Love Capri Style

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Love Capri Style Page 4

by Reynolds, Lynn


  “Is he yours, then?” Eric asked.

  Amanda gave a short, sarcastic laugh. “You make him sound like my pet sheepdog.”

  “Isn’t he?” Eric squinted. “Wait, I see. He’s a photographer. I often have difficulty telling the two breeds apart.”

  “He’s a breed apart, all right. Zeke Brennan. Ask him about his Pulitzer for war photography if you want to pass a couple of hours.”

  Eric eyed the man with some surprise, wondering how he’d gone from serious photojournalism to snapping candid shots of celebs eating ice cream for Fame.

  “You two work together, then?”

  Amanda cast an amused sidelong glance at him. Did she suspect him of being jealous? He only wanted to know who her employer was. He hardly knew her well enough to be jealous.

  “Hey, Ric, where’s my gelato?” Stacey motioned him over to the table.

  “Ric?” Amanda’s smooth voice oozed with distaste.

  Eric shrugged. An unfamiliar wave of embarrassment stole upon him. “Apparently, people from Texas are required to nickname everyone.”

  “Poor you,” Amanda retorted. The tiniest bit of heat smoldered in her voice, suggesting the two of them were in on some naughty secret.

  Someone spoke to him as if from a great distance. He blinked and tore his gaze away from the promise in those dark eyes.

  “Isn’t that right?” Stacey’s face was alive with sly amusement as she glanced back and forth from Eric to Amanda.

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t listening to you. Darling.” Eric fixed his gaze on Amanda. Her spoon wavered above the cup of ice cream, and she ducked her head down.

  “I said, we need to be on our way, don’t we?” Stacey repeated, linking her arm through Eric’s. She turned her attention to Amanda, who’d sat down beside the scruffy, bearded photographer. “I’m doing a television interview, and I’m trying to start being on time for things.”

  “One quick shot of you with the future Mr. Stacey Dakota,” the photographer quipped.

  Eric glared at the man as he snapped off a series of quick shots.

  Amanda laid a hand on her companion’s sleeve. “Put it away, and let them go, Zeke.”

  Eric didn’t know what disturbed him more—being called “Mr. Dakota” or being defended by Amanda because of it.

  Stacey twiddled her fingers at the photographer. “We really have to leave.”

  She wrapped her hands around Eric’s arm and tugged him backwards. “Come on—honey. We don’t want to be late.”

  Stacey’s harsh, coppery highlighted hair glared in the sunlight as the couple hurried away. Amanda’s insides turned over at the sight. What did he see in that empty-headed pop star—a handsome, sophisticated man like Eric Greyford? And what did it mean, that he would look at her in the way he had, with his girlfriend standing right beside him?

  Damn it. She’d worn one of the dresses Signora Claudia had brought to her room—one of the dresses he’d paid for. She must look like a ridiculously easy target to him. She’d never have worn it if she’d expected to see him; only the turquoise and blue stripes of the dress had made her look so slender and somehow taller too. Signora Claudia had been a very persuasive saleswoman, and yes, Amanda had been flattered—too flattered. A year’s salary wouldn’t have covered the cost of the six dresses the signora insisted on leaving in her room. Hard not to take a liking to a man when he was willing to spend that much cash on you.

  Amanda wrinkled her nose at her own line of thought. Had thinking like that led her mother to take up with Peter Tate?

  “We should follow them.”

  At first, she was glad to have Zeke interrupt her musings. Until what he’d said registered.

  “I’m not following them. They’re on their way to an interview.”

  “Some nice lonely spots along this road up into the hills,” Zeke observed. “Great places for a quick make-out session. And I’ve got my telephoto lens with me.”

  “Zeke, for Heaven’s sake!” Amanda pressed her hands to her temples.

  “What, what?” Zeke snapped. “That not your cup of tea? Then why are you working at Fame, Jackson? What do you think our readers want? Articles about some aging soap star’s wildflower garden?”

  Amanda closed her eyes and counted to ten. She’d been proud of the piece he mocked, but it had made her a laughingstock in the Fame newsroom. Dan had run it with great reluctance, cutting it to one page and burying it in the back of the magazine.

  “The technique is called green landscaping, Zeke. The article was meant to be about larger issues than Mary Prentice’s garden.”

  Zeke threw his hands up in the air and looked to the heavens. Then, he looked back down at Amanda. “A lot of folks think your father is the only reason you’re still employed at Fame. Stories like that don’t help you. And flirting with his rival won’t help you either.”

  Amanda blew out a great puff of air. “I was not flirting. And how can people at the magazine be thinking I’m only employed there because of my father? No one but you and Dan know Peter Tate is my father!”

  Zeke’s fiddled with one of the lenses in his bag.

  “Zeke? Did you tell people?”

  Reluctantly, he met her gaze. “No, I didn’t. But someone did. I’ve overheard talk.”

  Had Dan spilled the beans to her employees? Was Amanda doing such a bad job that Dan needed to make excuses for her presence on the staff? That was a disheartening thought, yet entirely believable. Amanda was a good writer, and she had dozens of clips from her work at the Lake Havasu Star to prove it. But even she had to admit her work at Fame hadn’t been up to par. The truth was, she’d taken the job for all the wrong reasons. It hadn’t led to a cuddly relationship with her estranged father. Now she hung on to the job for equally bad reasons—the phenomenal pay, the prestige, the excitement of being in New York. And still that tiny little hope that she and her father could find a way to be friends.

  Zeke gathered up his camera bag and bottled water. “Look, Kiddo.” He waved the water bottle in the direction Eric and Stacey had taken. “That guy was hot for you, or I’m blind. Use it. Get a story out of him, one that will impress your dad and shut up your critics. Maybe something about his plans for Greyford Publishing.”

  “That doesn’t sound very sexy and exciting.”

  “No, but your dad will like it. You’ll make Greyford look like a fool, since he probably doesn’t have any plans for the company. All his plans revolve around getting girls like you naked. The guy goes through women like I go through memory cards. He’s just a user.”

  Amanda started at the sound of the very word she’d thought earlier in the day.

  Zeke uncapped his water bottle and took a sloppy gulp, the drops running down into his beard. “You need to focus on getting some good interviews, Jackson. Or Daddy—and even Dan—are gonna get fed up and ship you back out to the desert.”

  Zeke turned and stalked away, muttering under his breath all the way.

  Amanda relaxed her posture, discovering little half-moon nail marks in the palms of her hands, where she’d clenched her fists. Zeke was infuriating, but in a way, he was right. If she didn’t want to go back to her little newspaper in the desert, she needed to hustle for the big stories. And tonight would be a golden opportunity to do exactly that.

  THREE

  Eric liked people to be prompt. That was why, despite the rarity of vehicles on Capri, he’d offered to send a car round for the shapely blonde reporter. He sighed heavily and drummed the fingers of one hand on the tabletop. It was foolish to sit here waiting for her. Some no name reporter from Fame magazine of all places.

  He’d guessed her employer once he saw her photographer, recognizing the loud and overbearing “Zeke” from his numerous appearances at other celebrity events. Good Lord, he hoped she didn’t bring that greasy, hairy brute into Da Paolino with her. Of course, that depended on whether she tried to make a news story out of this little get-together. He sincerely hoped not. He hadn’t made the as
signation in order to talk to her—or her slovenly photographer for that matter. No, he’d invited her to dinner for other reasons—ones having much more to do with the long, tanned legs he’d spotted in that striped dress earlier today. He decided he’d wait another ten minutes for those legs.

  Maybe even fifteen.

  His cell phone rang, and he snatched it up from the green and white-checkered tablecloth. The caller ID indicated it was his personal assistant in London. With reluctance, he answered, knowing it would be more tedious details about the board meeting scheduled for next Monday. He’d deliberately postponed the meeting until after the Capri Music Festival. With Greyford Publishing acting as the festival’s top sponsor, success for the festival might mean success for himself at this meeting. Right now, he was acting Chief of Operations in the wake of his brother’s death. He needed some way to convince the directors to make that title permanent, and the festival was his only immediate option. If it failed, so did he. The Board would undoubtedly vote in favor of selling out to Tate Global. He wasn’t even sure his father would argue the point. Heart disease had put him on the sidelines at Greyford Publishing; since Antony’s death he seemed to have lost all interest in the family business.

  Eric’s matronly assistant regaled him with minute details about board members and their expected positions on Monday’s vote. “Oh,” she added as an afterthought. “I looked up your young reporter.”

  “Did you?” Suddenly Eric found himself far more interested in Cathy’s conversation. “What did you find?”

  “She’s been a reporter at Fame for nearly two years. I can email you some samples of her work there.”

  “Please do.”

  Cathy’s neutral tones couldn’t hide the intrigue in her next remarks. “You might be more interested in the work she did prior to her stint with Tate Global.”

  “Do elaborate, Cathy.”

  “She worked for a newspaper in Arizona, where she did columns about nature and environmental issues. I know your interest in the outdoors, Eric, and I know you have hopes of turning Greyford into a more environmentally conscious organization—”

  Sometimes Cathy seemed to know more about his plans for the company than Eric did.

  “She seems underused at Fame. It’s quite a different direction for her. You might want to test the waters, see if she’d be interested in joining one of Greyford’s publications as some sort of nature reporter.”

  Eric stifled a laugh. Amanda wouldn’t feel underused in his employ. And he’d be more than happy to test those waters.

  “A very astute suggestion, Cathy.”

  Cathy returned to the subject of the board meeting, appending a few details she’d failed to mention earlier. As his PA’s muffled voice continued to issue through the phone, Eric’s eyes wandered all around the crowded tables of the outdoor restaurant. Behind him, the sun had begun to sink below the horizon, casting a red-orange tint on the diners and even on the lemon trees surrounding them.

  Like a goddess, Amanda emerged from the fiery light, her blond hair piled atop her head in a loose, sexy updo. Her curls glowed like a saint’s nimbus, but her body swept all thought of holiness from a man’s mind. She’d worn another pair of high heels—insane on an island with so many staircases and steep hills; yet he couldn’t argue with the results. Parts of his body sprang into high alert at a mere glimpse of her bare legs. For a few seconds, she looked lost, and he enjoyed the opportunity to study her unawares. Then, a waiter approached her and nodded her in Eric’s direction. Their eyes locked across the bustling space, and she graced him with a warm, wide smile. His chest contracted as his heart skipped a beat.

  What a ridiculous overreaction. The mere sight of a woman shouldn’t render him unable to breathe. He’d been too preoccupied by his new responsibilities at the company, and he’d neglected his own needs. Tonight, he intended to rectify that oversight. With a start, he realized Cathy was still speaking, had in fact, asked him a question.

  “I’m afraid something’s come up,” he told her. “I’ll get back to you in the morning.”

  He silenced his phone in the midst of her sputtered protests.

  “I’m so sorry!”

  Miss Amanda Jackson hovered in front of him, fluttering like a hummingbird. Breathless and wide-eyed, she fanned herself with both hands, doing a fine job of showing off her sleek, lightly muscled upper arms in the process.

  “I took a wrong turn and wound up heading in the direction of the Marina Piccola.”

  Eric rose, noting she wore an unfamiliar salmon pink dress—not one Signora Claudia had helped him select. A little display of independence then. That pleased Eric immensely. He liked a woman with a will of her own.

  The dress also displayed her assets to fine advantage. Although the boatneck collar showed not one iota of cleavage, the silky fabric clung to her curvaceous body. Her ample bosom heaved up and down as she tried to catch her breath.

  “Do have a seat, Miss Jackson,” he urged, stepping behind her to pull out her chair.

  To his delight, the back of the dress scooped much lower than the front, revealing the sensuous angle of her shoulder blades and a smooth, golden expanse of skin. Above her zipper, the tag of the dress poked out.

  Eric laid his hands on her bare shoulders and leaned in close to her. “Your tag is showing,” he whispered into her ear. “Shall I fix it for you?”

  Amanda glanced up and over her shoulder, her lips upturned in a skeptical grin. “I expected something more original from you.”

  “I assure you, I’m quite serious.”

  She reached a hand around her back, feeling blindly.

  “Come, don’t be ridiculous.” Eric slipped a hand from her shoulder, sliding it down over one of those strangely erotic shoulder blades, and then rested his fingers above the edge of the garment. He slipped the tag back into place, allowing his fingers to linger for a few seconds longer.

  Amanda gave a ragged sigh. “Thank you. I think.”

  “My pleasure.” He spoke right next to her ear, so close that his lips brushed against the lose tendrils of her hair. She made a soft, high, surprised sound and arched her neck a bit, moving towards him rather than away. As she shifted, the scent of fresh oranges wafted up from her hair and neck. Eric straightened, reluctantly taking his hands from the back of her chair before returning to his own seat. “You’ve put on a different perfume.”

  “I found this place that custom makes perfume,” she explained. “So I bought some. I don’t know how customized it really is. They whip it up fast. But I had to do something, didn’t I? I couldn’t stand the idea of going on a date with a guy who smells better than me.”

  Her big brown eyes glittered in the fading light. In that instant, he knew he’d have to have her tonight. He wanted every inch —the wisps of blonde curls that framed her heart-shaped face, the coffee-colored laughing eyes, the firm, toned body, even the pink-painted toenails in the precarious white heels. Solid evidence of his arousal strained at the seams of his pants, and he hastily flicked open his napkin and covered his lap. For good measure, he pulled his chair a bit closer to the table.

  Amanda laid a small clutch purse on top of the checkered tablecloth. Eric eyed the innocuous item with amusement. How obvious could she get?

  “I’m so glad you decided to join me for this date.” He placed a strong emphasis on the last word, and as he did so, he reached across the table and picked up the little bag.

  “Hey!” Amanda cried, but he’d already opened the clasp and found the small digital recorder hidden inside.

  His “date” slumped down in her seat and pursed her lips. Eric shoved aside her lipstick and cell phone and laid the recorder on the table midway between them. He eyed her with mild disdain.

  “You are quite terrible at this, you know.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “First, I catch you ransacking my room. Next, you leave the recorder where I can find it. I don’t think your heart is in your job, Miss Jackson. What were
you looking for in my room last night?”

  Her face flushed a pale pink, the perfect complement to the deeper color of her dress. “The photos.”

  Eric massaged his forehead.

  “You know, the ones of your, er, girlfriends.”

  “I guessed what you meant.” Eric pushed a few buttons and erased the recorder as he spoke. “Did you seriously think if I had a collection of dirty photos I’d bring them to my hotel in Capri?”

  He flipped over the recorder and popped out the batteries, fixing his attention on the machine as he spoke, not wanting to give anything away.

  “My editor seemed to think maybe you’d have done a new batch of them here in Capri.”

  “With Stacey, you mean?”

  Amanda hunched her shoulders like a child caught stealing candy. “It sounded like a possibility. I don’t like trying to track down celebrities and interview them, so I thought it would be easier to find the photos and do a story about them.”

  Eric shook his head. “You don’t like doing celebrity interviews? Aren’t you in the wrong line of work?”

  “Yes, I think I am. But it’s taken me a while to figure that out.” Amanda flicked at an imaginary crumb on the tablecloth. “Now, I’m killing time and paying the bills while I figure out what to do next, you know? Okay, I guess you don’t know. It’s not like you have to wrestle with what you want to do. You’re pretty much where you’re going to be for the rest of your life, right? Chief Operating Officer of Greyford Publishing at thirty, and then you’ll be President and CEO when your father retires. Now, that’s job security.”

  A definite chill descended on him. The warm July night receded all around him, and he imagined himself an old man whose fate had been sealed long ago.

  “Stefano!” he snapped. The maitre d’ dashed over to the table. “Throw these away, will you? There’s a good chap.” He handed the batteries to the man.

  Amanda’s mouth flapped open and closed. “Those were brand new!”

 

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