by Nancy Warren
TEACH ME
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. Cam’s 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,” Jen 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?”
Bad Boys Down Under
Nancy Warren
KENSINGTON BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Acknowledgments
Bad Boys Down Under owes a great deal to the Best Girls Down Under. Those are: my patient and brilliant Sydney-sider sister-in-law Wendy Warren; the creative, globe-trotting and fun-loving Anne Brettingham-Moore; and a wonderful online friend Karen Horeau. These three Australian women read my manuscript, offered advice, and set me right on all things Aussie. Thank you all so much!
For a Canadian to write a book that featured Australians and Americans was a challenge, but it was one of the most fun projects I’ve ever worked on. It gave me a chance to relive my best memories of visiting Australia, as well as instilling a burning urge to go back. Soon.
The idea for Bad Boys Down Under came from my incredible editor Kate Duffy and, of course, the inspiration came from Aussie men themselves. There’s just something about those sexy, rugged men . . .
While researching Bad Boys Down Under, I read a lot of books about Australia. Two that are particularly fun are: Bill Bryson’s In a Sunburned Country and a little book my sister-in-law sent me called Aussie Slang: Great Australian Slang and Phrases Explained in Basic English by John Blackman.
Thanks as always to my wonderful supportive agent, Robin Rue, to the team at Kensington who take a big, sloppy manuscript and somehow make a book, and to my family who put up with me insisting that watching and re-watching Hugh Jackman movies is research!
Table of Contents
TEACH ME
Title Page
Acknowledgments
SIZZLING IN SYDNEY
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Surfer Boy
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
The Great Barrier
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Teaser chapter
Copyright Page
SIZZLING IN SYDNEY
Chapter One
What Jennifer Talbot hated most about business travel was the business of traveling—and the unpleasant surprises that cropped up from time to time when she was too tired, jet-lagged, and far from home to deal with them.
The man lounging in the outdoor spa appeared to be one of those unpleasant surprises.
Not that he wasn’t gorgeous with that barely civilized, raw-sex Aussie appeal, and she wasn’t displeased that the CEO of Crane Surf and Boogie Boards wanted to see her so soon after her arrival in Australia.
It was just that Jen had stumbled out of the cab from Sydney Airport believing the address she’d been given was a hotel. Her suit was rumpled, her feet seemed to have swelled inside her pumps, her eyelids were scratchy from lack of sleep, and her temper was seriously frayed. What she needed was a very large bottle of Perrier, an even larger bed, and about fourteen hours of uninterrupted sleep.
What she had was her client, Cameron Crane, whom she’d come a very long way to do business with, gazing at her like she was one of those prawns they always talked about putting on the barbie: as though she were some luscious bit of food he was contemplating devouring in a couple of bites.
“G’day. Welcome to Australia,” he said, steam wafting back and forth across his face giving him a dreamy, fantasy quality. His dirty-blond hair was much longer than necessary and curled roguishly at the ends. He sported a tough-guy jaw, a not-very-successful boxer’s nose, and eyes that were both lazy and penetrating at the same time.
“I thought this was a hotel,” she said. It was certainly large enough—a sleekly modern house set back off the street in barely tamed tropical gardens. The house was right across the street from the beach but if its owner didn’t want to walk that far for a swim, there was a good-sized swimming pool at her feet so cool and inviting her feet throbbed just looking at it. And beside it, the spa, steaming silently without its jets on.
Since she’d done her homework, she knew that Crane was a financial wunderkind with a lot of fingers in a lot of very lucrative pies. She’d flown from San Francisco to help him add the USA to his pie collection.
She tried to keep her voice pleasant; he was the client, after all, but even she could hear the edge of irritation. “If you’d told me you wanted to meet right away, I’d have come better prepared.”
“You should have let me send a car for you.”
“It’s just as well you didn’t, since the plane was delayed several hours.” A fact that only added to her fatigue.
“I don’t want you to work tonight. You’re staying here as my guest. I thought you’d be more comfortable in my house than in a hotel.”
In a pig’s eye. She wasn’t entirely sure why he wanted her under his roof, but she doubted it was for her comfort. “I see. I’m Jennifer Talbot.”
She thought his eyes were a smoky gray-green, but it was hard to tell in the steam. What she could certainly see was the cocky grin that revealed I-could-eat-you-all-up even white teeth. “Thought you might be. Come on in. Water’s great.”
She managed a frigid smile. “I didn’t bring my bathing suit.”
The grin intensified. “Neither did I.”
She refused to gasp or blush. She had a pretty good idea he’d be only too pleased if she did either, or, preferably, both. She’d met his type before. “All I want to do is go to bed.” Before he could say a word, she added, “Alone.”
He laughed outright at that. “I’m Cam.”
“Nice to meet you.” Though it would have been a lot nicer in an office when she had her wits about her. She eased an aching foot out of a pump and rubbed it against the back of her calf.
“Sit down and take a load off. Like a beer? I think
I’ve got another one in the esky.” He gestured behind him to a small cooler.
She sank into a teak lounger with a green and white striped cushion, unable to resist putting her feet up. “I don’t suppose you have a Perrier?”
He scratched his chin, where darkish stubble shadowed a dimple. “Might, I suppose. I’ll ring through to the kitchen.” He started to rise, water sluicing down muscular shoulders and a dark-haired chest. As he turned to climb out, she caught a glimpse of the white bulge of his backside and realized he hadn’t been joking about being naked.
As hot and cold shivers chased themselves up and down her spine, she opened her mouth to say, “No. Please don’t bother. A beer’s fine.” But she caught the glance he shot her over his shoulder. He paused for a second, waiting for her to stop him. She closed her mouth and sank back into the lounger. He wanted to play chicken? Fine.
She wouldn’t even look away. In truth, she couldn’t have if she’d tried. He emerged from that bubbling water like a Greek god out of the steam of creation. Even in her dehydrated condition, she felt her mouth go dry. His body was muscular and solid, tanned to a rugged bronze, his paler buttocks rounded, but just as solid and muscular as the rest of him. She was accustomed to working with men who appeared better in their business suits than out of them. She had a feeling Cameron Crane looked better in the buff.
There was a smallish dark patch up high on one cheek that she took to be a bruise until the curtain of wafting steam parted and she recognized the company logo. A small crane.
Anybody who had their company logo tattooed on their butt was either way too arrogant, or a complete workaholic.
If he were a subtle sort of man she’d concede a certain ironic humor in the location of the tattoo, but based on five minutes acquaintance, she doubted Cameron Crane kept much subtlety in stock.
Cam watched blondie watching him.
She looked, he thought, like one of those American film and telly stars: tense, tight-arsed, and anorexic.
He hated for anyone to have the upper hand over him, especially a woman. In this case, he had to admit, Jennifer Talbot did. She was here because she was a brilliant marketer with an intimate knowledge of the California market, and since she’d be a key player in introducing Crane products in the U.S., she had a lot of clout.
Which meant he needed to make absolutely certain he had more. Luckily, he had a foolproof plan for maintaining control of their relationship. He’d sleep with her. He’d already decided to seduce her before she even got on the plane.
If she’d gained a few stones, or lost her teeth since her Harvard photo, he still would have bedded her for the sake of his company. But in the flesh she was even nicer than the eight-year-old photo had led him to believe. He’d seduce her all right, for the sake of his company, and his own pleasure.
He used the intercom to alert Marg that company was here and asked for a sparkling water. Then he turned back and found blondie still gazing straight at him.
Beneath a gaze of icy reserve, he caught the gleam of hot intelligence in her eyes. She didn’t blush or remove her eyes as he gave her his best view and slowly returned to the spa. She didn’t look him up and down like she was going to measure him for a suit, either. He could have been fully dressed for all the reaction he’d caused.
Her eyes locked with his and her eyebrows rose in a challenge. He sank a bit quicker into the swirling water than he’d planned, as something else raised itself. There was nothing he enjoyed more than a challenge.
He reckoned seducing this one, with her hot intelligence and cool beauty, was going to be more fun than he’d imagined. Hell, he might even do the world a favor and loosen her up a bit. In any case, the next few weeks promised to be interesting.
There were two things Cameron Crane was really good at. One of them was making money.
Chapter Two
At least he has hired help, Jen thought, relaxing marginally when a leather-skinned woman who obviously hadn’t heard the word sunscreen appeared with a tray holding a bottle of sparkling water, the bottle covered with condensation, which she hoped meant it had been refrigerated since the accompanying glass held no ice. There was also a can of beer.
“You must be Jennifer.” It came out as Jinnifer, and Jen was momentarily startled to be addressed so casually. “I’m Marg. Cam said you’d be arriving today. If you need anything, give me a hoy.”
Whatever a hoy was, Jen doubted she’d be giving it to anyone. “Thank you, but I don’t think I’ll be staying—”
“I know.” The woman threw up one hand and nearly knocked the can of beer over. “That’s what I told Cam. She’ll want to stay in a hotel, I told him. Not stuck out here with the likes of you. She doesn’t need the aggro. But he never listens. You might as well know that straightaway. Cam always does exactly as he pleases.”
Jen blinked slowly, feeling not so much jet-lagged as time-warped. If she didn’t know from her dossier that Cameron Crane was single, she might have thought this woman was his wife, even though she was clearly much older. Could she be his mother? Since reticence didn’t seem to be part of this woman’s makeup, she felt safe asking. “Are you a relative of Mr. Crane’s?”
The woman emitted a hoot of laughter that caused an unknown bird to squawk in the dark rustle of leafy green trees Jen couldn’t yet identify. “Not bloody likely. I only stay because he pays me.”
“If I double your salary, will you keep your mouth shut?” asked the man who paid her salary from his private spa, where he’d sunk back in the water, his arms outstretched and gripping the sides of the Jacuzzi in a casual way that annoyed Jen. She’d come a long way to do a job. She didn’t appreciate being toyed with.
Marg’s laugh came again, but good-natured, as though she and her employer acted like this all the time. She walked around the pool with an unhurried, flat-footed gait and plonked the fresh can down beside Crane, who winked at her and said, “Cheers.”
Rising and turning back to Jen, she asked, “Are you hungry?”
“No. Just thirsty.” Jen sipped from her drink. “And tired.” Beyond tired.
“Did you sleep on the plane?”
“I never sleep on planes.” It was a curse. Other travelers snoozed and snored. She could fly around the world and not manage a doze. Mostly, she worked.
In the eighteen or so hours it had taken her to fly from San Francisco, California, to Sydney, New South Wales, she’d re-read her material on Crane Surf and Boogie Boards and reviewed the report she’d prepared on the already tight California market. Of course, California was just a start. Mr. Crane, she’d realized as she read up on him, was an ambitious man.
He’d made his first million a decade ago, by the time he was twenty-four. He’d had no family leg up in the business world. His father was a sheep farmer and his mother a homemaker. Cameron had left the sheep station at a young age, it seemed, because the next anyone had heard of him, he was making a name for himself as a surfie, as they called them here. He’d won some competitions, started designing and building his own boards, and soon he’d made a small fortune.
He’d parlayed that into a business empire in the next decade of his life, going from self-made man to self-made mogul.
She’d been prepared to find this man admirable, driven, aggressive—she knew the type well. But to find herself manipulated into sharing his home, met with nakedness and sultry challenges, was more than she’d bargained for.
If she’d been the client, she’d be hailing herself another taxi in a heartbeat and speeding out of here. But he was the client, and, within reason, it was her job to give him what he wanted. But, if the naked man in the hot tub thought she was part of the package, he was going to find he’d mistaken his woman.
As a marketer, she knew all about stereotypes, played with them or against them in advertising campaigns, and used them to help place product in the marketplace. However, because she knew how misleading they could be, she always made a conscious effort not to fall into the trap of judgin
g people by stereotypes.
But Cameron Crane was the quintessential Aussie bloke. Right now, she was just tired enough to snap unwisely at a lucrative client she’d come halfway around the world to work with; antagonizing him because she was dead-tired and he was a chauvinistic, beer-swilling, naked womanizer, was not going to start them off on the path to a harmonious working relationship.
Having downed most of the water, she rose from the blissfully comfy lounger and said, “I’ll go to bed now, if you don’t mind. I’ll want to be fresh and ready to work tomorrow morning.”
“It’s still early. A quick dip in here’ll set you right up,” he promised.
She sent him a smile so frigid it should have put a layer of ice over his spa. And his libido. “I doubt it. Good night.”
“Oh, stop it, Cam. You can see the girl’s dead on her feet. Come on then. I’ll show you your room,” Marg said.
Jen took a step and remembered her heavy suitcase. She hadn’t been certain what the weather would be like in Sydney in September—it was their spring, which meant what exactly? The Internet weather guides weren’t much help. It seemed anything could happen in the spring: summer heat or cold, damp days. So she’d packed for both, and her case was heavy.
“Oh.” She turned and gestured vaguely at the beast.
“Don’t worry about your bag. I’ll see to it,” said Crane.
He didn’t jump right out to help, though, did he? He must know her night things were in there, but he shook his beer can and clearly hearing it slosh in his ear, settled back and sipped.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” she snapped.
His eyes gleamed wickedly through the steam. “I won’t. I’ll have Roger do it. He’s my gardener and odd-job man.”
Too irritated to speak, and too fuzzy-headed to think of anything annihilating enough anyway, she picked up her briefcase and followed Marg, who said as soon as they entered the house, “Don’t bother yourself about Cam. He acts like an arse, but it’s only an act.”