“I’ll buy you more.” Eric’s tone was curt as he tried to rein in his irritation. “Tomorrow. By the way, despite what your rumormongering magazine says, I don’t take pictures of naked women. I photograph wilderness areas—the Serengeti, the Australian Outback. I was hiking in the Amazon Rain Forest when my brother died. I don’t think Tate Global would be interested in those photos—not squalid enough for your company to publish.”
“So have your own company publish them,” Amanda retorted. “You could do one of those big coffee table books. I’d buy it. I’d love to see the rain forest. Or the Serengeti.”
Eric tilted his head to one side, studying her. Difficult to tell whether she meant what she said, or why. Was she speaking to him as a woman interested in spending the night with him, or as a reporter still hoping to get a few thousand words of copy out of this dinner?
Or worse, as a corporate spy for Tate Global, trying to discern his long-range plans and thus allow Tate to somehow pre-empt any move he might make to expand Greyford Publishing’s holdings? Did she know that he’d thought about taking the company into publishing books—glossy photo books, travel books, the very sort Amanda had mentioned? He’d even considered branching into producing documentaries about the environment, knowing the days of print media were limited. But as Acting Chief Operating Officer, he didn’t dare share his vision of the company’s future with the skittish board members—too many already secretly favored selling out to Tate Global. His brother’s music festival idea had made them nervous enough; Antony dying in the midst of the planning had almost provoked a panicked sell-off of company stock. Eric would need to implement any new plans with extreme caution, something that had never been his strong suit. Was he being incautious in speaking to her now?
“I’ve considered doing that,” he said, trying not to give too much away. “But that trip was cut short, and I put the project on hold. I don’t know when I’ll get back there. Company business takes all my time these days.”
“Not all of your time. You’re here, aren’t you?”
Amanda leaned across the table, her nearness prompting him to make eye contact with her. Her smile brought the Mediterranean warmth back to him. Dimples accented the round fullness of her cheeks. As he studied her perfect heart-shaped face, she reached a hand across the table—and laid it on top of the disabled recording device.
Eric arched an eyebrow.
“Look, it wasn’t cheap, and it’s harmless now.”
Eric nudged the lifeless machine in her direction.
She smirked as she tucked it back into her bag. “I could have another recorder hidden on me, you know.”
Eric smiled and brought his head closer to hers, his dark hair tangling with the stray wisps of her wheat-colored locks.
“Unlikely,” he whispered, offering up a conspiratorial grin. “That’s an extremely tight dress you’re wearing.”
Amanda moved away from him, clearly disconcerted. Still, the ghost of a smile played on her lips, which were so wet and inviting. Their glossy fullness provoked a riot of carnal fantasies about where he’d like her to put those lips, and what he’d like her to do when she got there.
“Don’t be so cocky, Mr. Greyford. Eric. They make some very small recording devices these days.”
Eric stroked a finger over his lips, barely able to suppress his amusement at the image that flickered in his head. “I could always frisk you to be certain.”
Unexpectedly, Amanda laughed out loud. Her light, throaty trill lifted his spirits. “You are incorrigible, aren’t you? How does Stacey Dakota put up with you?”
“She and I have an understanding.”
Eric cocked his head to one side and watched Amanda’s reaction. The gleeful light died out of her eyes.
“Men who cheat always seem to think that.”
For a moment, he wanted to tell her the truth, but one glance at her purse reminded him why that would be unwise. She was beautiful. She would be warm and responsive to his touch—had already responded every time he’d touched her. But he’d be wise to keep in mind that she was still a reporter.
“I don’t cheat,” he told her. “But Stacey and I do have an arrangement.”
Amanda arched one delicately sculpted brow. “And now you’re hoping to make another arrangement with me?”
Eric shook his head, mock scolding her. “Amanda, dear, the night is young,” he said. “And it would be so much more enjoyable if you remained open to all its possibilities, don’t you think?”
Eric could see her thoughts warring in her face, could see that although his suggestion offended her, the idea of an evening of pure indulgence intrigued her. The idea intrigued him too, as few had in this long, difficult year of transition.
“We should start with drinks, don’t you think? Have you ever had limoncello?”
***
The earth rolled away from the sun, and night fell on the tiny isle of Capri. Da Paolino took on the quality of a fairyland. Tiny white lights strung throughout the lemon trees flickered into life, enhancing the otherworldly feel of the place. Eric and Amanda sat a little apart from the other diners in an alcove near the back of the outdoor restaurant. Amanda didn’t imagine he’d chosen the out-of-the-way table because it was romantically secluded. She knew Eric’s own celebrity factor had skyrocketed since hooking up with Stacey Dakota. While that might be good public relations for Greyford Publishing, it couldn’t be good for a man trying to seduce someone other than his very famous girlfriend.
And seduction was obviously Eric’s goal this evening. The whole dinner had been mapped out before Amanda even arrived. A first course of oysters on the half shell had been placed upon the table along with the limoncello. Eric had explained that he’d taken the liberty of ordering the very best specialties of the house for both of them to sample. Coupled with the business of the dresses, Eric choosing their dinner all on his own indicated a slightly scary obsession with control.
“Were you always like this?” Amanda asked as a waiter brought an assortment of small pasta and fish dishes to the table. It reminded her of tapas in a Spanish restaurant.
“Like what?”
“A control freak who chooses women’s clothing and food for them.”
Eric, who’d been buttering a slice of crusty Italian bread, froze in motion. The hand holding the knife wavered the tiniest bit before he put it, and the bread, down. His blue eyes slid away from her. Normally, that would be a sign a person was about to tell a lie. Yet it seemed to work the opposite with him. Every time he came near to saying something real, something that mattered, those cool blue eyes would shift away.
Amanda tried to assuage whatever nerve she’d struck. “It’s just—before you hooked up with Stacey, if people heard of you at all, it was for your involvement in wilderness adventures. Like that rafting competition in Nepal –”
“That was three years ago. Another lifetime now.”
“I read it on the wire services. I was a nature reporter for a newspaper at the time.” She picked up one of the oysters and slurped it down. “Anyway, I expected someone who does stuff like that to be more spontaneous, more—”She caught herself, but as usual, it was too late.
“Fun?” Eric demanded, his rich, low voice heavy with sarcasm. The eyes had shifted back to her, burning into her with some barely contained emotion she could hardly identify. Despite the urge to lower her own gaze, she stood her ground.
“Yes. I thought you’d be more fun.”
Eric’s huge shoulders sagged as though someone had laid a fifty-pound weight on his back. “I suppose when one is trying to manage a business employing thousands of people, the tendency to be in control carries into all sorts of unexpected areas.”
His smile hinted at melancholy, and Amanda wrestled with an urge to stroke his cheek and tell him everything would be all right. Instead, she reached for her limoncello, her second of the night, and took a big, calming sip. She had the feeling he was getting into a confessional mood, and she’d
need the courage that comes from a bottle to take advantage of it. As a reporter, even one stripped of her recorder, she could use that mood and end the night with a juicy story after all—even without his knowledge and permission. That’s what any good celebrity newshound would do. That’s what Dan would do. And yet—
“My father is a control freak. Or was, before his heart condition slowed him down,” Eric said. “But oh, my brother. He was the worst control freak I’ve ever met.”
He swirled his glass of gavi di gavi and studied its golden cast in the fairy lights.
“What? Did he choose the underwear for his women too?”
Eric’s lips turned up, and his eyes closed, like a man savoring a fine piece of music. “You do say what you think, don’t you, Amanda?”
Her heart skipped at the sound of her name on his lips. She tried to diffuse the feeling with some witty comeback, but he’d begun to speak again.
“I doubt Antony picked his women’s clothing for them. I don’t think he made much time for women, what with running the company’s day-to-day operations. I used to tease him about it, but now, I suppose I’ve become the same way. Lord knows, this has been my longest dry spell since the upstairs maid took an interest in me on my sixteenth birthday.”
Amanda snorted a mouthful of limoncello up her nose and dissolved into a sputtering cough.
Eric speared a bit of lobster from one of the plates and popped it into his mouth with a mischievous smile. No, scratch mischievous. That smile was positively dirty. Amanda realized she was staring, just staring at his mouth as he chewed and swallowed the lobster meat. She shook herself back into some semblance of composure.
“What an odd thing to say,” she challenged him.
“What, about the maid? I assure you it’s quite true.”
“No,” Amanda persisted. “I mean the bit about the dry spell. How dry could a year with Stacey Dakota be?”
“You’d be surprised.”
Was he trying to play Amanda again? For heaven’s sake, Stacey Dakota’s libido was notorious. Although perhaps not so much, now that she was allegedly on the wagon. At least that would make Eric’s interest in Amanda a little less inexplicable. After all, her mother had always said, if a man doesn’t get what he needs at home—.
Better not to finish that thought at all.
Amanda turned her attention to the array of dishes spread out before them. “What’s this one?” She pointed her fork at some little yellow dumpling shapes.
“That, my dear, is saffron gnocchi with shaved truffles.”
Amanda gaped at him, then let loose with a full, throaty laugh. “Wow, you pull out all the stops to impress a woman, don’t you?”
“Only some women.” He looked away again, at the tablecloth, as if he’d embarrassed himself.
Amanda pretended she hadn’t heard him and concentrated her attention on the food. “That sounds decadent. I’ve got to have it.”
The gnocchi melted in her mouth, leaving a savory tang on her tongue. Amanda gave a little shiver, her eyes flickering shut with sheer delight. The food, the starry sky above—even if she went home without a story and got fired, at least she’d always have the memory of this night and this dinner. With this man.
When she opened her eyes, Eric’s gaze burned into her own, his blue the cold, deep color of the ocean that lay beyond their little haven amongst the fairy lights. He stared at her with an intensity that made her feel naked and defenseless.
Oh, he would be fierce in bed. Maybe even a little rough, domineering. It occurred to Amanda that sometimes being a control freak could be a good thing. She struggled to swallow past a lump in her throat.
Eric leaned forward and spoke, his voice low and husky with restrained desire. “I told you you’re a woman of strong appetites. I intend to satisfy all of them.”
Amanda’s breath caught and stopped for a split second. Heat flared somewhere deep in the pit of her stomach and traveled lower still. She could almost feel his hands on her—slipping down the length of her body, sliding along her thigh, coming to rest between her legs, touching her and coaxing her warmth into a blazing fire. Silence lingered around them, growing loud in its intensity.
At last, Eric spoke again. “Taste this,” he urged. He lifted a forkful of the lobster to her mouth. Its champagne sauce dripped onto the tablecloth while he awaited her decision.
Amanda barely hesitated. She opened wide for him, and then chewed the lobster with deliberate, suggestive slowness. After she swallowed, she licked her lips with great care, staring at him all the while.
“You missed a spot.” Eric reached across the table. Using his thumb, he stroked away a little drip of sauce that remained on her chin. Then, he licked the sauce from his thumb, his eyes never leaving her face.
Amanda squirmed in her seat and suppressed a little moan. She’d just realized there was something else Dan might do in a situation like this one, and it had nothing to do with getting a story.
“What are you thinking?” Eric grinned.
“I’m thinking I just went off-duty for the night.”
“Did you?” His blue eyes twinkled as he bent his head closer to hers again. The spicy scent of his cologne tickled her nose. “Been working too hard, have you?”
“Yes. Entirely.” Her body shifted towards him of its own accord, yearning towards him.
“Not anymore, though. I’m on Capri, damn it. I’m done chasing stories about the fun other people are having. I want to have some fun of my own.”
“I do hope you’ll let me help you with that.” Eric’s satiny voice sent a slow trickle of sweat down her spine. The look on his face reminded Amanda of a cat contemplating a bowl of cream. Belatedly, she suspected she’d done a little too much blurting for one night.
FOUR
Eric Greyford didn’t believe in haste, Amanda thought. They’d left Da Paolino a little while ago, and now they were ensconced at a table in the Piazzetta, eating ice cream. Maybe he’d decided she wasn’t his type, and he was trying to let her down easily. She reined in her own restlessness and adopted a cheerful tone.
“Gelato was not what I expected when you offered to help me enjoy Capri.”
“I try not to rush things.” He dipped a spoon into the cup of melon-kiwi gelato and held it to her lips. “I didn’t see any point in buying two cups of the same flavor.”
“Thrift was always my mother’s watchword. She’d be very impressed.”
A crooked smile brightened Eric’s piercing gaze. Amanda’s heart skipped again as she opened her mouth to him. She’d had sex that wasn’t as much fun as sharing this cup of ice cream.
She swallowed and dabbed a napkin to her lips. “I don’t mind the slow and thorough approach. I’m thinking that’s the difference between the guys I usually date and a billionaire playboy. Attention to details.”
Amanda knew Eric’s original intent in inviting her out had been nothing more than casual sex. Yet, even after she’d made the remark about looking for fun, he’d remained the perfect gentleman, attentive and patient. After the meal, he’d taken her back to the gelateria, and when he discovered she’d hardly seen any of the island’s famous tourist attractions, he’d suggested they go sightseeing together. Maybe he was afraid Stacey would find them if he took Amanda back to his hotel. The mysterious arrangement with Stacey weighed on Amanda’s mind, though not nearly as much as it would have if that mind had been free of limoncello. Amanda wasn’t the sort to poach another girl’s boyfriend. But maybe the arrangement involved both Eric and Stacey having their little flings. Her time as a reporter at Fame had made it clear that celebrities played by a whole different set of rules than ordinary people in places like Lake Havasu.
Yes, if Amanda was sure she wanted a quick, meaningless fling, then Eric would be the ideal man for the job. All she had to do was ask him back to her room. She studied him as he sat across from her, swept away again by his high cheekbones, beautifully defined lips, and his dark wavy hair, which just brushed the co
llar of his crisp linen shirt. The very idea of inviting this man back to her hotel made her palms go all sweaty. She should get out before she did something insane. She had a better sense of him now, and he wasn’t quite as threatening as he’d appeared at their first meeting. If she called a halt to this little game they were playing, he’d accept it and send her on her way. But did she want to call a halt?
Amanda didn’t do casual, not ever. She’d spent her life watching her mother pine for a guy that was supposed to have been a casual affair. Despite being a single parent, her mom had plenty of suitors. However, she’d rejected every one of them, preferring a life alone and a scrapbook of memories of her romance with the pre-billionaire Peter Tate.
But Amanda was older, probably a lot more experienced than her mom had been in a similar situation. And her mother and Peter Tate had had a genuine affair, one that had lasted well over a year, judging from her mother’s stories. Amanda was under no delusions that Eric Greyford offered her anything similar. She’d tried to learn from her mother’s mistake, pursuing only serious, long-term relationships. All three of them had ended badly, with Amanda thrown over for someone else—someone usually described as more “fun.” Even before arriving in Capri, she’d begun to think she needed to go to the other extreme—abandon all hope of emotional fulfillment with a guy and embrace the superficial. Now, she needed only Eric’s cooperation in the matter—before she completely lost her nerve.
“I’m ready to see those sights,” she said, as Eric offered her the last spoonful of gelato.
“Are you now?”
His cocky smile rattled Amanda’s new resolve—but only a little.
***
Eric wanted to believe she was ready to satisfy his long ignored urges. But would she also be ready to move on when he was through with her? For Eric and the women he usually dated, sex was more of a sport than an emotional commitment. He doubted that was how Amanda saw things, despite her determined effort at flirtation. If anything, she was being a little too determined. Again the thought that she might be a corporate spy for Tate Global crossed his mind.
Love Capri Style Page 5