Sun Kissed (Crane Series) (6 page)

“I am not some company ripe for takeover. If I sleep with you, I’ll sleep with you because I want to. If I leave in a week, I leave in a week.”

His eyes had grown hard. “I don’t think I’m the only one who likes control. Face it, darl, you like to call the shots. What’s your plan? Shag me for a week and then run home to your tame boyfriend whose idea of an intimate gift is a bloody pen?”

“He doesn’t own me. And neither do you. Forget it,” she said. “Just forget it.”

“Fine.”

All the millions in the bank, his photo on the cover of Business Review Weekly—even an honorary degree from Macquarie University—and Cam couldn’t figure out how to bring one stubborn woman to her senses. After downing one beer, he cracked open another. She was probably packing right now. Running home scared, to the man she could control and the life that would bore her senseless. And because he couldn’t keep his bloody great mouth shut, she’d bolted. The morning would have been the time to mention about putting off her flight. Yeah. He saw that now. Brilliant. Bloody brilliant. He’d all but had her and then made her bolt.

“God damn it,” he said to himself.

Well, it wasn’t in his nature to give up easily, not give up something he really wanted, and he wanted Jennifer Bloody Talbot more than he’d ever wanted anything. What he needed was a plan of attack. He tapped the bottle lightly against his teeth, thinking. Bron, he decided, was the next person he needed to enlist in his campaign. He’d seen her and Jen hanging about together. She might have some ideas.

So the next day, when Bron wandered in late as usual, he was waiting for her in her office.

“Don’t start,” she said, raising her hands. “I’ve been working like a maniac on swimwear all week. I can’t get the right fabric, and the right color, and the right price. You do not want to give me any aggro.”

“Partying late again, I see. You’ve still got some of that sparkly makeup stuff on your shoulders.”

But he said it mildly. He needed her help. Since she’d known him all her life, she put her hands on her hips and stared down at him. “All right. What do you want?”

“Jennifer Talbot.”

Bron’s impish grin dawned and she threw herself onto the bright pink sofa she kept in her office. “I knew it. You’re mad for her, aren’t you?”

He nodded. “And now she’s pissed off with me.”

Once more she threw her hands in the air. “I’m not acting as a go-between.”

She shuffled among the piles of paper on the long counter behind the sofa which, in theory, was her work area. In reality, it was where she stored all her rubbish. How she produced anything in such chaos he could never work out.

“But while you’re here, I’ll show you the color samples for the new wet suits. If I can bloody find them.”

“I don’t want you for a go-between,” he said, fairly certain, given the mess, that he wasn’t going to be looking at color samples any time soon. “I want your advice.”

She stopped mid-pile. “You do?”

“Yeah. What does she like? How can I make her stay?”

“She’s a woman, you great git. She wants romance.”

He wished he hadn’t bothered asking Bron for advice. “Romance.”

“Yes. Flowers, chocolates, champagne, moonlight.” She laughed at him. “I know you can do it. You’ve got a real soft spot; you just hide it mostly.”

“Do you think?” He stopped and put her desktop calendar to today’s date, updating it a couple of months. “Does she say anything about me?”

“No.” Then she laughed again. “It’s what she doesn’t say that’s important. You ask me, she’s crazy about you, but she doesn’t know how to give in. She’s like you. She doesn’t know how to say she’s made a mistake.”

“She says she’s leaving in a week. And I don’t know how to make her stay.”

Bron looked at him like he was stupid. “Have you told her how you feel?”

“God, I never should have asked you anything. You want to turn my life into one of those stupid soap operas.”

“I didn’t think you had.” She tsked at him as he headed for the door. “Tell her you love her, you great stupid.”

Jen was tapping away at a spreadsheet on her computer when Cam stuck his head around her office door. He looked rumpled and frustrated and as sleep-deprived as she felt. “Got a minute?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said in a manner she hoped combined cool professionalism with personal detachment. “I have a week of minutes.”

As if she’d change her return date because Cameron Crane figured if she slept with him she’d follow him around like a lovesick fool until he decided it was time for her to go. He stood there, staring at her, and if there was a lovesick fool around, she sort of thought it was him. She didn’t want to soften toward him, but when he looked at her that way, she was lost.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, hoping her professional tone hid the crazy hammering of her heart.

“I wanted to apologize. I . . .” He seemed to be in pain, as though the words hurt as they came out of his mouth.

“You?”

“I’m sorry about last night.”

Jen picked up a stapler and put it down. “Probably it’s a good thing last night didn’t go any further than it did. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Sleeping together would be a terrible mistake.” “

Have dinner with me tonight.”

“I’m not sure—”

“I finished your report last night.”

Her heartbeat quickened. “And?”

He grinned at her. “Wear something swish. We’re celebrating.”

Okay, it was a little high-handed, she thought as he left her office, but she was prepared to let a lot go when the man was accepting a marketing proposal that was both aggressive and expensive. Because she wanted to prove to him that his decision was the right one, and she and her company were worth every one of the considerable number of pennies he was about to fork out, she got on the phone immediately to get started implementing a plan as focused and forceful as the man behind the company.

If she could get a line on a spokesman in the next week, she could do everything else from her office in San Francisco. She called every ad agency in town and asked for portfolios. Then she called her office back home and got Lise Atwater, who’d handle the advertising, working on locating any suitable Australian actors or models already in the States.

Cam had told her to wear something swish. While she showered she reviewed her options. Since she was living out of a suitcase, they weren’t limitless, but she had brought a soft, blue-green silk chiffon halter dress that she loved. She slipped it on and tried to imagine Cam doing “swish.” She spent extra time on her hair and makeup and wondered if she really knew what she was doing. Cameron Crane was a man who could explode her ordered existence, and her conception of herself and her life. Did she want that? Mark was a good man, she reminded herself, but was he the right man? If she was so easily attracted to another, how could she be ready to marry? She grabbed the silk wrap that went with the dress and decided to trust her instincts.

She left her room and made it to the bottom of the stairs when her heart almost stopped. Cam was wearing evening dress. He glanced up at where she’d stalled about five stairs from the bottom and sent her a crooked grin.

“You look beautiful.”

How did he know that a man in a tuxedo was her greatest weakness? Oh, and he filled his out so nicely. Under the smooth, urbane tuxedo she saw the play of powerful muscle. He was smoothly shaven, he’d had his hair cut—not very short, but shorter and neater than before. It was even freshly combed, but he still wore the thug’s nose and the eyes were far from civilized.

“Is my tie crooked?” he asked, fingering the bow tie that was, in fact, perfect.

“I have a thing for men in black tie,” she admitted, thrilled to her toes that he’d dressed up for her.

“Head waiters must love you.”

“Oh, and don’t let me near a supper club band.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t.”

The possessive way he spoke had her thinking that last night hadn’t permanently changed his mind about wanting to sleep with her.

“Car’s outside.” He held out his hand, and she made her way to the bottom of the stairs feeling his gaze on her the entire trip. He took her hand and at the touch of his skin against hers she felt little quivers jump to life deep in her belly.

“A limousine?” she asked when she saw the driver open the rear door of the long black car.

“I told you. We’re celebrating.”

She slid into the back and he slid in beside her. He even smelled good, she thought, as she settled back for the ride. She knew him well enough to know he loved everything casual, from his clothes to his lifestyle. Trussing himself in a tuxedo, shaving, combing, organizing a limo that left him in a vehicle he didn’t control must be stressing him right out. And he’d done all this for her. She turned to him, liking the smooth shaven look of him, but realizing she sort of loved him scruffy, too.

His eyes seemed to burn right into hers as he leaned closer, not saying a word. He kissed her the way a man in a tuxedo ought to kiss a woman— smooth, lips only, drawing back before he made a nuisance of himself. Without knowing she did it, she leaned in for more and with an animal sound that was out of place coming from a guy in a tuxedo, but very Cameron Crane, he pulled her in and kissed her with everything he had. She responded with everything she had, until desire grew, budded, and bloomed, all in under two minutes.

“Christ,” he muttered, pulling away from her and hauling his body out of touching range. “I promised myself I wouldn’t act like an animal around you for one evening. To prove I can be a gentleman.” He thought about that for a moment. “If I put my mind to it.” He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and glared ahead. “Sorry.”

“I mussed your hair,” she said, thinking how much more familiar he was to her with his hair tossed all over the place, and how glad she was that he was overcome with lust when in her company.

They drove through the darkened streets, and she let herself feel like a tourist for a change. Sydney Harbour Bridge rose before them in a graceful curve and, in front of it, the famous white sails of the Opera House, which grew larger as they approached.

“We’re going to the ballet,” he said. “This is a gala opening.”

“I’d pegged you as more comfortable watching Aussie Rules football or something.”

“In Sydney, rugby league football is the major code. And you’re not giving me enough credit for worldliness,” he said, sounding mildly piqued.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. Do you see a lot of ballet?”

That grin flashed in the dark. “I think this is my second time.”

“How did you know I love it?”

“You’re not the only one who can do market research, you know. You’re on the board of the San Francisco Ballet Society.”

Okay, so he’d put a lot of thought into a romantic gesture for her. She couldn’t help but be flattered. She also couldn’t help the thrill at actually stepping inside the famous opera house that had appeared on practically every postcard she’d ever received from this country. Inside, the windows offered a spectacular view of the harbor she’d come to love. She stood staring out at the lights while Cam fetched her a drink from the bar.

They watched the inaugural performance of the Australian Ballet Company’s newest production from a private box, and she enjoyed the first few minutes just gazing around the Opera Theatre, the second largest of the center’s venues. The walls and ceiling were black; the floor, according to Cam was made of brushbox timber. The seats were white birch and upholstered in red so the whole place felt both earthy and opulent. Then the dance started, and she was lost in one of her great loves. She shot the odd sideways glance at her companion, but if he wished he were in a noisy bar somewhere with his beer and his mates, he hid it well.

“Oh, that was wonderful,” she said, still feeling blissful and starry-eyed as they left.

Cam might not frequent the Opera House, but he was well-known and had been stopped many times for hellos and backslapping. He’d introduced her to politicians, other business people, and a couple of Olympic medal-winning swimmers. In each case, he’d made it clear that she was a visiting professional acquaintance from the States rather than his main squeeze. It was the first time she’d seen him act like the big shot multi-millionaire, and she thought maybe he was doing it to impress her. The idea was so sweet she felt gooey all over.

As they walked around Circular Quay they passed a tight group of crisply uniformed Korean sailors, two men holding hands, a group of giggling teenaged girls, and scores of others: families, backpackers, strolling lovers who must look just like them. She thought maybe they were going to eat in one of the restaurants that surrounded the Opera House, but instead he walked her to a waiting water taxi.

“I thought we were going for dinner,” she said.

“We are. This will take us to the Finger Wharf at Wooloomooloo, where my boat’s moored. I had the crew fix us something. I hate restaurants,” he shot her a look. “Too impersonal.”

She wasn’t buying that excuse for a second, but she liked the idea of being alone with him enough that she allowed him to hand her into the water taxi and they sped out to the yacht.

“This is like something out of a James Bond movie,” she said after they’d been welcomed aboard the enormous white ship by a man in some sort of uniform and led from the wooden deck through teak doors and down into a living area that seemed as big as her first apartment—and a whole lot more luxurious.

“I keep it to impress clients, mostly.”

In the combo living, dining area was white upholstered furniture, and a round glass table with a bouquet of yellow roses in its center. She could be in a ritzy penthouse, apart from the fact that everything but the flowers was built in. The dining area held a round table covered in a damask cloth and set for two. A single yellow rose sat in a crystal vase. The evening took on a certain fantasy quality. There was a uniformed waiter and an exquisite four-course meal with a different wine for each course. There was soft classical music coming from hidden speakers and the tiniest movement to remind her she was on a boat.

She barely tasted the food or distinguished one wine from another. Who knew what music they heard? All she knew was that tonight, everything was different. She was being seduced in the most opulent, bazillionaire-tycoon-woos-female-from-lower-economic-bracket manner possible. She should be rolling her eyes and gagging at this obvious effort to woo her, but it was so sweet she wanted to hug him. She loved every romance-on-the-high-seas minute of it.

They talked about business, they talked about the ballet, but the real communication was in the burning eye contact and the back-and-forth intimacy of body language. She knew all about body language; it was incredibly useful for her business. So when she caught herself flicking her hair, she knew she was broadcasting that she wanted him. When he fed her from his fork, she knew they were playing the oldest mating game known to man. She’d forget she was even on a boat, and then she’d hear the quiet hum of the engine and feel the odd roll of the swell beneath them.

“What I should have said last night, what I meant to say, was, I don’t want you to leave so soon.”

He reached across the table and took her hand, and her pulse jumped as though he’d pushed a button. The waiter returned with a frothy looking white dessert and placed it before them. Cam didn’t release her hand and she didn’t make a move to pull away.

“Why?” she asked softly, hoping he had the answer for both of them, since she was tired of feeling torn.

“Because there’s something here. When I touch you, it’s . . . oh, hell. Are you going to eat that?”

She glanced at the dessert she’d forgotten was in front of her. She shook her head. He came around the table, and her heart picked up speed. He knelt beside her so their faces were even and put his hand on her cheek, the leathery palm warm against her skin.

“There’s something special when I touch you,” he said softly.

Leaning closer, he kissed her. Oh, she’d been kissed by him when he was trying to make a point, trying to get her into bed on the force of his will and sexual heat alone, but she’d never been kissed by him when he was letting her know she was special. He was right, too, damn it. Somehow, they connected. He didn’t bludgeon her with his tongue, but teased her a little. His hands didn’t grab and dominate, but stroked her bare shoulders and arms. Her breasts were unrestricted beneath the halter bodice, but as much as they ached for his touch, it didn’t come.

He slid both warm hands down her arms and held her hands. Then he looked the question he didn’t have to ask. It was decision time. If she wanted to go home, he’d take her there. If she wanted to make love to him, she was pretty damned certain there was some kind of ridiculously opulent master suite on board. Since he didn’t ask with words, she didn’t answer with them. She merely leaned forward and kissed him back, then rose from her seat, taking him with her. Still not speaking, they turned and he led her to the aft cabin. If she hadn’t been so keyed up, she would have laughed when he opened the door. It was practically all bed. A kind of headboard upholstered in grays and blacks that matched the duvet went around three sides of the built-in bed. You could stay in bed through a typhoon and never get a bruise. Or have some pretty acrobatic sex just as safely.

When he would have taken them both straight to the bed, she excused herself and slipped into the adjoining washroom. Head, she supposed she ought to call it. While she was in there, she took a good look at herself in the mirror, knowing that what she was about to do would change her destiny. For she couldn’t sleep with Cam and then marry Mark. She had no idea what she was getting into, but this wasn’t a last fling before settling down.

Sadness squeezed her throat as she twisted the engagement ring off her finger. It clung stubbornly—probably because her fingers had swelled in the heat—but it still gave her a bad moment as she pondered the significance of an engagement ring that refused to let go. She ran warm water and lathered her hand with soap until finally, after more twisting and tugging, the ring came off, but with enough protest that she was left with a red indentation on her ring finger and probably a bruised knuckle. She didn’t even want to think about what Mark would be left with, but she had the dubious consolation of knowing that he was better off without her. She wiped the ring carefully and wrapped it in a tissue, knowing she’d return it to Mark, then placed it inside her purse.

Smoothing the now-ringless hand across her stomach, she drew a breath and opened the door. The minute Cam looked up she could tell he was wondering if she’d changed her mind. He wasn’t the tough guy standing there, but the teddy bear she glimpsed from time to time. The one with all the vulnerability and the big heart. At this moment she could see he was trying to hide how much he wanted her behind a quizzical expression. He wasn’t fooling her, though. He’d removed his jacket and the tie, and unfastened his shirt, then he’d stopped, probably in case she changed her mind. She caught an enticing glimpse of tanned belly when he turned to look at her and the shirt shifted.

She walked toward the face that fascinated her with its tough, pugnacious nose and the eyes so full of yearning, the rough stubble of his cheeks, and the soft warmth of his mouth. She walked right into the arms that opened for her and then she put her head against his shoulder and just held on. It felt weird to go to him for comfort when she’d just made the decision to end her engagement to another man, but right now she needed the simple warmth of a hug. He seemed to understand, and when she wrapped her arms around him and tucked her head under his chin, he pulled her in tight and held her. She was tucked under his chin and she was either going to stay there for all eternity, or, now that she’d finally and irrevocably made her decision, she was going to give in to the attraction that had pulled them together from the first moment.

Enough of being serious and sensible. It was time for the fun to begin. Even as the word fun played around in her mind, she recalled all the times Cameron had thrown at her that she didn’t know how to have fun, was no fun, wouldn’t know fun if it bit her in the ass . . . Well, maybe it was time to show the man that she was as much fun as the next young, healthy and sexually-excited woman. And if there was ever a place for fun and games it was in a floating bedroom that was all bed and padded walls. Cam’s boat was nothing but a playpen for adults. So she stepped back to give herself some room.

“What’s the matter?” Cam asked.

That was the trouble when a man thought you were no fun. The minute you got silly he thought there was something wrong. Time to show Mr. Cameron Too Sexy for his Own Good Crane that there was absolutely nothing the matter with her. She felt fabulous. Free, sexy, and as fun as a woman about to have sex with a business client could be. Okay, forget the words client and business, she warned herself. Those were not fun words. No. And she was about to show Cam so much fun he’d never dare to criticize her again for lack of spirit.

“Do you have any music?”

“You want to listen to music?” he asked in half panic, half confusion.

“Yes.”

It was really hard not to smirk, but he had no idea what he’d unleashed. Fun was throbbing through her veins—well, that might have been sexual excitement, it was getting hard to separate the two.

“Okay.” He looked disappointed but game. He walked to a built-in cupboard and opened it to reveal a sound system, including a nicely crowded rack of CDs. “What are you in the mood for?”

She walked up beside him and nudged him out of the way. “Settle yourself on the bed. I’ll choose my own.”

“Will you be joining me?” He sounded so completely bewildered she wanted to kiss him and reassure him that everything was going to be fine. But telling was too easy. She decided to show him.

“Yes,” she crowed, when she came across a CD she was amazed to find in his collection. It was too perfect. She wanted something with a very nice bump and grind beat to it. And there was David Lee Roth’s version of California Girls. “In a minute,” she said, and flapped her hand at him until he was leaning back against the padded headboard, looking a little confused, half-dressed and inexpressibly sexy.

“Did I ever tell you I used to dance?”

“No.”

“Ten years of jazz and ballet. I’ll show you.”

“You want to dance? Now?”

“Yes. It will be fun.” Ha, would it ever.

She put the CD on and moved to the foot of the bed, tipped her head back, closed her eyes, and let her own sexuality out. She hadn’t danced for a long time, she realized. Once she got serious about her career, she’d let it go. But the impulses were still there. The way her muscles and bones responded to the beat, oh, that was still there. Amazing. She’d forgotten how much she loved to dance. Okay, so maybe he was a teensy bit right when he said she was no fun. But she had been fun once upon a time, and she was pretty sure she could be fun again. Now seemed to be the moment to test that theory.

Listen to the music. That’s what she had to do. Listen and move. And have fun! When he heard the music she’d chosen he started to laugh. And when she began to move he abruptly stopped laughing. She was a bit rusty, but she’d never felt as in tune with her own body. And if things got a little rocky, she could always blame the ocean swell. The music spilled out, kind of funky, kind of rock and roll, totally upbeat, and very catchy. She wondered if she could do this without screwing up. And decided that if she screwed up she’d deal with it. That was what fun was all about she realized: the unexpected. The surprise. The thrill of being alive, crazy over some guy she barely knew on a boat in the middle of one of the world’s greatest harbors.

That man made every cell in her body turn into a cheerleader. She spun. She leapt, she posed for a second, one leg extended, her back arched and her hands thrown back. She held her scarf above her like a parachute. And realized she wasn’t as flexible as she’d been at eighteen. But then, Cam wasn’t going to judge her on agility or flexibility. All that mattered was showmanship. And the more she showed, the less he was going to figure out her best dancing years were a decade behind her. She made up a routine based on some half-remembered moves from dance school combined with a few stripper routines she’d witnessed over the years until she figured she was about two steps away from back spasm, immobility and physiotherapy.