guys for her precious Indian princess. Call me.”

An idle threat, because Pia wouldn’t rat her out. Not when her mother had invited what seemed like the entire Indian community in Dandenong to an informal supper to welcome her home tonight.

As Samira glanced around the smallish backyard of her childhood home, crammed with about seventy people dressed in their Indian finest, she hated to think what a formal affair involved.

The women wore stylish salwar kameez and saris in the most vibrant colors: emerald warred with peacock blue, daffodil with magenta, crimson with chartreuse, in a silk free-for-all that dazzled the eyes.

She glanced down at her sedate burgundy sheath dress and grimaced. She’d never hear the end of it, even though she’d told her mom years ago she didn’t want to wear Indian garb.

The men wore suits, but one joker had actually come dressed in a tux. Over-the-top, much? As if sensing her critical gaze, he eyeballed her across the crowd and raised an eyebrow in silent challenge. She had to admit he was good-looking, with thick black wavy hair framing high cheekbones and a strong jaw, but it was his eyes that captured her attention the most: a unique pale gray.

When she didn’t look away, he smiled, the whiteness of his teeth vivid against his olive skin. Had to be a dentist. And considering his age, which she pegged around late thirties, he could be one of her mother’s setups. The thought alone was enough to send her scuttling for the kitchen on the pretext of helping her mom prepare food.

“Hey, where are you going?” Pia grabbed her arm, and Samira shrugged it off with a sheepish grin.

“Mom needs help—”

“I need to find out about Rory,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. “There’s no way you would’ve pushed someone that cute onto me, especially when you’re wanting to expand your dialect coaching expertise, so he has to be the one you screwed. Though what are the odds of him being a client?”

“A million to one,” Samira muttered, still in shock over seeing Rory yesterday but inherently glad. The way she’d reacted when he’d touched her, when he’d kissed her . . . she’d felt no guilt at all looking up his number from the initial referral and programming it into her cell.

Not that she’d contact him. She wasn’t the booty call type. But surrounded by prospective dates her mom