by Nancy Warren
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 picked up the phone, 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 just 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.”
“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 much.
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 her 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.
Chapter Six
“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 P.M. 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 a 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 easy-wearing 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 U.S. 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 Plane
t 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.”
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 long board 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 apartment 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.