Bad Boys Down Under

by Nancy Warren

  Guilty. That’s when it hit her.

  “It’s your father, isn’t it?”

  “What about him?” He said the words with a belligerent edge.

  Bingo. “You’re afraid you’re like him, aren’t you?”

  “You don’t know—”

  “You’re afraid you’ll walk out on a woman when she needs you most. That you’ve got some deeply defective gene inside you that—”

  “All right.” She jumped at the force of his words. He threw off the covers, got out of bed, and stomped toward the door leading out of the bedroom. “That’s your answer,” he threw over his shoulder. “I don’t ever want to get married in case I turn out to be a shit like my old man.”

  “But you’ve already proven you’re not.” He was standing, staring out of the open bedroom door into the outer room, and she had a good idea he was thinking about walking through it. Naked or not, she jumped out of bed and threw her arms around him from behind, pressing her breasts to his back and hugging all of him she could reach. She kissed him between his shoulder blades. “You’re a good man.”

  “Just don’t get any dreamy-eyed fantasies about me,” he said gruffly.

  Too late, she thought, but wisely kept that one to herself. “Okay, I won’t. Now come back to bed.”

  He turned and she could see the bleakness still lurking at the back of his eyes, but he made a fair attempt at a return to his earlier mood. “You’re all done now with thinking?”

  She nodded. “All done.”

  He walked her backwards to the bed and as he did so, he kissed her long and hard, and she was pleased to note his erection returned to all its former glory—also long and hard.

  But when they got back to bed somehow a deeper awareness had followed them. He made love to her as though he were desperate. And she gave him every bit of herself.

  Including her heart.

  “So,” she said, as they lay sated and lazy in bed, her index finger idly tracing the muscles of his chest, “do you have an agent?”

  His chest went up and down as a laugh/cough hybrid shook him. “What would I want with an agent?”

  “An agent looks after your interests, so you get paid a fair rate.”

  “Have you seen how much I’m getting paid? Even with overtime that would be about a year’s wages at home.”

  “Yes. I’ve seen your contract. And Jen’s a good person, she wouldn’t cheat you. What you’re being paid is fair. But you should still have someone looking after your interests.”

  He scratched his chest where she’d been idly pulling at the hair there. She must have tickled him. Too bad, she was having fun.

  “I’d have to pay an agent, right?”

  “Yes, of course. They’d take a percentage of your earnings.”

  “So I’m going to pay some California shark a portion of my wages so he can tell me I’m getting good money? No, thank you. Let the agent parade around in his bathing cossy and wink at cameras if he wants the money.”

  He was so cute she had to stop and kiss him. Which, naturally, led to more kissing and soon kissing wasn’t enough and after missing breakfast they were in serious danger of missing lunch.

  “Let’s order room service,” she said.

  “It’s a terrible price,” he informed her.

  “I know.” She grinned at him. “We’ll eat in bed.”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  They might be eating naked in bed, with hotel pillows piled behind them, but still she wasn’t finished with a subject that could be to Steve’s benefit.

  “So, let’s say your commercials and magazine ads are amazingly well-received and Crane’s success in the States is due partly to you as the spokesman.”

  He grinned at her. “Let’s.”

  “Now we want you for more commercials. In fact, we want to bind you to an exclusive contract. That means you can’t work for anyone else.”

  “Thanks, I know what exclusive means.”

  Okay. Sore point there. Interesting.

  “Right. I get a bit pedantic sometimes.” She paused, but he didn’t seem to have any trouble with pedantic, either, so she went on. “If Crane wants an arrangement like that, and I’m not saying it will happen but it could”—especially, she thought, if he steamed up the screen on every commercial the way he’d come across on the video recorder when he’d winked at her—“then what would you do?”

  “I’d go home. I’m not staying here forever, you know. I’ve got my proper job to get back to. We should be called back in another month or so.”

  Her mouth dropped open at the notion that he might give up a seriously cushy deal right here to go back to hammering steel or whatever he did, until he got laid off again. “You have got to be kidding.”

  He shrugged. “This isn’t a proper job. It’s a holiday. Good money, travel, staying in a swanky place,” he glanced her way, “and spending time with a sexy California girl.”

  A small pang smote her heart, but she stifled it. Of course he was going home. Who was she kidding? She’d somehow managed to do an end run around the fairy tale and she, the ugly stepsister, had crammed her oversized clodhopper into a dainty slipper. Naturally, it couldn’t last.

  Handsome fairy-tale princes might play footsie with stepsisters, but it was Cinderella they married.

  Some as yet unknown antipodean Cinderella was going to spend her life with Steve Jackson, and she’d be nothing but a memory. A shoe that never really fit.

  Oh, well, she reminded herself, she had now. And he had called her sexy.

  “Steve,” she said, keeping her voice calm and business-casual with an effort, when she wanted to throw herself on his spectacular chest and beg him to love her, “do you have any idea of the kind of money we’d be talking? If you become a fresh face and you can move product, a lot of companies are going to want to talk to you. You should have an agent simply to protect your interests.”

  “I’m sure everything you’re saying is real smart, and I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me, but I’m not a fresh face. I’m a bloke who builds bridges.”

  “Okay,” she said softly. “Pass the lox and cream cheese.”

  She knew a couple of reputable agents who would be a good fit with Steve. She wasn’t giving up. For his own good.

  Chapter Ten

  “I can’t do this,” Steve said to Lise, knocking away the hands of the man currently attempting to rub baby oil into his biceps—and knocking them none too gently.

  She smirked as though she thought this was all a great joke, him in boardies you’d need sunglasses to look at and with some Bruce putting his hands all over him. He’d had a better day the time a bit of scaffolding had fallen on his head and left him with a broken hard hat and a concussion. At least he’d kept his pants on and still felt like a man at the end of the day. He might not have known which man he was, but once the headache abated, all his wits had returned.

  Two weeks of reading nauseating scripts for radio adverts, of practicing for TV, and the only reason he hadn’t bolted for home was that at the end of every day, Lise was his. But today was the worst.

  Today he was half-naked, his hair had something sprayed on it that smelled like his sister when she was going out, they were rubbing oil on his body to make him look wet, and there was a makeup woman eyeing him in a way that made him extremely uncomfortable.

  They were in the dressing room of a studio where they were shooting ads for magazines. It turned out they weren’t even going to snap the photos near the sea. They’d put the sea in later, with a computer, Lise had told him.

  He was less than pleased. He might be able to pretend he was having a great day of sun and surf on one of Crane’s boards if he was actually standing in the sun with the ocean at his back, but he was being asked to pretend. The whole thing was fake.

  Big round lights and silver umbrellas to mimic the sun, a pile of sand trucked in from somewhere to create a beach, baby oil instead of ocean water, and an enormous fan that he susp
ected was going to be the sea breeze.

  The fellow with the baby oil looked as exasperated as Steve felt. “Look,” he said, waving his oily hands about, “I really need to—”

  “Could we have a minute?” Lise asked in that calm way she had, as though this sort of thing happened every day. Maybe to her it did.

  “We’re shooting in fifteen minutes,” baby oil boy said. “You know how Sebastian is about his schedule.”

  “Sebastian?” Steve was pretty sure he wouldn’t trust anyone named Sebastian.

  “The photographer,” Lise explained.

  “Great. Why couldn’t they find a pretty girl to take photos? I’ve got to prance around in shorts in front of a guy named Sebastian?”

  Lise looked at him for a long moment as though trying to work something out. How to get him off the job and on the next plane to Sydney, he hoped.

  She was very much the working woman today, with a skirt that was longer than he liked, and a white top that looked like a man’s shirt.

  She glanced at her watch and took a step closer. “This shoot is important, Steve. I really need you to work with us.”

  “I know, but it’s bloody hard when I’ve got to play pretend all the time.”

  She took another step closer and smiled, not the wonderful open smile she offered him in their intimate times, but the business, everything’s-going-to-be-all-right-if-you-do-as-I-say smile he wasn’t so keen on. “I don’t want you to think about the photographer, or the makeup people.”

  “What about these damn shorts then?”

  Her lips quivered, but she shook her head solemnly. “Not them, either. We’ve talked about this, and we’ve practiced,” she reminded him. Well, they’d practiced mostly at his hotel or her apartment when she’d been a lot closer to naked and sex had always ended up a part of the session. “You need to imagine you’re catching a wave and the feeling’s exhilarating, the wind’s whipping through your hair, and you’re hanging onto the crest and ready to ride it right into the finish. Just like we practiced.”

  She picked up the bottle of baby oil and poured some into her hand. As she rubbed it into his shoulders he relaxed a little, but only a little. He said, “When we practiced, I didn’t smell like babies and girls.”

  “Forget it. Concentrate on the surf scene I just described. You were fantastic when it was just the two of us.”

  He shifted a little and admitted, “When we were practicing, I wasn’t thinking about surfing.”

  “You weren’t?” Her hand stalled in mid-circle so he felt only her fingers—four delicate touches on his shoulder. “But you had the fiercest look of concentration on your face; I felt the ride you were taking.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about riding a surfboard,” he told her grumpily. “I was thinking about riding you.”

  She made a tiny sound behind him and it seemed as though she moved closer. “Riding me?”

  “That’s right. I thought about riding you, cresting the wave, taking it all the way into the beach. I can do it when I’m looking at you half-naked, and know we’re going to end up all over each other, but I don’t think it’s going to work when I’m looking at a bloke named Sebastian.”

  He could see his words were having an effect on her, and in spite of his disgruntlement, he began to stir as he felt her fingers go back to rubbing the oil into his body.

  “All right. Whatever works.”

  “You naked works.”

  “When you smell this baby oil,” she said softly, “don’t think about babies. Think about how it’s going to feel when I rub oil all over you.” Her movements changed from efficient to sensual. “When you finish here, we’re heading straight for your hotel, with this oil, and I will rub it all over you.”

  He was glad the boarder shorts were so baggy because his focus was coming back as sharply as she could wish. But he didn’t want her thinking he was a complete pushover. “Not enough,” he said, turning.

  Her eyes widened slightly as he looked down at her, so prim and proper, but for her glistening oil-drenched hands. “I need to be able to see you in order to keep my mind focused.”

  “All right.” She nodded slowly. “I’ll stand behind the photographer for the whole session so you can see me.”

  “Still not enough,” he said, liking the way her eyes were starting to smolder. Her tits were probably jumping to attention too, but who could tell with that ridiculous shirt.

  He stared at her chest, and smiled. No one could tell what was under there, no one but him. “I need more incentive.”

  Since his hands were perfectly oil-free he didn’t so much as smudge the white cotton when he swiftly undid the buttons. With her greasy hands she couldn’t stop him without covering herself with oil, so she flapped them about helplessly, saying, “What are you doing?” “Stop it!” and “Steeve,” in increasing agitation until he had every button undone and the whole shirt flapping open.

  Instead of the sexy lingerie she wore in the evenings, she now wore a sensible white cotton bra that was all about support and comfort he imagined since it certainly wasn’t sexy. Well, it was to him, but he doubted that had been her intent.

  He reached around her back and unsnapped the bra.

  Now her eyes verged on alarm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Hold your arms out very still so you don’t get any grease on your shirt,” he ordered her, enjoying himself more by the second.

  “If you think I’m going out there naked, you’re crazy,” she whispered, startled and blushing, and checking over her shoulder every other second.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll get your shirt back,” he said. All he planned to keep was the bra. Since he was already sliding the shirt down her arms she had little choice but to hold her hands still. He was careful not to let the fabric touch her fingers. Then the shirt was in his hand and she stood before him in an undone white bra and a businesslike skirt, bare legs, and flat navy sandals.

  He slipped the bra off her arms while she gasped and glanced over her shoulder yet again toward the door. “Hurry up, I hate this,” she muttered, but her caramel-colored nipples told a different story. They were perky as hell, and just the sight of them had him feeling more and more confident.

  He stooped to kiss each one in turn, sucking them swiftly into his mouth so she moaned and shivered. He anchored the bra into the waistband of his shorts temporarily and then politely held the shirt for her to slip her arms into.

  “What about my bra?” she asked, not moving.

  “I like knowing your breasts are naked under that shirt, and waiting for me.”

  “Oh,” she said it matter-of-factly, but he could hear that she was turned on.

  He slipped the buttons back in place, working from the bottom up so her breasts were on display as long as possible, while she kept glancing over her shoulder and telling him to hurry.

  There was a knock on the door and she jumped. “Five minutes,” the snotty oil applier yelled through the door.

  “We’ll be there,” she called back in a loud, clear voice, then in an undertone gasped, “What are you doing now?”

  “Your panties.”

  “No!”

  But his hands were already under her skirt and he was grasping the waistband. Even through the cotton he could feel her heat. He laughed up into her blushing face. “It’s to help me focus.”

  She might want to look stern, but he could see the smile trying to peep through. He hooked his thumbs and slid the cotton down her legs and waited while she stepped out of them. As he’d suspected, they were a match for the bra. Sensible, white, and cotton.

  He took bra and panties and walked to where he’d left his rucksack in the corner of the room. He stuffed the garments in the outer pocket and zipped it.

  “All right. I hope you’re satisfied. Now let’s go.”

  “Wait, you missed a bit with the oil,” he said, reaching for the bottle and tilted it so oil coated the tip of his middle finger.

  “Where?�
�� She was looking him over critically, so she jumped when he raised her skirt with one hand and reached under it with the other. He slipped his hand between her thighs before she’d quite grasped his intent.

  He knew her body so well that he found her sweet spot unerringly, touching the oil to her skin so she gasped, and then rubbing lightly. Her breathing changed in a way that meant she was starting to climb out of her skin. He kept up the motion until she became slick all over, and her intimate flesh plumped up.

  “Just there,” he said, and careful not to touch her clothing with his oil-coated torso, leaned down to kiss her. “When this is over,” he mumbled against her lips, “we’ll be taking turns with that oil.”

  “This is ridiculous,” she gasped, when he withdrew his hand from under her skirt. “I can’t go out there. I feel—”

  “Half-naked, covered in oil, and horny? So do I. Just be glad no one’s taking your picture.”

  She might not like it, but she did exactly what he needed her to do. Once they got out front, Sebastian turned out to be a middle-aged German who was as business-like and matter-of-fact as Steve could wish.

  And it wasn’t Sebastian that Steve watched, anyway; it was Lise, standing behind and to the right. When the photographer changed his pose, or told the makeup girl to push his hair behind his ear, Steve would glance at Lise and she’d shift her shoulders so he saw the quick play of her nipples against the shirt, or she’d shift her weight from side to side so he knew her naked thighs were rubbing together, where he’d lightly slicked them with the oil.

  “Lean forward, into the wave,” Sebastian ordered at one point. He maneuvered his feet on the surfboard, and glanced down to see it wedged into the sand, which would be computer-generated waves when this was done. The absurdity of it all struck him and he glanced helplessly at Lise.

  She stared at him, licked her lips, and said, “Bend deeper into it, like this.” As she bent her own torso, he watched the pull of fabric across her breasts, imagined the air wafting against her nakedness beneath the skirt and suddenly bending deep was not an option, it was his only hope to protect his modesty. He squinted into the fake sun in an effort to see her better and all he could think about was the moment he could plunge into her heat.