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Authors: Nancy Warren

BOOK: Bad Boys Down Under
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What could she say? “All right.”
He walked to the sink with an easy grace that forced her to remember how he'd looked with nothing covering him but a little steam and a few bubbles.
He grabbed a glass of water. “I'll leave you to it, then. My study's back there.” He pointed through a doorway at the opposite end of the kitchen, and then he was gone.
She finished her food but, as Crane had smugly prophesied, she wasn't remotely sleepy. She'd deliberately set her watch to Sydney time, but that didn't prevent her from calculating that it was only nine in the morning yesterday in San Francisco.
After tidying up and putting everything away, she ran back upstairs. Cameron Crane might be able to dictate her actions, but no way in hell was she going into his study to talk business in her nightclothes.
Besides, her calculations reminded her that her fiancé, Mark Forsythe, would be wide awake and dying to hear that she'd arrived safely. He was such a sweetheart—steady, reliable, good-hearted, and he worried about her.
She called and he answered on the first ring, as though he'd been sitting by the phone waiting. Sure enough, his first words were, “I'm so glad you called. I was wondering if you made it okay. How was the flight?”
“Long and boring.”
“Don't forget to drink lots of water. Jet lag can be a killer.”
“I know. It's three in the morning and I just ate breakfast.”
He chuckled. “Give me your hotel and room number before I forget.”
She hesitated. She loved Mark and sometime in the next year or so was going to marry him, but he could be a little old-fashioned. He'd blow a gasket if he knew where she was currently staying. She hadn't finished blowing her own gasket so she didn't need any extra aggravation.
“My schedule's going to be so hectic, it's probably easier if I call you. I've got my cell. I'll keep it with me at all times.”
“Okay.” He was so trusting and so dear. She called up his face: good-looking in a clean-cut, all-American way, with his clear blue eyes and crisp black hair. So different from Cameron Crane with his dirty-blond hair, eyes so shifty they couldn't decide between gray, brown, and green and had settled on a murky hazel. Mark was always clean-shaven. Crane looked as though he had five o'-clock shadow twenty-four, seven.
As though divining her thoughts, Mark asked, “Have you seen the client yet?”
“Yes. Briefly.” And all of him there was to see, but she kept that information to herself.
“First impressions?” Since Mark was not only her fiancé, but a tax accountant who often did work for her marketing firm, they tended to talk business a lot. It helped her to bounce ideas off him, for he was as logical as she was creative. That's what made them such a great team. So, she sighed and said, “I'd say dynamic, driven, mercurial. . . and domineering.”
Great bod
.
“You don't like him.”
She laughed. “You know me too well. Not unless my first impression changes drastically. He's the client. I'll hide my feelings, naturally. But no, I don't like Cameron Crane.”
Chapter Three
She hates my guts, Cam thought to himself, perfectly aware that Jennifer Talbot wasn't still in the kitchen eating. He'd expected her to come and see him when she was done, but it looked as though she'd bolted—not that he entirely blamed her. He had been a pig.
He rolled his chair back from the computer and contemplated why. Since he planned to get her into bed as soon as possible, alienating the woman was stupid. But there was something about the coolness in those big blue eyes and the carefully sleek blond hair that made him want to mess her up a little.
Stupid, since he'd just made the task of seducing her tougher. Still, he hadn't made an outrageous success of himself by avoiding challenge. Quite the opposite. And when the challenge looked like the cover of a glossy dollie magazine, smelled like peaches, and gazed at him as though she saw right through him, he had no choice but to seduce her.
Ah, who was he kidding? If she was anyone at all and he'd met her anywhere, she'd have drawn him. She was everything he wasn't but secretly admired: tidy, cool, careful, and well-educated.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, and he was delighted that his first assessment had been right. Jennifer Talbot didn't avoid challenges any more than he did. She had the look in her china-doll blue eyes of a fighter. He recognized that look. It stared back at him every morning in the mirror.
When she knocked on his open door and entered, he stifled an appreciative grin.
Oh, yeah. She was a fighter all right.
She was fully dressed right down to shoes. She hadn't come to him in a bathrobe, nor had she slipped into jeans and a shirt, like him. No. She was wearing navy slacks with a crease you could cut yourself on, a silky white top that covered her but still tantalized with a hint of her shape, and dressy looking white sandals. Her hair gleamed smooth and blond and, based on the sheen to her lips, she wore makeup. In case he was in any doubt that her visit to him in the wee hours was strictly business, she carried a slim corporate-woman briefcase in one hand.
It was three-forty in the morning, and she looked as though she were ready for his company's annual meeting.
He liked her better in her nightie and mussed hair, and he bet she knew it.
“I'm glad to have this opportunity to talk to you,” she said in that accent even he could recognize as quintessentially Californian. Soft, a little breathy, and full of sunshine and bottled water. “I think it would be better for both of us if I moved to a hotel.”
He was a little surprised she was charging into battle only hours after she'd arrived—and on precious little sleep. He admired her for it. He leaned forward a little and motioned her into a chair. “I work at home a lot of the time. This is more efficient. You seem like a woman who appreciates not wasting time.”
“Certainly, but—”
“As you'll find, I've a lot of demands on my time during the day. You'll hardly see me. Here, you've got full access.”
And how.
Not only could she do business with him at any hour, but she was welcome to jump all over him. He almost laughed at her pinched expression.
Yeah, that was going to happen.
Oh, but it was, he decided. His love life had been too much of the same recently. He dated women who were young, fun, and looked good on his arm. Maybe he was getting on a bit, but sometimes he yearned for more. Jennifer Talbot was definitely in the “more” category. She wasn't as young as his usual fare, and while she looked good—fantastic, really—it was a different kind of gorgeous. He usually dated chicks who were pictured in the gossip columns. Jennifer Talbot's picture was usually in the business section.
And fun? Did she know how to have fun?
Probably, but it looked as though she were on the road to forgetting how.
Damn it.
Seducing this one was going to be more exciting than surfing Bells Beach on his newest board.
“I appreciate your position, Mr. Crane, however, my
fiancé
is rather old-fashioned. It would make him uncomfortable to know I was staying in your home.”
So she had some bloke on the string, did she? That didn't surprise him, and now that he bothered to look, there was a flash of diamond on her engagement finger.
“I'm not the village pervert, darl. If you sleep with me it will be because you can't help yourself.” He held back a chuckle as she visibly fought down a hasty response.
“No. Don't do that. Don't stifle whatever you were going to say. I always say what's on my mind, and I appreciate it in people I'm close to.”
“Work with,” she snapped. “We're not close.”
“You see? Don't you feel better for saying that?” he asked approvingly.
“All right. Since you asked. In my background research, I've discovered you have a reputation for wild behavior.”
He knew his reputation perfectly well and did everything he could to enhance it. He was convinced his rep helped sell his products. “Right. You mean drinking, hell-raising, and womanizing?”
She nodded. “And brawling.”
“I hit a pushy cameraman who got in my face once too often. Highly exaggerated,” he assured her, noticing how fine her skin was and that the blue irises had tiny flecks of black.
“And the drinking, carousing, and womanizing?”
“Those are my hobbies,” he explained.
“Well, I'm not so worried about the first two, but . . .” She cleared her throat. “If I were to stay here, would I have your promise that you wouldn't . . . that there'd be no . . .”
Once more her words petered to silence. Once more he helped her out. “That I won't try to seduce you?”
Her color was up, but she nodded. This was going to be more fun than he'd imagined.
“Darl, you have my promise that I
will
seduce you.”
Challenge flashed back at him as clear and blue as a wall of water building behind him and his surfboard, daring him to try it. He might end up flipped on his arse, but he'd have a ride to remember.
“You can try,” she said crisply.
“I play fair. I'm telling you in advance. You're beautiful, interesting, and smart, and I'm a red-blooded bloke who likes women. But it will be up to you, you know. If you're so in love with your man at home, you're in no danger of falling for me, now are you?”
Her eyes snapped to his and he read everything in them he needed to know. She was feeling the sexual sizzle between them just as he was. She was confused. And she wasn't in love with her bloke at home.
He wondered how long it was going to take her to work that out for herself.
“I've pulled together the latest report on our sales figures in Australia and New Zealand and the budget we've tentatively allocated to the California expansion.” He held it out. “Some light reading.”
She received the report with her fingertips, keeping as much of the eight-by-eleven inches of paper between them as she could. She slipped it into the silver metal briefcase, snapped the lid, then rose and headed for the door.
“Oh, Jennifer?”
She turned back, brows raised.
“Pleasant dreams.”
She rolled her gaze at him as though he were a chippie on a construction site who'd whistled at her, and left.
 
 
Crane Enterprises was located in a restored Victorian warehouse in an area down by the harbor known as the Rocks. Jen had expected something in the Central Business District, or CBD to the Australians who seemed to her to have a mania for shortening or abreviating everything. But no, Crane was located in the most historic part of Sydney. The faded and smudged red brick actually looked hip with the light wood and glass that were the main building materials for Crane's front offices.
The woman at reception was young and buxom, with one extra button open at her throat than Jen thought was necessary. And she didn't look older than twenty.
Still, she knew who Jen was and immediately led her to an empty office.
“Cam said you were to have this one. The phone works, there are some supplies in the drawers, and I'm to act as your assistant if you need anything.” She grinned, her face at once sexy and impish, and Jen had the idea that Cameron Crane hired his support staff based on bra size not typing speed. “I'm Fiona,” the girl said.
“Thanks, Fiona. Can you see if all the people on this list would be available for a meeting today at,” she glanced at her watch, “shall we say eleven o'-clock?”
“Sure.”
“If you're going to be assisting me, can you come in and take notes? Is there someone who can cover for you on the front desk?”
“Oh, yeah. No worries,” Fiona said, taking the list that Jen had culled from the organization chart.
When Jen got to the boardroom right at eleven, it was packed. From a quick head count, not only were the people she'd requested present, but a few extras. She guessed that was better than sparse attendance. It argued an interest in what she was trying to achieve.
The only way she knew it was a boardroom was because the sign on the door said so. Transport that group around the table to a different setting, and they could be playing beach volleyball or hanging out at a bar somewhere or—no, she had it now. Surfing. They all looked like surfers, from the sales manager to Fiona taking minutes. Toned, tanned, young, and buff, she doubted there was anyone in the room over thirty. Well, apart from her—the grandmother of the bunch at thirty-one. And Cameron Crane, of course, who'd taken his place at the end of the pale wooden board table. He had a couple of years on her.
She was pleased he'd shown up. He had a lot of business interests, so she figured he was a busy guy. It didn't matter that he probably came to the meeting to check up on her; his action still sent a message to his staff that she was to be taken seriously.
Jen hadn't expected Crane's executives to dress like Wall Street bankers, but neither had she expected them to look like they had damp sand in their shorts from catching a few waves before work.
Board shorts, loud shirts, khakis, mini skirts—it seemed anything was acceptable. Cam wore the loudest shirt of all. The red was so bright her eyeballs hurt to look at him, and was relieved with neon yellow flowers with purple centers.
She'd assumed the office would be reasonably casual, so she'd dressed in a sleeveless white blouse and a royal blue skirt and dress sandals, but she was totally overdressed for this crowd.
“Like the shirt?” Cam grinned at her as she stared at it, half-hypnotized.
“I can't begin to describe what I feel for that shirt.”
He chuckled. “It's from our clothing line. Crane Casuals.” Like there might be Crane Formal Wear?
He rose and came round to greet her, and she discovered he was wearing baggy black cargo pants with that shirt. “Everybody, this is Jennifer Talbot from the States. You can all introduce yourselves in a bit,” he said.
“Yes, I'd like that.”
“Here. Welcome to Crane and to Australia.” He handed her a cellophane bag. Inside were two tank tops made of lycra and cotton, she suspected; one in fuchsia, and one in aquamarine. A baggy shirt in a floral pattern—not quite as bright as Cam's, but sunglasses-preferred bright—went with each of them. And, to complete the ensemble, there was a pair of drawstring surfer shorts in aquamarine, trimmed with the same pattern as the shirt.
“Like the boardies?” Cam asked with a grin as she inspected the shorts.
“Yes. Thank you,” she said holding up the shorts. Everyone was grinning at her, so she decided to show them she could be part of their team, or at least try to fit in. She slipped the shirt from the bag and put it on over her outfit. When in Rome. “I'll never have to worry about getting lost at sea,” she joked weakly, wishing she were feeling as wide awake now as she had at three in the morning. Right now, she wanted to crawl off for a nap.
She glanced at Cam Crane. Yep, that shirt jolted her awake faster than a double espresso—a short black, as she'd discovered when she stopped at a café on her way into Crane's building when the cab let her off. Cameron Crane had told her she was certifiable when she insisted on taking a cab to his office when he was driving that way in his car. But if he didn't know that his employees would get the wrong impression of her if she arrived at nine in the morning with him in tow, she—whose entire career was about creating image—knew.
Taking her own place at the other end of the long oval table, she listened carefully as everyone introduced themselves. Because she knew image and reality didn't always coincide, she refused to take these surfer kids at face value. There had to be some smarts in the room. Cameron Crane hadn't built the number one surf and boogie board company in the southern hemisphere all on his own.
“Okay,” she said, once the introductions were done. She gestured around the room, feeling the new cotton on the wow-your-eyes-out shirt scrape her upper arm. Hanging on the walls were glossy posters and magazine ads, pictures of Crane surf and boogie boards and the clothing line, each with the tiny black crane logo.

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