Sold To The Sheikh

‘I have to admire your courage, Charmaine,’ Renée said as she glanced up from where she’d been studying the lunch menu. ‘Have you thought about what kind of man the highest bidder for your dinner-date-with-Charmaine prize next Saturday night could be?’

‘A very rich man, hopefully,’ Charmaine replied with a flash of pearly white teeth. ‘My total target for the banquet and auction is ten million dollars.’

‘He could be a right sleazebag, you know,’ Renée warned. ‘Or an obsessed fan.’

Charmaine smiled again over at Renée, who was not only the owner of the modelling agency she was currently contracted to, but a nice person, too. Even nicer now that she was happily married and expecting.

As much as Charmaine was cynical when it came to rich and handsome men, she had to concede that it looked as if Renée had found a one-off in Rico Mandretti. Who would have thought that the playboy king of cable-TV cooking shows would turn out to be good husband and father material?

But he had. When Charmaine met the A Passion for Pasta star in person for the first time the other night, he hadn’t flirted with her one bit. A good sign. Not that she could be absolutely sure of Mr Mandretti’s loyalty and sincerity, she supposed. She and Renée did not mix socially so she didn’t know Renée and Rico as a couple at all. Her own relationship with Renée, though friendly, was strictly business. Charmaine never confided her personal secrets or innermost feelings to the woman.

‘I don’t care what kind of man he is,’ Charmaine said truthfully, ‘as long as he pays a good price for the privilege. You don’t have to worry about my safety, Renée, though it’s sweet of you to care. It is clearly stipulated on the auction programme that the dinner date is to be held the following Saturday night in the By Candlelight restaurant in the Regency Hotel, which is a public place. If there’s even a hint of trouble, I’ll be out of there like a shot.’

Renée had no doubt she would be, too. Charmaine was one tough cookie. Much tougher than the image she projected on the catwalk and in photographs. There, she was all soft sex kitten, her looks and manner creating an unusual combination of sensuality and innocence which always fascinated men and rarely alienated women.

Renée had often tried to analyse what exactly it was about Charmaine’s looks which managed this miracle. Where did that air of innocence come from? Perhaps from her fresh, flawless complexion or maybe her long, straight fair hair which fell in a simple curtain to her waist. Certainly not from her full, pouty mouth, almost too voluptuous figure or her come-to-bed blue eyes.

The contradictory nature of Charmaine’s beauty was as elusive as her inner self.

Renée suspected that no one in the modelling industry knew the real Charmaine, certainly not the male models she occasionally dated. Renée knew for a fact that those particular pretty boys were just handbags to Charmaine, sexy accessories for public consumption. Real boyfriends they definitely were not.

Actually, in the time she’d known Charmaine, she’d never known her to have a real boyfriend. More than likely, the girl didn’t have time for personal relationships these days, what with her career and her charity work. But Rico—typical testosterone-based man that he was—did not agree. He believed she’d more likely been burned by some man in the past and was going through a cynical phase. Rico had difficulty with the idea of any woman not really wanting a man in her life.

Maybe he was right. And maybe not. Renée was not about to risk her professional relationship with Charmaine by asking her questions about her sex life. She’d been over the moon when Australia’s most successful model signed up with her agency eighteen months back.

Previously, Charmaine had employed a personal agent-manager, but he’d been fired after fiddling his expenses. If there was one thing that girl was ruthless about, it was her money. She demanded to be well paid and she didn’t give an unnecessary cent away.

A good percentage of the money she earned, Renée suspected, went to Charmaine’s beloved Friends of Kids with Cancer foundation, which she’d personally started up not long before she’d joined Renée’s modelling agency. Charmaine’s little sister had died of leukaemia the year before, and the tragedy had affected the girl greatly. After a couple of months’ sabbatical from modelling to grieve the loss, she’d come out fighting to do something to help other such kids. Hence, the foundation.

When Charmaine was on the fund-raising war-path, no one was safe. She harassed everyone she met for monetary donations or their time. She’d even coerced Renée into talking Rico into being the compère at the auction on Saturday night. Renée was thankfully absolved from taking part herself because she was seven months pregnant. With twins! But she would be attending, of course.

Actually, Renée was looking forward to that evening. Charles and Dominique would be there, which meant she and Dominique could talk babies. Even Ali had promised to make an appearance, though not for the dinner, just for the auction. He hadn’t been going to set his rich Arab foot in the door till Renée showed him the glossy brochure Charmaine had put together that listed all the items to be auctioned and explained where all the money raised would be going.

His change of mind had still surprised everyone at cards last Friday night; Ali kept his public appearances to a minimum because of security reasons. Perhaps the venue sold him on coming. The Regency Hotel had a reputation for keeping its famous and wealthy clientele very safe indeed.

‘By the way, I managed to fill my table at last,’ she told Charmaine. ‘Another of my card-playing friends agreed to come. Did I mention to you I play poker with a high-rolling crowd every Friday night, in the presidential suite at the Regency Hotel no less?’

‘No, you’ve never mentioned that. How interesting. You own racehorses as well, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Racing is a passion with me, I admit. So is poker. I’m a mad gambler. Anyway, you’ll also be pleased to know that these other mad gamblers I play poker with are all filthy rich. Charles Brandon is one of them. You know, the brewery magnate?’

‘Oh, yes, I met him at a recent première party at Fox Studios. He has a stunner of a wife, doesn’t he?’

‘That’s the one. Dominique’s her name. They’re good for a few grand at the auction. Both have hearts of gold. Can’t say quite the same about my number-four poker-playing partner, but he can be generous on occasion. He’s—’

‘Are you ready to order, ladies?’ the waitress interrupted.

‘Just give us a moment,’ Charmaine said, and the waitress hurried off to attend to another table. The restaurant they were having lunch at was situated on one of the renovated wharves at Wooloomooloo, right on the harbour. Only a stone’s throw from the city centre, it was very trendy and very popular, particularly at lunch time on a splendid spring day.

‘Enough about the auction, Renée,’ Charmaine said firmly. ‘Back to the business at hand. Food. Shall we be bad and order something fattening for once?’ She picked up the menu and started perusing it avidly. ‘Gosh, this is all so tempting! It’s been months since I had a hamburger. I hear the designer hamburgers here are out of this world. Ooh, and look, there’s mango cheesecake on the dessert list. I have a penchant for cheesecake. Damn it, I’m definitely ordering that. With cream,’ she finished up defiantly.

Renée laughed. She knew first-hand that models rarely ate anything really fattening, not even the naturally curvy variety like Charmaine. ‘You can, if you like,’ she said, ‘but not me. I’ve already put on eight kilos with this pregnancy, and I’m told I could double that if I go full term.’

‘Do you know what sex the babies are?’ Charmaine asked.

Renée beamed as she always did when asked about her precious twins. ‘I do indeed. A boy and a girl. Aren’t I just the luckiest woman in the world?’

Till she’d married Rico, Renée had thought she’d never have children. But with her husband’s love and support and the best IVF team in Australia, she was now, at the ripe old age of thirty-six, expecting not just one baby, but two! Rico was over the moon and Renée was ecstatic. Everything had gone very well so far and, other than the occasional spot of heartburn and backache, she felt as fit as a fiddle.

Charmaine smiled at her. ‘I imagine you just might be. Although my mum is a pretty lucky lady. There again, she’s married to my dad, so perhaps I’m biased.’

Renée absorbed this piece of information with some surprise. Charmaine never talked about her family. For some reason, Renée had assumed she was estranged from them these days. Clearly, she was mistaken. Maybe they’d just lost touch a bit. Charmaine’s life was a hectic one, what with the demands on her time for her career, and now her charity work.

Renée knew from earlier Press articles about Charmaine that her parents were country folk who ran a cotton farm out west of the Great Divide, pretty well in the middle of nowhere. Their nearest town only had one garage, one hotel and one general store. From the time she was fifteen, Charmaine had used to work behind the counter of that store at the weekend, and during lulls—which was probably most of the time—filled in her time reading magazines about models and dreaming of one day being one herself. At fifteen and a half, she’d entered her photograph into a teen magazine’s cover-girl competition, and won. By sixteen she was strutting her stuff on the catwalk in Sydney during Australia’s fashion week.

Renée had been a model herself back then and recalled how peeved all the other older models were when this inexperienced teenage upstart carrying far too many curves had upstaged them. But she’d been an instant hit, especially with the designers. On Charmaine’s tall yet shapely figure, all clothes looked fabulous, and so sexy. When Charmaine had to go home for a while with a nasty case of glandular fever the other models had breathed a sigh of relief. But she’d returned to Sydney the following year and taken up right where she left off.

By then eighteen, a slightly slimmer but more mature-looking Charmaine had been simply stunning. Ravishing was how she was described by the fashion Press. Ravishing and ready to rule the modelling world. She hadn’t quite done that, but she was soon right up there with the best of them, and Renée’s agency now had a piece of that success.

‘Do you take after your mother or your father?’ Renée asked, her curiosity aroused.

‘Both, in looks. But neither in character. Mum’s a sweetie and Dad’s an old softie. I might act soft and sweet, but underneath I’m a total bitch,’ she said, then laughed. ‘But then, you already know that, don’t you?’

‘Not at all,’ Renée replied, astounded. ‘You play hardball in business matters but that’s not the same. I’ve met plenty of total bitches in my life and trust me, Charmaine, you are certainly not one of them. A total bitch wouldn’t work so hard for charity for starters, I can tell you.’

‘Aah, but that’s my only Achilles heel,’ Charmaine said, looking sad and wistful for a moment. ‘Kids with cancer. Poor little mites. I can bear it when life is unspeakably cruel and unfair to adults. But not children. They do not deserve that fate. Not when they’ve done nothing to cause it.’

She swallowed, then gritted her teeth.

You’re not going to cry, are you? Crying never achieves a thing. Crying is for babies, and the broken-hearted. You’re hardly a baby, and your heart isn’t broken any more, Charmaine. It’s been super-glued back together and nothing will ever break it again.

She reached for the complimentary glass of water that sat on the café table and sipped it till she had herself totally under control. Then she put the glass down and smiled at the woman opposite her, who had a worried frown on her lovely face.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I get emotional when I talk about kids with cancer.’

‘There’s no need to be sorry. I think what you feel is very admirable. I can understand it entirely.’

Charmaine refrained from laughing at this statement. How could Renée possibly understand? No one could understand who hadn’t been through it themselves. Watched a child suffer and die. A sweet, innocent little child.

But she probably meant well.

How old was Renée? Charmaine wondered. Early thirties? Older? Must be a bit older, though she still looked marvellous. Some women glowed when they were pregnant. Others looked drawn and dreary. Renée was clearly the glowing kind.

The waitress materialised at their table again.

‘Ready to order yet, ladies?’ she asked chirpily.

‘Absolutely,’ Charmaine replied and ordered the Caribbean-style beef-burger with fries and salad, mango cheesecake with cream, and a cappuccino.