Mango Kisses

By Elisabeth Rose

A sweet, summery, beach–side romance from the author of E for England and The Ripple Effect.

Sent to assess a deceased estate in a small coastal town, ambitious city girl Tiffany Holland is initially annoyed by the out–of–the–way assignment. But she soon discovers sleepy Birrigai hides a wealth of surprises: a cross–dressing motel manager, a Kissing College and her client Miles Frobisher, the laid back, surf–shop owning, real life sex fantasy.

Tiffany's ambition is to become a junior partner in her financial firm, but small town life and the proximity of Miles gradually seduce her. But a shocking discovery in the estate papers leads to a dramatic change in Miles's circumstances. Emotionally inept, Tiffany is unable to help Miles through the transition, and drives him away. With misunderstandings and secrets creating frost between them, it seems that their summer romance is destined to go cold. Can they overcome their differences and learn to accept their feelings?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Nov 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9780857990907

Elisabeth Rose

Multi-published in romance, author Elisabeth Rose lives in Australia's capital, Canberra. She completed a performance degree in clarinet, travelled Europe with her musician husband and returned to Canberra to raise two children. In 1987, she began practising tai chi and now teaches tai chi classes. She also plays and teaches clarinet. Reading has been a lifelong love, writing romance a more recent delight.

Book preview

Chapter One

Miles floated on his back with his eyes closed. Waves lapped gently at his cheeks as the limitless power of the ocean swell rose and fell beneath his splayed limbs and torso. Calm this morning, too flat for surfing, perfect for floating and daydreaming. The outside world almost ceased to exist, the heat from the rising sun warmed his face, a salt tang on his lips, the soft slap of water against his body.

The longer he stayed out here the less he’d have to think about other things such as money; business; accountants; tedious paperwork and forms, calculations and numbers marching relentlessly across acres of pages. Topics that intruded regardless of his determination to ignore them, that were tiresome, meaningless and frustratingly boring. Things that led his thoughts unerringly back to that other topic, raw and painful, the inheritance and worse still, the reason for it.

Miles jack-knifed, flipped over on his stomach and began a steady crawl towards the horizon, head down, legs and arms working in a strong rhythm churning the angry bitterness into a foamy, white wake.

He slowed and turned, treading water as he scanned the distant beach. Still too early for most people. The swell lifted him momentarily and he glimpsed a small figure running at the far end near the rocks. It turned and headed back along the sand — too far away to see who, maybe a camper from the nearby ground. Not a local; he knew the regular beach-goers.

Miles sank his head in the salty blue and headed home, ingoing waves boosting his progress. He bodysurfed the last stretch until his feet touched sand then straightened in a rush of foam and waded ashore, panting from the exertion, water streaking from face and hair. His towel lay where he’d left it up on the white arc of dry sand, a patch of bright blue and yellow against the stark emptiness of the beach. The runner came padding by, a woman, her eyes fixed on the distant rocks.

‘Morning,’ he said.

She glanced at him, surprised by the greeting. A lot of city types were surprised by a friendly hello. Sad, really. ‘Morning,’ she called without breaking stride.

Wow! The word exploded in his head. He watched her retreat down the beach; her slim tanned legs pumping, blonde cap of hair shining in the bright morning sunlight, shapely bottom in white shorts moving beneath a midriff length, hot-pink tank top. Light, elegant, perfect.

That girl oozed city style and class. Self-confidence and success dripped from every pore in her lovely smooth, pampered skin. She’d be spoken for, had to be, a girl who looked like that. They didn’t roam about Birrigai alone, these beauties from the other world. Young singles went to island resorts or Surfers Paradise where the action was.

He squinted at the girl’s outline further down near the southern rocks, wondered if she’d be up for a weekend dalliance but quickly dismissed the notion. That’s probably why she was here in the first place. She’d enjoy a few days of sun and surf with her equally high-powered husband or boyfriend, not a scruffy local beach bum, which was how she’d viewed him. He saw it in her face. She’d stared briefly, but only politeness dictated her response.

Who gives a stuff what she thinks, attached or single? City women came complete with neuroses, ambitions and expectations he had no intention of either coping with or fulfilling.

Miles flapped his towel free of loose sand. The sun was rapidly heating his water-cooled skin, the salt drying hard and crisp. Time for a shower and breakfast. No time for fantasising about a jogger. After all, what would he do with a woman like that?

Women who holidayed briefly in Birrigai weren’t interested in the locals, neither the ‘real’ locals nor the New Age blow-ins who set up their ashrams, communes and artist colonies on the outskirts of town. There were plenty of them wandering about like leftovers from the sixties with hardly a functioning brain cell between them. The jogging girl wasn’t part of that crowd, she was too neat, clean and determined. She didn’t need to find herself the way he —if he was honest with himself — was studiously avoiding doing.

When Miles entered the surf shop later that morning, Boris was actually serving a customer.

‘That guy surfed in Mexico,’ he said in awestruck tones, when the tousled haired young man, Mambo t-shirt under his arm, had left the shop.

Boris leaned on the glass counter and stared at nothing. He did that often and Miles wondered what, if anything, was struggling to find its way through his brain mass. Smoked too much dope and did too many other illegal things in his misspent youth, that was his problem. Now at 53, in retreat at Birrigai, Boris was clean but wasted, with sunken cheeks, thinning hair and a spare consumptive-looking frame from which usually hung a Hawaiian shirt and baggy grey shorts that revealed tanned, stick-like legs.

‘There’s that new shipment of swimwear to unpack,’ said Miles. No discernible response. ‘Earth to Boris. Come in, Boris.’

Boris started and blinked. ‘Right, sure thing. What?’

‘Out the back. Box. Swimwear. Unpack.’ Miles watched Boris register the information. If he hadn’t taken him on, Boris would have no income and lost what little self-respect he had. He deserved a chance. Miles sighed. Boris grinned and saluted.

Bright sunlight streamed through the open shop door, the tantalising sparkle of water beckoning shamelessly from across the road. There were things to do involving accounts and checking the stock Boris was unpacking, but who in their right mind would stay indoors on a day like this? Miles carefully stepped over the mat, to avoid alarming Boris into thinking there was a customer, and leaned on the door frame.

The take-away next door was still closed. Xanthi didn’t open until ten in the off-season but she stayed open late for her devoted clientele, making the best hamburgers in the state and cooking the freshest, tastiest fish to come ashore. Miles probably needn’t open at nine either but Boris, in some peculiar, random notion of business acumen and work ethic seemed to think he should, and if Boris cared to open up, fine. Never let it be said Miles was a domineering employer unwilling to listen to his staff.

Further down the street past a couple of weatherboard beach houses was George’s General Store which doubled as post office and trebled as bank branch. Beyond that was the pub, the hub of Birrigai’s community, apart from the aforementioned New Agers who presumably brewed up or grew their own stimulants.

Two of said New Agers, Jim and Sharon, ran the shop next door to Xanthi on the other side. They sold organically grown fruit and vegetables; home-made candles; crystals, hand-made clothing; artwork made from what looked like old bits of string and shells; bells and chimes, books on alternative lifestyles and every religion under the sun, and unidentifiable objects in pots and jars, herbal remedies, apparently. The shop smelled of patchouli oil and incense, which made Miles’s eyes water, but the middle aged couple were friendly and gentle, smiled beatifically and said ‘peace’ a lot. Who could complain?

A blue car drove slowly by and Miles watched idly as it disappeared from view. Across the road a light wind stirred the foliage of the Norfolk Island pines that were planted in a stately line along the beachfront on the grass verge between the road and the broad stretch of sand. A couple of board riders were paddling out beyond the line of breakers. More sat on the beach waxing boards or just watching the surf. Excitement plus this morning.

Miles shifted and began tidying the pile of t-shirts the early customer had manhandled. Another busy day in paradise.

Later, just before lunch, the jogger walked in. She’d changed the pink top and sexy short shorts for jeans and a navy blue t-shirt. Miles, who was deeply involved in a book and listening to his favourite Steely Dan CD, missed the chime of the bell and only realised he had a customer when a lilting voice said, ‘Excuse me, do you have this hat with a white band?’

She stood looking at him expectantly, holding a pale straw sunhat in her beautifully manicured hand.

He gulped and straightened, pushing the book aside quickly. It slid across the counter like an ice hockey puck and fell to the floor in a messy sprawl at her feet.

‘Sorry.’ He jumped off the stool behind the counter but before he could disentangle his feet from the pile of swim flippers Boris had inexplicably left on the floor, she’d picked up the book, read the title, lifted a delicate eyebrow and placed it carefully beside the sunhat in front of him.

‘Do you?’ she asked.

‘No, sorry. Just what’s there on the stand.’

She smiled and the sun seemed to leap from behind a cloud but then she turned away and the room dimmed to ordinary light again.

‘We’ll be getting more in,’ he called in desperation because she was about to step out the door and out of his life. He wanted to stop her so badly it hurt.

She paused. ‘I’m only here for a few days.’ Of course she was.

He eased around the counter towards her in casual nonchalance. Friendly, laidback country style. ‘Where are you heading?’

‘Nowhere in particular.’ Her smiling lips curved in a way that made his pulse leap and bound.

‘Where are you from?’ He smiled back, giving her the full force of the charm most female customers found temporarily irresistible.

‘Sydney.’

She moved towards the door and his feverish brain raced for some other topic to halt her progress, one that wouldn’t cast him in the role of beachside Lothario eager for a grope. Which he was, in a sense. No, he wasn’t! This girl was ultra-special, far too cultivated and civilised for that sort of primal behaviour. But dammit, he hadn’t bothered shaving for a week, so he wasn’t in good shape to impress her with his sophistication.

He watched as she ran a practiced city-shopper’s eye over his range of scanty bikinis, glad she wasn’t a mind reader or he’d have a couple of teeth missing and a black eye by now. Her slim hand reached out and touched a bright purple and pink number. He held his breath as the image of her beautiful body, barely covered by its flimsy straps and postage stamp sized bra and pants, paraded in his mind.

Steely Dan paused for breath as well. The next track began. Hey Nineteen...

How old was she? Not nineteen, surely? Miles wasn’t good at guessing women’s ages; he was smart enough not to try. Maybe early to mid-twenties? Younger than he was for sure, but not too young for him. She’d seen him on the beach this morning. He was a fit, healthy and tanned 36 year old. That wasn’t old and he didn’t look his age, everyone told him that. Well, sometimes Xanthi did.

‘Would you like to try something on?’ he asked casually.

‘No, I don’t think so, thanks,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t be game to go out in something like that.’

A little laugh accompanied her words, and he said without thinking, ‘You’ve got the figure for it.’

To his amazement a rosy flush crept up her cheeks. She turned away saying in a voice strained with embarrassment, ‘But not the courage.’

Miles stepped closer, anxious to reassure her all of a sudden but not quite clear why he felt the need.

She continued, ‘I have a friend who could get away with it, but I’d be like in that old song, you know? The itsy bitsy bikini.’

‘...afraid to come out of the water,’ finished Miles. His mother used to sing it.

‘Yes.’ She laughed and lifted her hand in a little wave. ‘Goodbye.’

‘Sorry about the hat,’ he called as she disappeared from view.

When Boris returned from lunch, Miles was pacing about cursing under his breath, occasionally tearing at his hair and thumping his fist into the open palm of his other hand. Boris gave him a wide berth and disappeared into the back room.

‘Remember that first kiss at twelve or thirteen? Heavy breathing, clammy palms. Will he? Won’t he? Lips puckered hopefully noses bumping, missing, and hitting the corners of mouths instead. Have things improved or is your kiss the kiss of death?’

Tiffany stopped reading as a flush crept up her neck. She put the pamphlet on the blue chenille bedcover and went to the bathroom for a glass of water. When she returned she plucked another pamphlet from the bedside table, a menu from the local Chinese restaurant. She put it down. The next one listed the local attractions, not many, apart from the spectacular beach. There was a shop offering organic vegetables and handcrafts, an old pub that dated from 1920 and a shipwreck memorial on the headland. Her eyes strayed back to the kissing pamphlet. A kissing college, of all things.

She assumed a suitably serious expression as she resumed reading.

‘Learn the art of kissing, of giving and receiving pleasure through your lips. Learn to kiss from the inside, using your deepest internal energies to impart the ultimate in satisfaction to your partner and yourself. Learn the ancient techniques of Tantra and apply the wisdom to your kiss.’

She, naively, had no idea kissing was so complicated, and the underlying cause must have started way back in high school where she’d gained the reputation of being a ‘brain’. Not much kissing went on back then. Excelling at maths wasn’t an attractive quality in a girl, and actually liking maths was a definite deterrent to the type of boy Tiffany had teenage fantasies about kissing. Boys like Sam Black of the tousled, sandy coloured hair and tanned, sporty body. Sam with the crooked half-smile, in the bottom maths class, wasn’t interested in girls from school, and certainly not ‘brains’ who got to be school captain and were awarded certificates for their academic achievements.

At 29 Tiffany still wasn’t convinced she knew how to kiss properly. The men she dated were cerebral and polite and eventually excused themselves from the relationship. Was her inept kissing technique part of the reason?

What a bizarre idea, kissing college, but New Age and therefore suspect. It went with crystals and auras, herbal remedies and angel card readings. But sometimes these touchy-feely things sounded interesting in a primal way. Who wasn’t interested in their own future?

There wouldn’t be any real scientific or medical basis in a place like a kissing college. Hippy types congregated up in this area — good weather, mild subtropical climate, perfect beaches, laidback lifestyle. All sorts of alternative religions, cults and communities catered for. Surely this was just an excuse to get together and indulge in low-level sex play. But it could be a genuine, therapy type venture. The woman who ran it, from her photo, looked normal: smiling, middle aged, friendly, kind. Fiorella O’Loughlin.

Tiffany turned the page to a list of dates and times with workshop outlines and prices. A singles session was on this coming Sunday. Tiffany licked her lips. She could enrol. Who would know? Wasn’t this exactly the sort of thing Marianne wanted her to do? Something way outside her comfort zone? This was her holiday; she could do what she liked.

On Monday morning she had the nuisance of having to see the estate client, foisted on her by her boss. ‘You’re in the area, why not? It’ll take a couple of hours tops.’ Then she’d leave Birrigai for good, and never come back. No-one would ever know. If it seemed too weird she’d get up and walk out, simple as that. And she might learn something. She’d have to go to an unconventional source for improvement in this subject. Kissing wasn’t something she could enrol for at adult education classes, the way she had for French and Auto Maintenance for Women.

She snatched up her phone, dialled the number and spoke to a reassuringly professional sounding Fiorella.

Done. With a shaking hand and heaving lungs she replaced the phone in her bag.

Marianne would be thrilled with her if she knew, but there was no way Tiffany would ever tell that blabbermouth about the kissing class. One, Marianne would laugh like a drain. Two, she’d exclaim nobody needs kissing lessons, but would want all the details. Three, she’d think it a waste of money to pay for a day of snogging when she could have one for free any time. Four, she’d immediately tell everyone she knew, plus total strangers in lifts and bank queues. Five, Tiffany would never be able to live it down, and six, Marianne would ask for quality control reports from any man she was ever to date in the future.

Miles went to the pub that evening as he usually did and the first person he ran into, or more accurately who pounced on him, was Fiorella.

‘Miles,’ she cried, ‘Miles, my darling’.

She planted a resounding kiss on his cheek, overwhelming him in a fog of some heavy-duty perfume at the same time. She didn’t comment on his scrubby beard, which boded ill. She wanted something and he knew exactly what it was.

‘No,’ he said with determination, and forged ahead to the bar as his lungs began to contract in self-defence. ‘A beer thanks, Jeff.’

Fiorella clung to him like a limpet to a passing ocean liner. ‘I haven’t asked you anything yet.’ All hurt, innocent indignation.

‘You don’t have to. The answer is no and no and no. That covers the next few questions as well.’

With a wink and a smirk Jeff slid a brimming glass across the polished counter.

‘At least hear what she wants,’ he said dutifully.

‘Come on Miles, you did it before,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘It would really help me out. I’ve got uneven numbers and I need a spare man.’

Miles sipped his beer.

Fiorella said, ‘It won’t be like last time, I promise. I’ve changed the questionnaire so I know more about the clients. I’ve matched the ages better. Under forties in this group.’

‘No 70 year olds?’

‘They weren’t 70.’ Her red lips pouted and she frowned with annoyance, but she wasn’t game to get too offended. She needed him.

‘They looked 70 to me.’

‘They were lovely women.’

‘Maybe, but I don’t fancy kissing grandmas. I’ll leave that to the grandpas.’

‘They loved you,’ Fiorella said, laughing.

‘I know they did. I thought a couple of them were going to come to blows.’

‘This time it’s different.’

‘Who are they?’

‘It’s only a small group. Four women and three men. That’s why I need you.’

‘Go on, mate,’ said Jeff. ‘How hard can it be kissing women all day? All keen as mustard. Go for it.’

‘He’s got completely the wrong idea about my courses,’ said Fiorella crossly, as Jeff served someone at the far end of the bar. ‘It’s for people to get in touch with their inner feelings and increase the awareness of their senses. It’s very important.’

‘I know, I was there, remember?’ interrupted Miles. ‘When is it?’

‘This Sunday. I need you Miles, I wouldn’t ask except one of my men dropped out sick and if I cancel they’ll all be disappointed. One of them is here already. She’s staying at the motel.’

‘Must be keen.’ Not the one he’d already met and fallen for? Not Miss Sexy Bottom with the delectable blushing cheeks? She wouldn’t sign up for kissing lessons, surely? She’d have men trailing in her wake panting and sighing and making blundering fools of themselves. Kissing her would be a dream come true — a fantasy. A girl like her was born knowing how to kiss.

‘From Sydney.’ Fiorella was studying his face trying to read the signs of imminent capitulation. Miles was the master of casual. He lifted one eyebrow and picked up his half-empty glass.

‘Oh.’ Perfect intonation, mildly interesting subject, casual nod.

What were the odds? How many girls from Sydney were staying at the motel for a few days? He slid off the bar stool and drained his glass. Time for an evening stroll, in the direction of the motel.

‘Where are you going?’ Fiorella grabbed his arm with both hands. The fingers dug into his bare skin. He winced and prised them loose.

‘Sorry.’ She grimaced. ‘Please, Miles.’

‘I’ll let you know in half an hour. I need to check something first.’

The Seacrest Motel was the last building on the extreme northern end of The Esplanade, a brisk ten-minute walk. Miles strode along breathing in deeply the warm salty air. The moon was rising majestically over the sea but he barely gave it a glance, the magnitude of possibilities taking shape in his mind. There were a great number of ‘ifs’ involved, but the chances were looking extremely good. If Kevin would tell him might be the major ‘if’. Kevin was odd, to say the least. It all depended on his mood tonight. If Fleur was there, there’d be no problem at all.

The blue motel sign loomed ahead through the darkness. Birrigai street lighting didn’t extend this far past the shopping area even though it was still technically The Esplanade. His steps rang out loud and determined on the tarmac. Miles swung into the driveway, his feet crunching on gravel. The office light was on and a figure stood inside. Hers!

Miles froze. He couldn’t walk in while she was standing there.. She seemed to be asking something but he couldn’t hear the words, just an indistinct murmur over the chirruping crickets and breaking waves. Suddenly the screen door opened and she walked straight towards him.

‘Hello,’ she said, surprise in her tone as she eyed him curiously. Maybe she thought he was a stalker. ‘Aren’t you from the surf shop?’

‘Oh. Hello, yes.’ He hoped his was also a surprised but pleased voice, accompanied by a smile for good measure.

It seemed to work because she stopped next to him. ‘I’m just on my way out to find dinner. This place doesn’t have a restaurant.’ She said it with a certain degree of disgusted disbelief. ‘The person at the desk seemed a bit...’

‘Was it Fleur?’ asked Miles.

‘A woman?’

‘Yes, I mean, sometimes Fleur is there.’ Not Fleur obviously. Not yet anyway.

‘Oh, no, it was a man. I asked about a restaurant and he said...’ Her voice faltered. It was too