by Nancy Warren
If the product did well, she worried it was a fluke and sales would soon drop, and if it didn’t do well—then she had to move up from the over-the-counter stomach stuff to something her doctor prescribed. And even her doctor had taken to lecturing her about her stress level.
Fair enough, she could try casually dating a handsome surfer and see if it did anything for her stress level. And if it meant a few hours of preparation on her appearance, then she’d take them. After all, she told herself, it wasn’t like she was cheating the company of her time. Steve Jackson was a critical part of one of the most exciting and ambitious campaigns she’d ever worked on. The hours she took off this afternoon she could make up by using their dinnertime to talk about his role in promoting Crane. “Okay. Then what?”
“You take him for dinner. You do those business dinners all the time. It’s familiar territory.”
Already she was feeling calmer. Of course she could do dinner; she wined and dined clients with reasonable frequency. “Okay. Dinner. Then what?”
“Then you suggest a nightcap back at his hotel. There’s a nice bar on the top floor. Lots of fun people go there.”
“Really? Do you?”
“Sure. Then you decide if you want to take it down a few floors to his place. Easy as pie.”
“I make terrible pie.” Lise was fairly certain that was deeply symbolic of how easy a time she was going to have with this dating-possibly-leading-to-an-affair business.
Still, it wasn’t like she was a recluse or a nun. She’d just been on a temporary hiatus from men, fun, and sex for a few months or so. Around twelve months, in fact. Which brought to mind another problem.
“I’m not sure I remember how to have sex.”
“It will come back to you,” Sonia said with all the confidence of someone who’s never gone without longer than a week. “You remember about safe sex?”
Lise rolled her eyes. “Yes.”
“You take your own condoms and you use them.”
Great. In between shopping for clothes for the woman she wished she was, getting her hair, makeup, and nails done, she had to squeeze in a trip to the Condom Shack.
Surely dinner with one man wasn’t worth so much effort.
Then she viewed the final footage of Steve’s commercial run-through and her kneecaps melted. Oh, yeah. He was worth it.
So Lise found herself several hours later standing outside Steve’s suite in the only dress she and Sonia had been able to compromise on. One that was sexy enough for Sonia and acceptable to her: a soft, pink-rose wrap dress with geometric flowers on it. The neck was a vee, but not too big of a vee. However, the silky material clung to her shape and, as Sonia had helpfully pointed out, one pull of the tie at her waist and she was out of there.
The shoes were pink and strappy, with a heel that had her almost pitching forward. A ridiculous little bag, not even big enough for her palm pilot or cell phone, held her wallet, lipstick, breath mints, her house keys, and, tucked at the bottom, three brand new condoms.
She took a deep breath, reminded herself this was her chance to live life to its fullest for a few weeks—nothing terrible could go wrong in such a short time. Even if he dumped her tomorrow—which she personally considered a pretty sure bet—she’d have had the experience of hopefully sleeping with the sexiest man she’d ever met.
She tapped on the door, wished she’d stuck at least a roll of Tums in her bag when Sonia wasn’t looking, and waited. It seemed like a long time went by and nothing happened.
Maybe he hadn’t heard her. She rapped again a little louder.
The door opened, and there was Steve in a hotel robe.
She blinked.
After taking in the glimpse of a chest so perfectly muscled that she almost whimpered, and musing that one tug on his robe would have him naked in exactly the same amount of time it would take her dress to come off, she realized that she might be a temporary party girl but she wasn’t a call girl.
Had she misunderstood his request so completely?
Had he misjudged her so totally?
“What . . . ?” she began, still standing in the hallway feeling her anticipation of the evening drain away.
He blushed. The sexiest man she’d ever seen in her life blushed and looked uncertain. “I don’t know what to wear,” he said. “Can you give me a hand?”
Suddenly she felt better than she’d felt in a couple of hours. Steve unsure made her feel a little steadier on her feet. Of course it hadn’t occurred to her that a man who spent most of his life on a surfboard would have a tough time knowing how to dress for dinner. “Sure,” she said. Ha—like she had a clue.
She followed him in and could see through the open bedroom door that there were clothes all over. It looked like he’d had a tantrum and tossed them around the place.
“What do you usually wear at home when you go out?” she asked. Sydney couldn’t be that different from San Francisco, could it?
“My jeans, my boots, and a T-shirt.”
She felt happier by the second. “Then wear that.”
“But I want to look good for you.”
No worries there, as he might say. “You’ll be fine. It’s better to be comfortable.”
He snorted. “Are you comfy in those shoes?”
“No.” Emphatically, no. She was certain she could already feel a nascent corn on her baby toe, which was being squished hideously into the triangular toepiece of the shoes.
“Well, then. I can’t wear jeans when you’re all spiffy.”
An idea that Sonia would absolutely hate occurred to her. The hell with Sonia. Part of Lise Atwater’s job was to keep Steve happy and satisfied. If he wanted to wear jeans out to dinner, she’d have to accommodate him. Sonia might think her idea was terrible, but her toes were loving it. “I’ve got some workout stuff in the car. Shorts and T-shirt and sneakers.” And thank goodness everything was actually clean since it had been so long since she’d had time to work out.
He looked so relieved it was her turn to laugh. “I’ll run down and grab them. Be right back.”
So she found herself shucking the new dress within an hour of putting it on—and not for the reason she’d envisioned.
Oh, well. Her hair and makeup still looked good, she decided as she emerged from the opulent main bathroom of the suite.
He eyed her from top to bottom and she could have sworn his eyes warmed more than they had when she was wearing the fancy dress.
Steve wore those jeans he loved so much and a T-shirt advertising something with a lot of Xs that appeared to be a beer.
“If you’re going to advertise a product, you should be wearing Crane casuals,” she said.
He turned to her with an expression as though he’d just eaten something moldy. “Have you seen those things? If I want to look like a tropical fruit, I’ll put a pineapple on my head.”
She tried not to smirk. “They aren’t all that bright. And the focus groups suggest they’ll be amazingly popular when we launch,” she wheedled.
“Do you mind if we don’t talk about business tonight? I know it seems like we ought to, but I’d quite like a night off.”
“I’m sorry.” When had this happened to her that she’d become so obsessed with a job? “I get a little carried away sometimes. Wear your beer shirt.”
“Right. Fancy a drink before we go?”
Well, she did and she didn’t. It was so nice to be here alone with him and so scary to be here alone with him. Besides, he’d never been to the States before; he was probably dying for some nightlife. She had to think party people or she was going to blow this affair before it got off the ground.
“No thanks. Maybe when we come back later.” Realizing what she’d said, she blushed scarlet. “I meant . . .”
He chuckled and, walking toward her, looped an arm around her shoulders that was friendly and yet . . . not. She had a strong feeling he had the same ideas about later as she did. “Let’s go get some food.”
As they h
eaded for the door, she was looking anywhere except into the open bedroom door at the huge bed he’d miraculously emptied of clothes. A man didn’t bother cleaning his bedroom unless. . .
A book caught her attention on the coffee table. She recognized the cover. Blinked, and blinked again. What was Plato’s Republic doing on Steve Jackson’s coffee table? Even stranger, what was it doing with a San Francisco tourist leaflet sticking out as a bookmark?
Was it possible her surfer boy read philosophy?
Chapter Six
Lise was acting really weird. Almost like she was new at this. Was it possible his party girl didn’t party?
Whatever it was, he liked Lise a lot better in some decent walking shoes than those tippy-tappy things that all but hobbled her. Since he’d already had more than a fair glimpse of her upper body, he was pleased that her shorts were on the short side and showed off a pair of nice legs. They were long, and a bit on the slim side, but then so was Lise, and pale as though she either slathered on sunscreen or didn’t get out much.
He was beginning to wonder which it might be.
They rode the elevator, and Lise seemed as preoccupied as he was so they didn’t talk, but he couldn’t help but notice the faint glow on her cheeks or the way her small breasts rose and fell under a T-shirt that interestingly enough didn’t sport a single logo. They exited the elevator and strode across the lobby, her stride not so very much shorter than his now she was wearing proper shoes.
“Taxi, Mr. Jackson?”
He glanced at Lise, but she shook her head.
“No thanks, Ralph,” he said.
“You know the doorman?” she asked when they were out of range.
“Well, not intimately. I know his name and he knows mine, though I tell you I wish he’d stop calling me Mister. It gives me a funny feeling. Still, he’s a nice bloke. Helps me with directions and places to go.”
“Oh. You’ve probably already been to the Wharf.”
“Well, yeah. Lots of good spots to eat, though.”
They settled on an unimposing little place that served fantastic hot pot. It was the sort of place she went with a friend on a weeknight for good food and a comfortable atmosphere, but it wasn’t the sort of place she’d take a client. Or a date she wanted to impress with her good taste and trendiness.
She was so screwed. Unless he believed that the trendy people of San Francisco wore a lot of tweed and denim, her rep as a trendsetter was done for.
Steve didn’t seem to care who else was in the restaurant. He glanced around and nodded, visibly relaxing. “I like this place,” he said. “It’s comfortable. I won’t spend all night worrying about which fork to use.”
“And the food’s great.”
Once they’d ordered and he had a beer and she a glass of red wine, there was a pause.
In his well-washed T-shirt, she was reminded of his incredible torso. His arms were tanned and bulged in a mouth-watering way. Cynically, she knew he probably paid a fortune in personal training, owned his own tanning bed, and had his hair retouched every couple of weeks, but just for the moment she was falling for the fantasy that nature had actually endowed one man with so much. Some of the sun-smooched hair and muscles had to be from surfing. At least she hoped so.
“So, have you been surfing all your life?” she asked him.
“Well, I know how, but no. I’m not a big surfer.”
“Oh.” She tried not to let her disappointment show. She wasn’t marrying the guy, she just maybe wanted to have some hot sex with him. What did she care if his hair was done my Monsieur Claude and his bronzed bod came via UV tubes?
Actually, she cared a lot. In her experience—and in her job and her personal life she’d had some—men who spent more time in front of the mirror than she did and paid more to get their hair styled tended to be a little self-absorbed.
The kind of guy who thought clitoris was a new, anti-aging skin serum was probably not going to be a big thrill in bed.
Oh, well, he looked good. She could sit here all evening, watch his incredible face while he talked, inevitably, about himself, and pretend she was watching him on TV and turn the sound down. Then she’d fill in the dialogue with what she wished he’d said.
“Can you surf well enough to fake it for a commercial?”
He shook his head and her heart sank, but he said, “Remember, we’re not going to talk business.”
Okay, she was going to assume the head shake was to indicate that he was admonishing her for bringing up work, not that he couldn’t surf.
Please, let him know how to surf. No way she could find a pro to teach him in the short time available.
There was another pause. If they didn’t talk about business, there was only one topic left that could possibly interest this man.
Giving in to the inevitable, she said, “Tell me about yourself,” and turned the sound down, ready to watch his lips—those wonderful, half-smiling, excellent kisser lips—while he prepared to indulge in his favorite subject.
She had the sound properly adjusted and her first dubbed statement ready.
In her fantasy, he’d say, “There’s really not much to tell. I’m modeling to put myself through medical college. Of course, I’ll spend a couple of years with Doctors Without Borders before settling down to my own practice. All that’s missing is the right woman to share my life with.”
His lips started to move and the first couple of words shocked her so much she forgot to turn down the sound and listened to every word the man across from her said.
“Not much to tell, really,” he said with an uncomfortable shrug. “I go to work, come home, mess about with me mates.” He paused to think deeply. “Watch a lot of footie.”
She blinked. “You watch people playing footsie?” She thought her own hobbies were on the sad side, but that was pathetic.
He laughed, not in a loud way, but enough to get his chest moving and his eyes dancing. “Not footsie, footie. Football to you, love.”
“Oh.” She’d heard vaguely about some barbaric sport where they banged heads a lot and bloodletting was normal. “Is that Aussie Rules?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“I hear it’s brutal and that there are no rules.”
“We-ell.” He appeared to give the matter some thought. “It’s not as formal as your American football, but there are rules.”
And he could explain every game and every rule within that game if he looked at her with those amazing eyes and called her “love.” Sure, she knew it was a casual endearment, but she didn’t care.
“Do you like modeling?”
He looked at her and stopped mid-chew as though something he’d eaten didn’t agree with him.
“I’m not a model!”
Right. Of course not. They all called themselves actors these days. He had three lines in a commercial, and he was an actor.
She helped herself to more of the hot pot, surprised at how her stomach was behaving itself. “How did you get into the business?”
“What? You mean Crane?”
She nodded. She meant modeling/acting, but at this point she wasn’t going to argue definitions.
“Didn’t Jennifer Talbot tell you about me?”
“Tell me what?” Jen had been beside herself with excitement over her find and sent him over. That was about all she knew. Oh, great. He’d probably won some Australian version of the Academy Awards and she’d just brutally insulted him by never having “seen his work.” Damn it, when she’d found nothing about him on the Internet, she should have looked harder. Made Jen send her a bio to go along with his pictures.
“I was after a job in the shipping department at Crane. Jennifer spotted me standing at the reception desk and talked me into doing this.”
Lise swallowed too fast and an entire fiery pepper went down the wrong way. She grabbed her water glass and gulped, blinking tears out of her eyes. She coughed and spluttered, feeling an unfamiliar burn, but even having her whole esophagus on fire c
ouldn’t prevent her squeaking, “You’re a shipper?”
“Naah. I’m a steelworker, but there’s not much work about at the moment. I’m on a temporary layoff.”
“A steelworker?” she echoed faintly, her voice emerging kind of breathy and raspy. Her windpipe felt like a fire-breathing dragon that’s breathed its last.
He seemed to be enjoying her shock. “That’s right.”
“Do you model on the side?”
He shook his head.
“Done any acting at all?”
Even before he shook his head his face twisted in a grimace, and she had her answer.
“I don’t think I can act,” he said. “That’s why I needed you there today. I could say those words and pretend they were about me wanting to kiss you, and then it was all right.”
“I wonder what you’ll have to fantasize about before you can pretend to surf for the camera,” she snapped, reverting to her suspicion that Jen had completely lost it.
His eyes darkened and her insides went hot in a way that had nothing to do with the misdirected pepper. “That’s easy,” he said in a tone that made her wish for silk lingerie and a queen-sized bed.
“So you’re a steelworker,” she said primly, not sure how to answer his obvious innuendo.
“That’s right.”
“What do you build?”
“Lots of things. Buildings, ships. I worked on a bridge for the better part of a year.” He grimaced. “Hot work. Outside all the time, but I like being part of something permanent. You know? People will drive or walk or bicycle over that bridge for generations, and I helped build it.”
She nodded, but really she couldn’t relate. Her business was the opposite, style not substance, the advertisement not the product.
Wait a minute. If he’d worked outside—“Did the sun do that to your hair?”
He stuck a hand through his hair as though he’d forgotten he had any on his head. “Made it a bit lighter, I suppose.”
“You’d pay a few hundred to get that look in a top salon.”