Sun Kissed (Crane Series) (4 page)

She let a woman in a hurry pass between them to give herself a minute to think. She had to admit, the man had a point. She’d sell his products a lot better if she’d actually been on one. Strained wrist, pulled back, she tried to be philosophical. That was part of the business she was in— temporarily. Except the idea of spending any time in a wet bathing suit with Cameron Crane had all her warning bells clanging.

“I’ll think about it,” she said, pretty sure she could find plenty of excuses in the three weeks she’d be here.

“Great. Oh, and can you keep Friday night free? There are some people I want you to meet.”

“What kind of people?”

“Experts in the field. You can listen to what they say about Crane boards.”

“A focus group, you mean?” Wow. She was delighted he was thinking strategically about the marketing.

“Yeah. Exactly. A focus group.”

“You conned me!” she yelled over the din of drinking songs, pickup mating calls, and some drunks in the corner playing pool. Someone was going to get a pool cue–induced black eye any minute, she was certain.

“You wanted a focus group. This is it. We can focus better if we sink a few tubes of Tooheys.”

Drinking in a pub at Cam’s old haunt, Bondi Beach, with a bunch of his “mates,” wasn’t exactly what she’d expected. Most focus groups didn’t involve mass consumption of alcohol and didn’t take place in a noisy bar, but this wasn’t the time to be picky. These guys were young, obviously surfing crazy, and, so far, reasonably sober. When they found out Cam was buying, they’d happily crowded around the small table.

“So,” she shouted above the music, “tell me about Crane surfboards.”

“Beaut,” said one.

Although he could have been referring to the cute girl he was trying to make eye contact with. He’d said he was certain he’d seen her topless on the beach earlier and he was clearly anxious to renew the acquaintance.

“Best boards in the world,” said another.

“Why?”

“Dunno,” said a tall redheaded guy with an earring. “Well, okay, I was surfing Margaret River in WA, and—”

“WA?”

“Western Australia.”

“Right.”

“And I purled off the top of the wave, another surfie rode right over my board. And the board didn’t break. Didn’t even crack. The other fellow’s snapped in two. Well,” he said, “goes to show.”

“Oh, and remember that time up at Noosa,” another eager young dude broke in, and they were off.

Poetic, they weren’t, but these surfies were certainly committed to Crane products. Pretty much everyone in the bar looked like a surfer to her. She kept her eye peeled for the sort of man who’d be a perfect spokesman for the US market, but none of these guys was right somehow. Cameron Crane disappeared, leaving her alone while she asked her questions. She assumed it was so none of the surfers would feel coerced into saying nice things about his products when he was around, but soon he returned with two glasses of beer, one of which he placed in front of her.

“I don’t normally drink when I’m working.”

“It’s camouflage, so you can blend in with the natives.”

“And I don’t drink—”

“Well, you can’t drink sparkling water here.”

“I would have ordered dry white wine.”

The snort he gave her in reply made white wine sound worse than water. Whoever said Americans and Australians spoke the same language had obviously never met Cameron Crane. He then took up his post beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat coming off his skin, feel the skin itself whenever he leaned in to explain in plain English some jargon she couldn’t work out. Since he didn’t do anything really stupid like put a hand on her knee, she ignored the “accidental” arm contact, and tried to convince herself those shudders she felt every time they touched meant she was cold.

Talking to all those surfers was thirsty work, and she was probably still dehydrated from the plane and the hot climate. Plus, she had to shout over the noise and the “footie” match on the TV and the “pokies,” poker machines that seemed to be a big draw. So she drank more than she meant to, not disliking the beer as much as she’d thought she would. When they left the pub it was after one and she felt great, with a sheaf full of notes, a head full of impressions and a few ideas for the campaign that at one in the morning after a couple of beers sounded pretty darn good.

“You did all right in there,” Cameron said, putting a friendly arm around her shoulders. “You asked the right questions and they talked to you.”

“I’m good at what I do,” she said.

“I could be wrong, but it looked to me—just for a second—like you were having fun.”

“It was fun. And what are you suggesting? That I’m not a fun person?”

“I think you could have a lot of fun. You need to let go now and then, that’s all.”

Even in the dark she could hear the ocean with its crashing waves, feel the ever-present breeze against her cheeks. It was a little chilly after the warm atmosphere of the pub, and she shivered. Cam rubbed up and down her arms and pulled her in tighter. It was cold, she told herself, that’s why she stayed snuggled against him.

“You’re a long, cool drink of water, aren’t you?”

He’d said that to her before and she’d ignored him, but after a couple of beers and the suggestion that she wasn’t any fun, she suddenly needed to know. “What is that supposed to mean? I’m cold? Wet? Colorless?”

Cameron chuckled, a low rumbling sound. “Is that what you think?”

“No. It seems to be what you think.”

“A long, cool drink of water . . . well, it’s what you want on a hot day, after you’ve worked hard and you’re tired.”

“I thought that was a beer.”

“Too right. But you can’t call a woman a beer. She might get the wrong impression.”

“I’m not convinced I got the right impression by being called a glass of water.”

“This is what I mean.”

Before she had time to realize his intent, he pulled her up against him and kissed her. If the impact of his gaze had affected her, the feel of his mouth on hers had her staggering: warm, strong, faintly beer-flavored, and devastatingly sexy. Oh, no. No and no and no and no! Her head was clamoring denial but her body seemed to cut off all communication with her brain the minute their lips met.

She’d never believed all that romantic crap about fireworks and rockets. To her, kissing had always just been kissing. Enjoyable, mildly arousing, a nice prelude to easy pleasure. But this was something different. The minute he kissed her, something went pop. Kind of like a champagne bottle, and then everything inside her seemed to foam and fizz. Cameron kissed the way he did everything. Head-on, aggressive, no holds barred. There wasn’t a subtle bone in his body or, she imagined, an unobtrusive move in his repertoire. His tongue swept into her mouth without permission or apology and swept all her polite refusals away.

His power was raw and earthy and something inside her responded. A part of her she hadn’t realized existed, calling up a wild urge to kiss him back. He tasted of beer and hungry man and his body against hers felt tough and strong. He wasn’t a particularly tall man, but he was solid and hard. His unshaven face scraped across hers as he changed the angle and deepened the kiss. Her fingers were in his hair before she’d known she planned to put them there, plunging in and enjoying the feel of the thick strands against her fingers, pulling him closer, trying to deepen the kiss even more. He licked at her, teased and played at her mouth, his hands running possessively over her back and finally grasping her hips to pull her in tight against the bulging fly of his jeans. Oh, how she wanted this and more. But as the lights of a car strobed over them, she came back to her senses.

“No,” she cried, pulling away from him. “Stop it. I can’t do this.”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes wild and compelling in the night, “you can.”

But she was already out of his arms and striding for the car, the obliging Roger at the wheel. They were silent on the drive home to Cam’s place. He obviously wasn’t going to apologize for his appalling behavior, and she simply wanted to forget hers. What had she been thinking? She was practically married—she had the tasteful diamond solitaire to prove it—and she’d indulged in wild kissing with another man. She twisted the ring around on her finger like a talisman all the way home.

Once more she regretted not moving to a hotel. She’d meant to, but somehow she’d been so busy with work and then fallen into bed dead tired for the three nights she’d been here, until it was easier simply to stay. Cam had acted like a perfect gentleman, his busy schedule taking him out two of the three nights she’d been in his house, and on the one night they’d dined in together, Marg had stayed to serve dinner and clean up, and they’d talked business, adding a couple of his associates by conference call so she hadn’t felt she was alone with a determined seducer. Not until tonight. Once they reached home she mumbled an incoherent explanation of why she had to get straight to bed and left him gazing at her with a mixture of amusement and frustration.

“Hey,” he said from the bottom of the stairs, forcing her to turn and regard him from her position halfway up. She waited for an apology, but he said, “I’ve got a surprise planned for tomorrow.”

“What kind of surprise?” If she had to bet money, she’d wager his surprise involved getting naked.

“We’re going surfing.”

“Oh, but I . . .” She what? “I’d planned to work tomorrow.”

“That’s what I reckoned.” He shook his head at her. “You’ve got to surf to sell the boards.”

He was right. And besides, she’d have a whole day to prove to him that it was the beer that had kissed him, not her.

“All right.”

“Can you be ready by six?”

She nodded. “Night.”

“Good night.”

“Hey,” he called again. Once more she turned. “If you get lonely in the night, you know where to find me.”

Not until she was safely in her room with the door closed did she drop her head in her hands and groan. Cameron Crane, the man she’d kissed so passionately, wasn’t just a man, but her client. And she was an engaged woman. Worse, she could still taste him on her lips, still feel the imprint of him on her nerve endings—which clearly didn’t follow the same moral standard as the rest of her.

She made her way to the ensuite bathroom and stood under a hot shower, then brushed her teeth furiously. As she looked at that big empty bed, aware in every cell of her body of one sexually overheated male somewhere in this house who would doubtless provide the antidote for her own sexually overheated body, Mark had never seemed so far away. She grabbed her cell, not bothering to calculate the time back home —not even caring. She had to talk to Mark. The sound of his voice would bring her back to her senses and dull the wild clamoring in her body to finish what her reprobate client had begun. Mark answered. Steady, reliable Mark. He wasn’t off kissing other women. He was right by his phone so she could get through to him.

“Hi. Good thing I woke up early this morning. Is everything okay?” He sounded surprised to hear from her.

Then she realized she’d called only a few hours earlier, before he went to bed. “I wanted to hear your voice.”

“Homesick?”

No, that wasn’t the term she’d use. Heartsick maybe. Guilt-ridden for sure. “Not really. It’s beautiful here and the work’s challenging.” She sighed, “I wish you were here.”

“You won’t need a tax accountant until the deal’s signed,” he reminded her. “Which reminds me, can you ask their comptroller—”

“I don’t want to talk about business,” she wailed, half-desperate for she wasn’t sure what. “Do you love me?” she asked, sounding pathetic and needy.

“What kind of a question is that? We’re getting married, aren’t we?”

“But do you really love me?” Maybe that’s what was wrong with her. She was getting cold feet, having last minute jitters about the wedding. All she needed was reassurance, a vow of undying love and she’d be fine.

“I spent yesterday evening calculating how expensive a home we can afford after the wedding. I’ll show you my spreadsheet of our incomes, household expenses, taxes, and so on when you get home.”

“I ask for undying love and you give me a spreadsheet?” Her voice rose all on its own, like a helium balloon from a toddler’s grasp.

“I thought it would make you happy that I’m working on our future,” he said, sounding puzzled. And why would he? It wasn’t Mark who had changed. It was her.

“But do you love me?”

“Isn’t that what I’m telling you?” He sounded as frustrated as she felt. “Would I plan a thirty-year mortgage with a woman I didn’t love?”

It was hopeless. If she didn’t get off the phone quick, he was going to explain his long-range projection of mortgage interest rates, the real estate trends in the Bay area, and then she wouldn’t be held responsible for her reaction.

“We’ll talk more when I get home. I only wanted to check in and say good night.”

“Get a good night’s sleep. That jet lag can be a killer.”

“Jet lag, right. Good night.”

“Night.”

But jet lag had nothing to do with the jumpiness she was experiencing, as though she’d hit a pocket of turbulence and couldn’t get clear. Her stomach was jittery, her skin hot, the ground didn’t feel solid under her feet. And the entire experience intensified when Cameron Crane was in the vicinity. Which he was, too damn often. She wasn’t stupid; she knew why he was trying to seduce her. He wanted to maintain the upper hand in the most basic way. Many men had tried to pull that stunt. None had ever succeeded.

So why, now, when she was planning her wedding to another man, should she be almost as eager to use his boardroom table for illicit purposes as he was to take her there? Last minute pre-wedding jitters. It had to be. She pulled on a cotton nightgown, the kind she always wore. They were comfortable and easy to launder. Mark had never complained. And all she could see was herself in something black and absurd, and Cameron Crane staring at her with that look in his eyes that informed her he was about to tear her little bit of outrageously expensive black silk and lace right off her body. Probably with his teeth. She shuddered as she climbed into bed. A big lonely bed where the sheets were as cool and sensible as her nightgown.

A mortgage affordability spreadsheet was a good thing, a sensible thing. In Mark’s masculine brain, she knew it was his way of telling her he loved her. But a bit of flowery nonsense about how much he missed her would have gone a long way to easing her jumpiness. He could even have started his day by giving her some earthy suggestions on exactly what he was going to do to her when she got back. Her smile went a little lopsided as she imagined crisp, businesslike Mark Forsythe talking dirty on a long distance call. He was a good man, and they were compatible. She had to accept he wasn’t always going to sweep her off her feet.

In fact, Cameron Crane was exactly suited to display all the qualities Mark lacked. That’s why he was starting to look so good. He was all raw sex appeal and casual attitudes. If he were in love with a woman, he wouldn’t waste a long distance phone conversation on mortgage rates. He’d be having phone sex. Of course, he was such a troglodyte he likely wouldn’t ever need to have phone sex long distance. He wouldn’t let his woman out of his sight. Mark was a modern man. He respected her. She had to remember that respect was a lot more lasting than blood-simmering sex. She punched her pillow and placed her head back on it. Right. Long-term. But in the short-term, she had a problem. She wanted blood-simmering sex. And she wanted it with her client.