The Boy Toy Read online

  “Wow, I’m proud of you.” Pia’s eyes glowed with admiration. “I’m glad my pep talk worked so quickly.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “So, are you going to see your boy toy again?”

  Samira ignored the instant disappointment that hollowed her stomach. She’d experienced the same gut-drop when she’d woken this morning to find Rory’s note, thanking her for a great night. She hadn’t expected anything beyond a steamy night together, but it irked just the same that her first night back in Melbourne encapsulated her life: an unexpected high followed by a resounding low.

  “It’s called a one-night stand for a reason,” Samira said, her tone clipped. “Now let’s hurry up and eat so you can give me the grand tour of the practice.”

  She expected Pia to push for details, and when she didn’t, Samira sighed in relief. Rory had been a spontaneous, fleeting interlude. Something wonderful to sustain her for the months ahead when she’d be swamped with work and fending off Kushi’s matrimonial machinations.

  Last night had been amazing, but Samira had to ground herself in reality.

  Starting now.

  Seven

  Rory’s nose twitched as he strode down the main corridor of the dilapidated basement in one of the housing commission blocks of flats in Carlton. Pungent disinfectant warred with cloying lavender freshener, like the cleaners had tried to smother the mustiness. The corridor opened into a large rec hall, where Amelia sat behind a makeshift desk, frowning at a calculator.

  The fifty-something woman had a pencil stuck behind one ear and her silver bob pushed back by sunglasses perched on top of her head, her deep frown alerting him that whatever numbers she crunched, they weren’t good.

  “Hey,” he said, moving toward her, his footsteps kicking up tiny whirls of dust. “Your office said you’d be here, so I thought I’d swing by.”

  She glanced up and her frown cleared. “You’re a gem.”

  “I t-try.”

  He hated slipping up around Amelia, not when she’d put in countless hours to get him to the point where he could speak almost fluently, but nerves made him stumble.

  He’d come here to tell her in person he couldn’t pledge a financial contribution for now. No way he’d get her hopes up about the audition and the show, not until he had something concrete to tell her. It wouldn’t be fair. He’d contemplated asking her to be his dialect coach until he realized that was exactly what would happen: she’d pin her hopes on him landing the role to secure funds for the program, and if he failed, the guilt would be unbearable. He didn’t want to let her down, and if worst came to worst, he’d end up approaching his father for the money.

  As for getting a major bump in salary courtesy of Renegades, he’d wait until he saw the dialect coach and practiced the required techniques before making a judgment call on whether he had a chance of nailing the audition or not.

  Thankfully, she didn’t mention his slight stumble. “So you got my message?”

  She never wasted time making small talk. He liked that about her. Direct and concise, she’d managed to convey techniques clearly while exhibiting enormous patience. He’d thrived in her sessions.

  “Yeah, sorry for not getting back to you yesterday.”

  She stood and moved around the desk toward him, her expression hopeful, and he inwardly cursed that he’d have to dash her hopes.

  “You mentioned some of the donors pulled out?”

  Disappointment pinched her mouth as she nodded. “Apparently, this speech therapy program isn’t glamorous enough for them.” The frown returned, slashing her brows in a V. “They won’t get much recognition, so they won’t contribute.”

  “Charming,” he muttered, tension creeping across the back of his neck. For the first time since he’d turned his back on a career in economics, he regretted it. He could live on his wage from part-time stuntman gigs, but it didn’t leave a hell of a lot left over to give to others.

  Amelia hesitated, as if weighing her words carefully. “I hate to ask you for money, particularly with the amount of time you’ve already spent helping me get this off the ground and lodging the relevant applications to get started here.” She swept her arm wide to encompass the rec hall.

  “But without more money, I won’t be able to man the program. Staff are only willing to volunteer for so many hours . . .” She trailed off, before giving a brisk shake of her head. “Anyway, the logistics are my problem, not yours.”

  But not being able to help fund this was his problem, and right now, he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

  “I’ll be honest: I can’t promise any money now.” He held out his hands like he had nothing to hide. “But I’m working on something big, and if that comes through, I’ll be able to help out.”

  Hope reignited in her eyes. She assumed he’d ask his father. As if. That would be a last resort.

  “You’re a good guy, Rory. I’m lucky to have you on board.”

  Uncomfortable with her praise, he managed a terse nod. Taking a deep breath so he wouldn’t stumble over his words, he pointed at the calculator. “How much do you need exactly?”

  “Too much,” she said, with a self-deprecating laugh. “But another ten thousand should ensure I can get the program up and running, and provide the local kids with services for six months.”

  Ten grand.

  Fuck.

  He had to nail the audition for Renegades, no matter how much he squirmed inside with fear of screwing up in front of a massive audience because of his stutter.

  Maybe the dialect coach Chris had teed up could help with the rampant nerves making his throat tighten at the mere thought of landing a role that big?

  “I know it’s a lot to ask—”

  “I’ll be in touch,” he said, forcing a tight smile before swiveling on his heel and walking away.

  When she called out, “See you soon,” he raised a hand in farewell. He couldn’t speak, not when he’d blurt the truth: that the chances of his earning ten grand in a short space of time ranked up there with addressing the country alongside the prime minister on New Year’s Day.

  Landing the Renegades hosting gig had just become imperative.

  * * *

  * * *

  An hour later, he entered a sleek glass-fronted practice overlooking the Yarra River and Melbourne’s Central Business District beyond. The glamorous foyer, boasting black marble floors and a chrome reception desk, looked more like a hotel than a health facility. A list of practitioners in bold gold letters took center stage behind the desk, but the spaces next to the titles of Occupational Therapist, Podiatrist, Psychologist, Exercise Physiologist, and Physical Therapist were blank.

  The latter brought an instant image of Samira to his mind, naked and sated, spread-eagled on her bed. Damn, she’d been hot, but now wasn’t the time to rehash that one sensational night in his rather bleak week. He needed to find the dude who would coach him for the next four weeks in the art of delivering lines so he could nail the audition and take steps toward providing Amelia the funds to help those kids who needed them.

  With no one manning the desk, he slipped his cell from his pocket to check the details. Yeah, four o’clock today, at this address.

  “Can I help you?”

  Rory glanced up to see a gorgeous Indian woman wearing a white coat walking toward him.

  “Yes, thanks. Rory Radcliffe. I have an appointment at four with the dialect coach?”

  An eyebrow rose slightly as she stared at him with blatant speculation, before nodding and pointing to the corridor on his right. “Head down there. Last door on your left.”

  “Thanks.”

  Confused by the strange gleam in her eyes, he strode down the corridor, determinedly ignoring the nerves making him sweat.

  He could do this.

  He had to do this.

  When he reached the end of the corrido
r, the last door on the left opened into a luxurious office filled with exercise equipment of all shapes and sizes: a Pilates machine, free weights, resistance bands in bright colors, and several plinths.

  He knocked and entered, hoping this dialect coach could give him the guidance to secure the role, and the paycheck, he desperately needed.

  He stepped into the office and caught sight of a woman behind a stack of exercise balls. “Hi, I’m looking for Sam Broderick, the d-dialect coach.”

  Damn his bloody nerves for making him stutter at a time like this.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it, because as the woman stepped out from behind the balls and said, “I’m Sam,” he locked gazes with an equally startled Samira, the woman who had rocked his world.

  Eight

  Samira gaped at Rory for a good five seconds before pulling herself together. She pasted a smile on her face and moved toward him, her hand outstretched, like she was greeting any other client and not the guy who’d awakened her to exactly how great sex could be.

  “Hey, Rory,” she said, sounding coolly professional and nothing like a stunned woman that couldn’t help but notice again how blue his eyes were and how his lips were made for other things besides smiling.

  Though he wasn’t smiling now. He looked . . . horrified.

  “You can’t be a dialect coach. You’re a physical therapist,” he said, staring at her in absolute dismay.

  So much for connecting that memorable night. She lowered her hand and summoned her inner professional, the one who’d dealt with recalcitrant clients many times.

  “It’s a specialty field. Only a few physical therapists around the world are interested in dialect coaching. Good articulation involves breathing techniques, core strength, that kind of thing, and being able to combine exercises to focus on those muscle groups is where we come in. So where speech therapists work on actual enunciation, I focus on getting the muscles that help produce speech to work right.” She gestured to a nearby plinth and exhaled in relief when he sat. She pulled up a chair opposite. “I think I already mentioned my cousin’s setting up this place as a new, innovative center for allied health treatments and wanted me on board, which is why I’m working here for the next six months. My duties are predominantly physical therapy, dealing with orthopedic patients, mostly, but with Pia being a speech therapist, I’m hoping she’ll refer some clients my way for dialect coaching.”

  “I’ve never heard of any physical therapists in Australia doing dialect coaching,” he muttered, glaring at her like she’d fooled him deliberately. “Seems odd when you usually treat sporting injuries and back pain and rehab hip replacements.”

  “Already told you, this is a specialized field for my profession,” she said, keeping the annoyance out of her voice. Why was he judging her? “The way you use your diaphragm to breathe? How your abdominals and back muscles interact to brace your core? All important components in good voice projection.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” he said, but his rigid body posture screamed that he didn’t want her anywhere near his abdominals.

  “There’s no need to feel uncomfortable. I’ll refer you to see my cousin Pia. She has an interest in dialect coaching too.”

  “Thanks,” he said, some of the tension holding his shoulders rigid easing. “Sorry for sounding like an idiot, but I was expecting a guy, and seeing you here threw me.”

  “I go by Sam professionally, something I started when I left uni,” she said. “And you’re not the only one who’s stunned.”

  Their gazes locked, and a flash of heat so powerful lit Samira from the inside out, making her fingers curl into her palms to stop from pressing her hands to her burning cheeks.

  The corners of his mouth curled upward. “Maybe the universe is trying to tell us something?”

  “Yeah, don’t have casual sex.”

  She sounded brusque, almost prudish, and inwardly cursed her inability to flirt. Not that she should flirt with him. Though technically, he wasn’t a client . . . once she fobbed him off onto Pia. Because no way in hell could she work with this guy. Every time he looked at her, she had erotic flashbacks of his mouth, his tongue, his hands . . .

  “As I recall, the sex was pretty spectacular.”

  His mouth eased into a wolfish grin that made the heat in her cheeks intensify.

  “So spectacular you ran out before I could wake,” she said dryly, wondering in what kind of universe the hottest guy she’d ever met, and had sex with, showed up at her workplace.

  She didn’t believe in karma like her mom did. Perhaps she should. That way, Avi’s pecker would’ve fallen off around the time he got that nineteen-year-old pregnant and ruined their marriage.

  A strange expression flitted across his face, part embarrassment, part regret. “I contemplated leaving my number on that note.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  “I—I don’t have time for a relationship.”

  Admiring his honesty when most guys would’ve lied, she snapped her fingers. “Turns out, neither do I.”

  He squared his shoulders and eyeballed her. “But I’m totally available for booty calls.”

  She laughed at his boldness. “I might take you up on that, if you’re lucky.”

  “You do that.”

  Before she could move, his hand snaked out to capture hers, his thumb stroking the back of it in slow, sensual sweeps that made her sigh.

  “I’ll be honest with you. I’ve got a major audition coming up, which is why my agent booked me in to see a dialect coach. And I’m hectic with this kids program I’m helping set up, so I don’t have a lot of downtime at the moment.”

  His thumb swept over the underside of her wrist, like he was testing her rampaging pulse. “But that night we hooked up was beyond hot, and I’d like to do it again.”

  Excitement streaked through Samira’s body, and it took every ounce of willpower not to march over to the door and flick the lock. And when he picked up her hand, brought it to his mouth, and pressed a hot, openmouthed kiss to her palm, she moaned.

  “We can’t do this here,” she murmured, wishing with every cell of her horny body that they could.

  “I know.”

  He curled her fingers over her palm, as if to treasure that sexy kiss, and released her. “If you could send through that referral to your cousin, that’d be great.”

  “Okay. Give me a sec.”

  Somehow, her legs worked in sync with her befuddled brain as she crossed the room to her desk and picked up the phone. When she risked a glance over her shoulder, Rory stood where she’d left him, grinning at her with the confidence of a guy who knew exactly how much he rattled her.

  When Pia answered, she put on her best professional voice. “Hey, Pia, I have a client here who needs some dialect coaching. Can you see him?”

  “Isn’t he booked in to see you?”

  “Yes, but there’s a clash.”

  “I see.”

  Pia’s silky tone alerted her to the fact her cousin had seen right through her invented excuse. “I’m free now, so sure, I can see Rory Radcliffe, but rest assured, Cuz, once he leaves, you and I are going to have a little chat.”

  “Thanks, I’ll send him out to you,” she said, hanging up before Pia could say anything else.

  Surely her cousin couldn’t have figured out Rory Radcliffe was the Rory she’d praised for his exceptional prowess? There were thousands of Rorys in Melbourne, but by Pia’s tone, she knew.

  Flummoxed by this all-around bizarre day, Samira swiveled to face Rory, only to find him a few feet away. Too close. Not close enough.

  “You’re in luck. Pia can see you now. Just head back to reception and she’ll be waiting.”

  “Great.”

  Before she could say anything else, he swooped in for a kiss, an all-too-brief graze of his lips against hers that le
ft her wanting so much more.

  “What was that for?” she finally said when he kept staring at her mouth like he wanted to ravish it.

  “A reminder to make that booty call.”

  Feeling ridiculously happy and off-kilter, Samira watched his very hot booty all the way out the door.

  Belatedly realizing she didn’t have his number.

  Nine

  Nice to meet you, Rory. I’m Pia. Please have a seat.”

  He shook hands with the stunning Indian woman in the white coat he’d seen earlier and sat next to her desk. She looked nothing like the countless speech therapists he’d been dragged to as a kid. With her long black hair styled in glossy waves and perfect makeup, she looked like a lead from the Bollywood films he watched occasionally.

  “Did Sam tell you that technically I’m not a dialect coach and it’s not my area of specialty?”

  He nodded, increasingly intimidated he’d be seeing a speech therapist for his coaching. He should be relieved he wouldn’t be having to sit through torturous sessions with Samira when all he could think about was being inside her, but Pia would pick up on his stutter, and being Samira’s cousin, she’d tell her.

  Stupid, because it shouldn’t bother him. But it did, and he didn’t want the polished, sexy Samira knowing he had a flaw.

  “Are we bound by client-therapist confidentiality?”

  She nodded, a glint of knowing in her eyes. “Absolutely.”

  “Good, because I know Samira. We’re, uh, friends, and I know she’s your cousin, so I would prefer anything th-that happens in here s-stays between us.”

  Great, just being in the presence of a speech therapist brought out his stutter. Fuck.

  “You control your stutter well,” she said, homing in on it like the professional she was. “It’s difficult to detect unless you’re an expert.”

  “I put in enough hours trying to master it growing up,” he muttered, hating talking about his stammer as much as hearing himself trip up when the letters ran into one another.