Outback Shimmer

OUTBACK SHIMMER

CARLA CARUSO

No pressure. No diamond.

Burlesque performer Charlie Summer is on a mission.

She and her two best friends, known collectively as the Bling Brigade, are taking their act on tour in the Australian Outback.

The aim is to raise funds for their own burlesque academy, so they can empower other women with confidence-building dance classes.

But their striptease skills won’t, in fact, be the only thing funding the school . . . along the way they’ll be thieving jewels!

Reporter Liam Chasewater finds himself in the Outback when he’s down to his last chance. After screwing things up in love and at work, he’s lost joint custody of his two-year-old daughter.

If he gets his next magazine assignment right — following the troupe on tour — he’ll get his life back on track.

What Liam doesn’t count on is sparks flying between him and Charlie. Though hooking up with an exotic dancer and interviewee, with suspicion wafting around her, won’t look good on his record . . .

PUBLISHER NOTE: Outback Adventure Romance. M/F Mainstream content of 31,298 words.

OUTBACK SHIMMER

CARLA CARUSO

WWW.LUMINOSITYPUBLISHING.COM

LUMINOSITY PUBLISHING LLP

OUTBACK SHIMMER

Copyright © August 2018 CARLA CARUSO

Cover Art by Poppy Designs

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this literary work may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without the written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

The author acknowledges the trademark status and the following trademark owners mentioned in this work of fiction:

Band-Aid

LandCruiser

Converse All Star

Facebook

Dom Pérignon

iPad

DEDICATION

To my real-life Tough Diamonds—Lilliana, Leesa and Maggie—for the fun night out to a burlesque show, which inspired this tale.

CHAPTER ONE

Coober Pedy Miners’ Club, South Australia

All eyes were on Charlie Summer in her burlesque finery as she sauntered from the stage towards the testosterone-fuelled crowd.

Banter between stripteases kept the mood light, though tonight she also had another motive for the ‘breather.’ Her hips moved in time to Peggy Lee’s Fever as she walked, and the feathers of her silvery boa flounced.

The spotlight, courtesy of Bling Brigade troupe member Glo, swung on a dark-blond guy in his thirties in the front row. Charlie paused before him, raising her purple sparkly microphone to her lips. Huh. Hope, the third troupe member, hadn’t mentioned he was good-looking after overhearing him crowing in the pub earlier. The guy was like a young Brad Pitt.

Not that being drop-dead gorgeous let him off the hook. Not at all. Someone had to learn what was public property and what was not, no matter what their victim did for a living. For some men, a telling-off wasn’t enough. The point needed to be driven home, and how. An eye for an eye, matching the Wild West-like opal-mining town they were in.

Hi, honey, Charlie purred into her mike, noting the unease in the guy’s gaze at being picked out from the crowd. Not so cocky now. She, meanwhile, worked hard to channel every inch of her onstage persona, Violet Heart, in order to pull off her next trick with ease.

The guy cleared his throat. Uh . . . g’day.

It was all the encouragement she needed to slide onto his lap, feeling the muscularity of his jean-clad thighs through her dress’s sheer fabric. Only strategically-placed silver sequins provided her with any modesty. The surrounding Aussie miners shouted and stamped their approval on the guy’s behalf. Fingers crossed, the tightness of his jeans wouldn’t make what she needed to do next difficult.

Let me guess your name. She allowed her feather boa to tickle his stubbled jaw, ensuring he was in sensory overdrive. Hmm, something ultra-ocker. Maybe Dazza? Or Bazza?

The guy shook his head, his eyes up-close a hypnotic blue. Like royal sapphires caught in the glare of paparazzi cameras. More’s the pity. Also wasted on him were the narrow schnoz, pillowy lips, and square jaw.

Next you’ll be guessing Prancer, Donner or Blitzen, he joked into the mike in an irritatingly pleasing, gravelly, Russell Crowe-style voice. But, no, it’s Liam. Liam Chasewater.

Ignoring his attempt at a joke, Charlie rolled his name over her tongue and ran French-tipped nails down the front of his white shirt. Funny, he wasn’t your typical miner. Unlike the rest of the mob, the Outback dust, as pinky-orange as her long locks, didn’t cling to his skin and his breath wasn’t stained with beer and cigarettes. In fact, she detected a whiff of expensive musky cologne. Sweat also now beaded his brow, which meant she was making him uncomfortable. Good. She was only getting started.

She feigned naivety about his background. So, what’s brought a strapping, young man like you to a tiny South Australian town like Coober Pedy? Love? Fame? . . .  Fortune?

Something else actually. Liam’s eyes held hers as her microphone-free hand discreetly snaked towards the right pocket of his jeans. I’m a reporter, here doing a story.

Charlie froze as more whoops and whistles echoed off the miners’ club walls. Shoot. The crisp white shirt in the desert, the designer cologne, the lack of a bulge — ahem, in his side pocket — all should have been dead giveaways she’d been led to the wrong man. Somehow the lines must have got crossed when Hope, behind the maroon curtains, whispered directions in her earpiece to Glo in lighting. He wasn’t the one from the bar Hope had heard bragging about a second big opal find in a fortnight before manhandling her assets on her way past.

A reporter, huh? Charlie batted diamante-tipped falsies at Liam, trying to think on her feet. Why, I mistook you for someone who actually got their hands dirty for a living, who wasn’t afraid to break a nail. Guffaws reverberated around the club. "I do hope you get your scoop."

Likely he was just in town to report on dull-as-dishwater mining news, but a journo wasn’t the kind of person she should be getting close to right then. And anyway, she had someone else to set her sights on. Deftly, Charlie jumped back onto her feet.

Long dimples bracketed Liam’s mouth, then the spotlight spun to the blond-ponytailed guy behind him. A-ha. This fellow looked more fitting: arrogance radiated from his over-tanned skin and his leer could have been detected from the other side of the famed dingo-proof fence, stretching across Oz.

Steeling herself for round two, Charlie readjusted her feather boa, then sauntered around the row towards him.

This time she’d strike it lucky.

Then they could leave this Mad Max-esque town in the dust — with its heat-beating, underground dugout homes, and mullock heap-dotted landscape — and hit the highway . . . one step closer to their final, revenge-seeking destination, the Brad Pitt impersonator all but a distant memory.

* * * *

One thing Charlie appreciated about the Outback, as a city slicker, was the quiet. And it was only the first stop of their burlesque tour. But later that night, as she cut through the crowded car park at the miners’ club, her loot burning a hole in her jean pocket, the air was marred by raised voices.

A stain on the remote, red paradise.

Charlie drew to a stop behind a parked Ute, adorned with kangaroo spotlights and bumper stickers with un-PC slogans like ‘Cat: The Other White Meat.’

A familiar drunken voice rang out again amid the moonlit night. "You were looking at him. Don’t lie to me, Bessy. I fucking saw you."

Charlie swallowed. Beyond the bonnet of a silver Commodore station-wagon, the sleazy, ponytailed guy, who she’d picked out in the audience earlier, stood over some poor girl. Tripp, that was his name. The one she’d just filched a white-fire opal from.

Damn being alone in this backwater car park. Damn going ahead to stash the night’s score while Glo and Hope sorted out the troupe’s baggage and official payment. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself while carrying precious cargo. Tripp’s precious cargo. And yet—

I swear, I didn’t even glance his way, the young, curly-haired brunette wailed back at Tripp, obvious fear making her voice waver. You’re just drunk, imagining things again—

The sound of skin colliding with skin echoed through the night, jolting Charlie. Far out. He’d slapped the young Bessy across the face. This was no longer a simple lovers’ tiff. She couldn’t just stand by.

Tripp continued his tirade at Bessy. You’re a fucking lying cunt. Don’t try to put this on me. I’m going to get myself another drink. But mark my words, woman, this isn’t over. I’ll be dealing with you at home.

Charlie shot out of her hiding place then, dust churning around her like a whirlwind. She couldn’t take on a guy, roughly six-foot-four, alone out here, but she could make sure he knew others were around. Watching, judging.

Tripp didn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed, though, as he promenaded past. Instead, he stopped near her, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops, and licked his lips. Close enough so she could see the