Sun Kissed (Crane Series) (5 page)

“Can you be ready for surfing by six?” Cam had asked her before she raced up the stairs to escape the memories of his kiss. “Not a problem,” she’d assured him. She wasn’t being polite. It wasn’t a problem, unfortunately. Her inner clock was still so whacked that she was in pretty good shape at six in the morning. Wide awake and alert. Sadly, the same could not be said of her by six in the evening. Still, she knew she’d adjust eventually. Probably the day she flew back home.

Sure enough, when six rolled around, she was ready to go. She’d had time for a shower, had written up some ideas from last night’s focus group, and gone for light makeup. No doubt she’d soon be smeared in sand and salt water, but at least she’d start the day fresh and looking her best. She wore her new Crane duds, mainly to flatter her client, but when she got them on she really liked how they fit and felt. A woman wearing clothes this comfortable and brightly colored couldn’t take herself too seriously. Or the man she was with. They’d surf, get back on the businesslike, friendly terms they’d been on before last night, and she would, on no account, drink a beer.

Now that she thought about it, she was pretty sure Mark had warned her that Australian beer had a higher alcohol content than its US counterpart. She’d lied to Cam the first day here. Of course she’d brought her bathing suit. A couple actually, and the one she put into a beach bag along with her sunscreen, a cotton hat, and a sarong wrap was the one she used for swimming lengths at home. It covered as much of her as any bathing suit could. Mr. String Bikini was going to be out of luck. In fact, if she had a choice, she’d take her lesson in a full wetsuit.

She was ready in plenty of time, and if she felt a slight blush rise when she encountered Cam, he was so absolutely the same as always that she could almost have imagined their passionate embrace of the previous night.

This early on a Saturday, the streets were all but empty, so she took in the Victorian architecture, mostly terrace houses, some neat and tidy, with a brightly painted door and updated windows, some sagging in Dickensian squalor. She recalled seeing streets like this on her trip in from the airport. Wait a minute, this looked exactly like the road to the airport.

“Where are we going?”

“Surfing.”

“Which beach?”

“Nice little place called Byron Bay.”

“Byron Bay? Isn’t that in Queensland?”

“Somebody’s been reading their Lonely Planet guide. Well done. Byron Bay is in the northern part of New South Wales. But you can drive to Queensland from there in about ten minutes,” he said, as though pleased with her grasp of Australian geography. “Excellent surfing.”

“But—but so does Bondi Beach.”

“Not as good. And it’s too crowded.”

“But how—” She bit down on her own question, having a strong intuition that the answer was going to irritate her. So she shut up. Wisely, he stayed silent and since she wasn’t looking at him she didn’t have to know if he was smirking.

“Here we go.”

They were in a private airfield. Naturally. And he had his own plane. Naturally. When he climbed into the cockpit, she stilled. She’d go pretty far to keep a client happy, but getting herself killed by an overconfident womanizer was a little too far.

“What’s the matter? Scared?” He shot her a grin of pure challenge.

“Not scared. Prudent.”

“Tell her, Ernie,” he said to an official-looking older man in a uniform who stood ready to slam the doors shut. “I don’t like to boast.”

Her eye-roll was a thing of beauty; too bad he was fiddling with instruments and didn’t see it.

“Mr. Crane’s a very good pilot.”

“Have you flown with him?”

The man grinned at her. “I taught him. Really, he’s a lot better than he looks. He got his commercial pilot’s license when he bought his own airline. Honest, miss. You can trust him.”

There was prudence, and then there was stubbornness. Besides, she wasn’t usually risk-averse, and she did know how to have fun. From a plane, she would get more sightseeing done than she’d believed possible.

“All right. But if we crash, I’m going to be seriously disappointed.”

Cam laughed shortly. “I won’t crash. I’ve got precious cargo on board.” He waited a bit and grinned. He jerked a thumb toward the back of the plane. “The new longboard demo. I’m trying it out this weekend.”

Ha, ha. Weekend? He hadn’t mentioned anything about a weekend. “Is this an overnight surfing trip?” The engine roared, and she swiftly fastened her seat belt.

“Did I forget to tell you?” he shouted over the noise of propellers.

“Yes, you did.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got everything you’ll need.”

He was just egotistical enough that he probably believed that, too. Still, it was a beautiful day, and she literally had a bird’s-eye view— once she stopped watching Cam at the controls, deciding he seemed to be doing what pilots usually did, and they were staying airborne. So, she gazed down at dry fields, farms, green leafy trees, and the sparkling blue waves.

Cam brought the small plane down with barely a bump; naturally, there was a car waiting. Some kind of Australian SUV. They drove down a winding road with an amazing view of the bay on one side and the lush green hills on the other. Byron Bay was postcard-pretty, a big smiley-face curve of white sand and blue water. She tried not to notice how white the whitecaps were and concentrated on the smooth crescent of sand.

“Where are we going?” she asked when they didn’t take the posted road to the public parking.

“My house.”

She swiveled in her seat to stare at him. “You have a house here?”

“I have a lot of houses. I don’t like hotels. They’re too cold and unfriendly. Besides, real estate is a good investment.”

Sure, she was a big land mogul herself, her with her one condo in San Francisco.

His house was more of a large, ocean-front cottage and was all clean angles and modern lines. It had clearly been designed around the view and there were windows everywhere. Hardwood floors, cool colors, modern, sleek furniture. Two bedrooms and a loft. He’d made it his, though. He’d hung old surfboards on the walls like artwork along with surfing photos, tide charts, and ocean maps.

“Want something to eat or drink before we go?”

She shook her head. “I’m a little nervous about the surfing. I want to get it over with.”

“All right, then. Get your cossy on and let’s go.”

“Okay.” She took a deep breath. Surfing wasn’t going to kill her. Unless a shark got her, or the riptide, or one of those stone fish she’d read about . . . “Um, which bedroom?”

“I use that one,” he pointed to the beachside room. “You’re welcome to join me, or take the other.”

She didn’t even bother to answer, but strode to the other room. At the doorway, she asked, “Do I wear a wet suit?”

He looked at her like she was crazy. “Naah.”

So much for that idea. In a couple of minutes she was back out with her bathing suit on and her sarong, her sunhat, and glasses. She’d already lathered herself up with sunscreen. She was as ready as she was ever going to be. Cam was already outside with a couple of surfboards. They both looked enormous. Didn’t he know she’d never done this? She wanted something the size of a skateboard, not the monstrosity he was hauling around.

When she raised this excellent point with him, he said, “Naah,” once more in that poetic way of his. “This is a learner board. Made of foam. You can’t hurt it.”

“Very reassuring.”

He only grinned at her, and then carried both boards to the beach. She followed, thinking if he was going to carry that big heavy board around for her he wasn’t all bad. He put the boards side by side and told her to lie on hers on her stomach and practice paddling in the sand. He threw himself onto his own board and demonstrated. She tried to concentrate on his technique and not on the tawny skin bulging with nicely defined muscles, or the way the sun caught highlights in his unruly hair, or the little patch of sand that had stuck to his chin. When he was focused on something other than getting her into bed, he could be a lot of fun, she decided, as they flapped their arms around and pretended they were perched on waves rather than sand-bound.

“Okay,” he said, paddling his muscular arms while her own were already tiring, “you’re paddling for shore, right?”

“Right.”

“When you feel the wave grab the back of your board, jump to your feet and squat. Like this.” He jumped and crouched there, looking like the real thing with the balanced stance, feet moving like a fencer’s, arms out to the sides. “Okay,” he said, “you try.”

It wasn’t so hard, except she didn’t feel like a surfer in control of her board; she felt dork-like and tippy. It was bad enough on the sand—she couldn’t imagine doing this with water wobbling away beneath her.

“All right,” he said after they’d practiced about fifteen minutes. “Ready to have a go?”

“What, already?”

“Sure.”

With a deep breath she rose and removed her sarong, the glasses, the hat, even the shoes. There was a leash that attached her board to her ankle, which she hung onto as she pushed and dragged her board, fighting the waves and the “soup,” the white choppy water after the break of a wave. By the time he told her to stop, she was soaked and the salt stung her eyes, but the water was warm and she was out of the office and doing something she’d always secretly dreamed of trying.

“Right,” he said after they’d let a few waves go by and she thought she could let quite a few more go. “Here comes a wave. Ready? Up you get.”

She scrambled to her feet and was tossed off the board like the cork out of a pop gun. Before she knew it, she was underwater, gargling salt water. When she dragged herself to the surface the tip of her board emerged, looking like the ocean was sticking out its tongue at her. She felt like making a rude gesture back. Cam didn’t laugh. Merely grinned. He made her try again. And again. Her arms were sore, her knees were scraped raw by the board, everything ached, but she was absolutely determined she was going to lick this thing.

She set her jaw and listened to every word of advice Cam had for her. When she finally caught a wave and managed to ride it from her squat position she felt as though she were flying. The exhilaration had her whooping for joy, until she was dumped once more. But she didn’t care.

“I did it,” she yelled at Cam, “I surfed.”

“You did,” he yelled back, looking almost as pleased with his student as she was with herself. She jumped back on her board and paddled back out.

“Getting tired?” he asked.

“No. I want to go again.”

Three more times she managed to squat-surf, out of about twenty attempts. She was exhausted, and this time when the surf spit her out, she let it. Dragging herself and the board to the sand, she collapsed on her back and closed her eyes. Her chest heaved, her skin felt crispy with drying salt, her throat and nose were salt-sore, every muscle ached. She let the sun warm her, breathed the balmy, sweet-smelling air, and decided she wasn’t moving for a very long time. A shadow fell across her face, and, knowing it was probably Cam, she ignored it. Harder to ignore was the full body kiss, when he laid himself right over top of her and kissed her softly, and with surprising sweetness. She opened one eye a slit.

“What was that?”

“Kiss of life.”

“I’m not dead.”

He grinned at her, devilish and silly and lovable. “See? I did a good job.” He kissed her again, at the junction of throat and neck, and she felt his stubbled chin, the firm, surprisingly warm lips, and the wet lick of his tongue. “You taste like someone took the salt shaker to you,” he said.

“I feel like they took a meat mallet to me. What do you think you’re doing?”

“Tasting you.”

He moved slowly down to where her breasts swelled above the top of the suit, kissing her, giving her those crazy little licks. She was tired, she was weak, and she wanted to touch him so badly she couldn’t keep her arms at her sides but wrapped them around his torso, ran her hands up his powerful back. His skin was still damp, but warm. So warm. He’d surprised her by not showing off today. He’d caught a couple of waves and looked so graceful she’d held her breath, but he’d been awfully low-key about his own prowess and spent hours coaching her.

“Thanks for teaching me,” she said, pulling him away when his lips started nudging aside her bathing suit.

“You’re welcome. I could teach you a lot more, you know,” he said, running his palms lightly over the nipple-sized bulges in her suit. “You’re freezing, let me warm you up.”

He must have been able to tell it was already working; warmth was stealing through her, from his body which was on top of hers, from his hands, his lips, and from the devil lights in his eyes. She felt like she was in the famous scene in From Here to Eternity. Any minute now the tide was going to wash over them, and that would be the end of her virtue.

“I’m going to marry Mark Forsythe,” she reminded them both.

His eyes glittered down at her. “Are you?”

“We did it!”

Jen raised her glass in a toast to Bronwyn and Fiona, who’d helped her pull together a complete marketing plan and proposal in record time. They clinked glasses and sipped champagne, though in truth Jen didn’t feel much like celebrating. Since the trip to Byron Bay, when she’d had to admit to herself that her feelings for her client were a lot warmer than was appropriate, she’d worked day and night—especially night, to avoid her host whenever possible. And the result was that she was very close to being ready to leave Australia. Ahead of schedule. The three women shared a booth in a trendy Thai restaurant in Sydney, relaxing after another hard day.

“I couldn’t have done it without you two. Thanks.”

“Does this mean you’ll be leaving soon?” Fiona asked.

“Yes. I’ve . . .”

She thought of the way her body had responded when Cam touched her on the beach, thought of the sleepless night she’d endured after he’d surprised her by backing right off when she’d told him she was marrying Mark. That was the trouble with Cam; he wouldn’t stay in the mold she’d stuffed him into. He kept surprising her.

“I’ve got to get back.”

“We’ll miss you,” Bron said. She hesitated, then looked straight at Jen. “Cam will be a bear when you go.”

Fiona nodded vigorously. “He’s dead-keen on you.”

“You can tell?” Jen asked, horrified.

“Yeah,” they said in unison.

“His eyes follow you whenever you’re around,” Fiona added.

“He asks me how I like you and how you’re getting on every time I see him. He’s got it bad,” Bron added. “Of course, it’s good for him to lose once in a while. Usually the women are all over him.”

“Mmm,” Fiona agreed. “Sickening. They’re always gorgeous model types. You’re the first one who’s not—” She gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth while Jen laughed.

“It’s okay. I’m not the model type. I’ve always been the girl next door.”

“The cute girl next door,” Bron said. “And Cam’s crazy about you.”

It was difficult to be completely frank with the woman who was his half-sister, but she needed to try. “I think he only wants me in his bed to prove he’s in control.”

Bron snorted with laughter. “I knew you’d see right through him. He’s such a dickhead sometimes,” she said with affection. “That was how it was when you first arrived. Not anymore. I’ve never seen him like this.”

“He’s used to getting his own way, that’s all,” said Jen.

“Maybe.”

She’d meant him to remember her as the woman who’d said no, but she’d never intended to hurt him, she thought as she drove home after the dinner, the printed proposal in her briefcase. Could he be hurt? He was a man of the world. Of course he wanted an affair with her—he’d as good as told her so—but he’d never hinted at warmer feelings. No, she decided, Bron and Fiona were young romantics. He wasn’t serious about her. Although there was a warmth in his eyes when he gazed at her that hadn’t been there in the beginning.

Since he’d laid off the constant attempts to get her into bed, she’d assumed he’d come to respect her as a business equal, and like her as a friend. He didn’t pester her to spend every night with him but accepted that she worked late at the office and had pretty much assigned Roger, his driver and odd job man, to chauffeur her everywhere. They’d dropped the other women off at their respective homes on the way. As she was getting out of the car, Bron had said, “Are you sure you have to leave?”

She bit her lip as Roger pulled the Jag up to the front of the house. With a tiny spurt of pleasure, she noted that Cam’s Range Rover was there, so presumably he was home. If Bron and Fiona were right, then it was definitely time for her to leave the country. She didn’t want her boss having inappropriate thoughts about her.

And what about her, she mused as she got out of the car and headed inside.

Why was she so tempted by a man she had so little in common with? When she was engaged to another man.

From the way she felt jittery every time she imagined getting on the plane and leaving, she thought she couldn’t do it soon enough. Nothing but trouble could result if she let herself fall for Cameron Crane. She could wait until tomorrow to give him the report, but Cam handled his paperwork at night here in the house. It was logical and sensible to take the proposal to him now.

When she got to his study, he was behind his desk, his computer on and papers spread around him, just like she’d seen him so many nights. For all his big reputation as a drinker, carouser, and womanizer, he hadn’t been doing a whole lot of that while she’d been here. Sure, he had fun while he was out, but it was clear that he hadn’t built a multi-million-dollar empire in his thirties by being a playboy. The man was a workaholic.

“How ya goin’?” he asked as she appeared in his doorway.

The warmth leapt into his eyes, and she recalled what his sister had said. Was he “dead-keen” on her? Since she felt her own warmth kindle, she had to ask herself the same question about him.

“I’m all right,” she said. “And you?”

“Couldn’t be better. Is that what I think it is?”

“My preliminary marketing plan and proposal, yes.” She handed him the bound document. He put it beside him on the desk and raised his gaze back to her face.

“I’ll read it later. Give me the highlights.”

She sank to the chair in front of his desk, thinking he looked like a kid playing at being a grown-up with his scruffy, tanned face, mop of sun-streaked unruly hair, and the surfing clothes.

“I’ve finished the initial research and I think you’re ready for the California market. I’m suggesting the product launch for next spring. It’s aggressive, but,” she stopped to smile at him, “aggressive seems to be your style.”

He grinned back. “Too right.”

“You’ve got a wonderful product, but you know that. However, the competition’s fierce in California. Frankly, I think the key will be the product spokesman and the advertising campaign.”

“You just said we’ve got great products.”

“That’s right. The ad campaign gets them on the boards and into the clothes in the first place. After that, the products have to do their job. And word of mouth.”

She frowned as worry assailed her. This was the hard part of her job. Giving the green light or red light when all she had to go on was research and instinct. If she was wrong, the downside was heavy. “You’re taking a big risk, you have to know that.”

He grinned at her and leaned back from the heavy desk with his hands clasped behind his neck. “Taking risks, that’s where the fun is, darl.” He looked at her long and steady and she heard the ticking of his bright red surfboard clock on the wall. “You might try it sometime.”

“I—” She was as much a risk-taker as anyone. Wasn’t she? So her fiancé was home putting together flow charts of their combined incomes and poring over amortization schedules for a thirty-year mortgage. That didn’t mean they couldn’t take risks. But her gaze faltered.

“We’re here to talk about Crane Enterprises. Not me.”

“I’ve got a creative mind. I can think about two things at once. Three, even. Do you want to know what else I’m thinking about?”

His gaze wandered lazily from her face to her feet and she felt a swath of heat follow the same path. Oh, she knew what he was thinking all right. Damn him. If only she could stop herself thinking the same thoughts.

“A spokesman,” she said. “We need to focus on a spokesman.”

“Do you want a big name? An actor who’s known on your side of the world?”

She’d thought about it. Long and hard. She shook her head. “An established name will certainly get attention quickly, but the risk you run is that people will be more interested in them than the product.”

“That makes sense, I suppose.”

“I thought about you.” More than she should have. “You’ve got the kind of charisma and a certain animal magnetism that will score well with . . . women.”

He grinned at her. “I didn’t think you’d noticed. Animal magnetism, hmmm?” And he knew it.

She ignored the obvious opening to sidetrack the conversation from the professional to the personal. “But with your schedule, I’m not sure you’ve got the time. And you’ll be on camera a lot with the product launch. I think we need someone unknown outside Australia. Remember what Paul Hogan did for Foster’s beer sales in the States?” He nodded vigorously. “We need someone who can do that for your products. Could be a model, a surfer, an actor, someone without ties who can spend a significant amount of time in California.”

Cam nodded. “Everyone who works for Crane is surfing mad. They’re young, some of them good looking, I s’pose, and they do know their stuff. What about one of them?”

“I’ve been keeping my eyes open, but none of them has rung my bells.” Except the annoyingly sexy Crane himself, but she was doing her best to muffle those bells.

“What are we going to do?”

“If you approve the concept and budget, I’ll get agencies here and at home working on it.” She shrugged. “You never know. There may be an Australian waiting tables at this moment somewhere in Manhattan or Vail who’d be perfect.”

“They don’t have to be a trained actor then?”

“No. They need a certain look, the right build, and the right . . . attitude. I can’t explain it, but I’ll know him when I see him.” She rose. “Trust my instincts on this. It’s why you pay me the big bucks.”

He nodded slowly. “All right. I’ll read this tonight and we’ll talk again tomorrow.”

“Good night then.” He stared at her and rose, too, stepping closer.

She was aware that it was after midnight and they were alone in the house. There was nothing holding them back but her morals. Cam might as well have read her mind.

“You’ve only got a week left. Are you really going to go on home like a good girl? To your man and your predictable life?”

“Yes,” she said fiercely, hanging onto her sense of what was right. “I am.”

“You’ll always wonder, you know. You’ll always wonder what it would have been like.”

She knew. Even now, she was wondering. She tried to breathe calmly but her lungs were acting strangely, as though they’d forgotten their primary function.

“I’m engaged,” she said softly, almost desperately. It was her last defense, and it seemed to be crumbling.

“That’s no-man’s land,” he scoffed. “You’re not hitched yet. I don’t mess with married women, but you’re not married, and if you’re looking at me the way you’re looking at me right now and kissing me back when I —”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t bother to deny it; we both know you do. Then you should at least take the trouble to find out what you’ll be missing for the rest of your life.”

“And for what? What’s the point? Maybe I haven’t spoken wedding vows, but I promised Mark I’d marry him. He deserves my loyalty.”

For once the man who never seemed to take life seriously looked at her with absolute conviction. “He deserves better than a woman who doesn’t love him.”

“Who says I don’t—”

“If you loved him, would you seriously consider coming to bed with me?”

“Well, that just proves it, because I’m not considering going to bed with you. I’ll admit you’re attractive—or you could be if you shaved a little more often. And I like your mind and your . . . business acumen—”

His laughter cut through her tirade like a blowtorch through a snowbank. “It’s not my business acumen putting the dark circles under your eyes, love. You’re not sleeping. And I know why.” He reached out to touch her hair, to push a lock behind her ear, which sent shivers of reaction to her toes. “You want me. I want you.”

He was close enough that she could feel his warmth, count every individual whisker that shadowed his jaw, smell him—the warm male, soap, and T-shirt smell of him.

“I don’t,” she groaned.

“You do.” And he pulled her gently toward him and kissed her.

How could a pair of lips undo her like this, she wondered as she kissed him back, feeling the fever pound in her blood. Maybe he was right. If she was contemplating making love with another man, her future with Mark was shaky at best. But to be here, kissing him, knowing that tonight she’d take this wild attraction to its logical conclusion, made her acknowledge that she wasn’t the woman she’d believed herself to be. And for some reason, Cameron Crane was the man to help her find her true self. So she wrapped herself around him, leaning up to kiss him deeply, running her hands up and down the muscles and bones of his back, happy to finally be doing what she’d longed to from the start.

“I want to make love with you,” she admitted, rubbing herself against him, wanting him so badly she could barely stand still.

“Mmm.”

He pushed her back against the wall and took her mouth as though he owned it, letting his hands roam quick and hot over her. As she let herself go, she refused to think about how much she might regret this. What was happening seemed too important to ignore. His hands weren’t entirely steady as they slipped the buttons from her cotton shirt, unsnapping her bra and pushing the cups out of the way so he could get to her breasts. Chills and fever chased each other across her skin as he palmed her breasts, rubbing and kneading them lightly. She heard the quiet hum of the computer, the ticking of that foolish surfboard clock, and the murmured words of pleasure from her companion.

He reached for the zipper on her navy capris and she realized dimly they were going to end up making love in his study, because she wanted him too much to waste time going upstairs. Already she was tugging at his T-shirt, anxious to feel his chest naked against hers. He helped her yank his shirt off and then he tossed it so it landed who knew where? He pulled her against him and she loved the heat of him, and the roughness of hair on his chest, the pounding of his heart, the pounding of hers. She reached up eagerly to kiss him again.

“We’ll see in the morning about having your flight moved back,” he said.

A strange noise came out of her mouth as she pulled away and stepped back, grabbing her shirt and shoving buttons through holes.

“Oh, what am I thinking?” she said in fury. “All you want to do, all you’ve ever wanted to do since I got here, is control me.”

His eyes narrowed, and she saw the passion head to anger. “I want some time with you. You think a week’s enough? Not for what I’ve got in mind, it isn’t.”