Love Capri Style

by Reynolds, Lynn

  Eric took her hand in his. He brought it to his lips and kissed her fingers. “You would be a most exciting business partner. In so many ways.”

  He released her hand and leaned back on the sofa, stretching his long legs and gazing up at the ceiling. “But I’m afraid I’m rather committed to hanging on to Greyford Publishing, dull as it is. I can’t bear the idea of selling out to that Peter Tate buffoon. The man’s like a bloody schoolyard bully. He buys up smaller businesses for the sheer joy of putting them out of business. All those people out of work at his hands.”

  Amanda winced, surprised at how much it hurt to hear her estranged father described in that way. Bully. Buffoon. She herself constantly railed to Dan and to friends back home about the man’s chronic selfishness and insensitivity, so why did Eric’s opinion nearly take her breath away? Perhaps because it reminded her how hopeless her attempts to establish a rapport with her father had been. Worse, now she’d added another obstacle to healing her relationship with her father by sleeping with the enemy. Literally.

  And what would Eric say if he learned the truth about her relationship to Peter Tate? Since he was still ranting about the man, this was probably not the time to share that information.

  “He won’t get his way on my watch,” Eric said. “I know what I need to do to put a stop to him, and I’m going to do it. That’s why I need to call my financial manager.”

  Amanda bounced on her toes and laughed, eager to change the subject. “There you go, then. Sounds like your strategy is all sorted out.”

  Maybe she’d never need to tell him about her father. This had been an exciting fling, but already Eric was losing interest in her. She turned to go, and as she did, her skirt flared around her and she felt a cool breeze.

  “Where are my panties?” She gathered the hem of her dress tight around her knees.

  Eric arched an eyebrow and grinned like a very contented tomcat. “Love, they’re for the dustbin now.”

  He gestured to a tangled bit of beige fabric lying near the library door. Amanda gathered it up and examined the ripped seams.

  “I don’t have any pockets.” She found a trashcan near the mantel but hesitated. “I don’t want someone finding my underwear in there.”

  Eric struggled to suppress a laugh. “I think the maid can handle the shock, my dear. Besides, she won’t know they’re yours. Unless you put little nametags in them.”

  Amanda threw the panties at Eric in mock outrage.

  He caught them and shoved them into one of the pockets in his jacket, giving in to the laughter. “I’ll add them to my collection.”

  Amanda froze.

  “Kidding!” He continued to laugh, the sound deep, confident—and slightly irritating.

  “You shouldn’t make jokes about stuff like that, Eric,” Amanda scolded him. “That’s how ugly rumors about lewd photos wind up in magazines like Fame.”

  Eric rose, languid as a cat, and strode across the room, where he tossed the panties into the wastepaper basket. Then he tore some blank pages from a legal pad on the desk, crumpled them up and tossed them into the bin too. “There. Now no one will notice or care, Amanda. The maids have seen far more interesting sights in this house.”

  “I suppose you’d know. Do you make a habit of ripping up the clothing you buy for your women?” She hoped she sounded playful rather than jealous.

  His dimples flashed. “It only happens when I’m extremely—enthusiastic, shall we say? And of course, I didn’t buy the panties, only the dress. You’ll notice I didn’t really damage that.” He toyed with the zipper on the side of her dress. Then he placed his hands on her hips and pulled her close. “I take care of what belongs to me.”

  Amanda laid her hands on his and pried them away from her hips. “Which doesn’t include me.”

  Eric tilted his head slightly, conceding the point. Then he cast his gaze at the face of his impressive gold watch.

  That was more like it. She’d steeled herself for a polite brush-off. Eric’s post-coital tenderness had only confused her and even irritated her, because she’d suspected it was a polite act. Now his talk about business and his glance at his watch proved her suspicion correct.

  “You don’t need to worry about my feelings.” She walked away from him and grasped the library doorknob. “I understand how this works. We get it out of our system and I get out before I become tiresome.”

  With the speed and grace of a cheetah, Eric dashed to the door. As Amanda watched, he reached an arm past her and held the door shut. He leaned down and spoke next to her ear.

  “You’re right. Sometimes that’s how it goes. But I’d rather it not go that way this time.”

  “And do you always get what you want?” she demanded.

  “Usually.” His cockiness evaporated, and a hard glint came into his eyes. “No. Not always. Sometimes not even the thing that matters most to me.”

  In that moment, Amanda absolutely knew he was thinking about his brother’s death, and it disturbed her. She didn’t want to understand him that well.

  Eric ducked his head down and rubbed his cheek alongside hers. In spite of herself, Amanda’s eyes closed in blissful longing.

  His fingertips trailed over her bare shoulders and down the length of her arms. “I was thinking that I wouldn’t mind becoming—what was the word you used earlier? Entangled. I wouldn’t mind becoming entangled. With you.”

  Amanda let out a long breath and turned to face him, surprising a look of heart-melting tenderness in his eyes. “I’m not sure what you’re saying.”

  This didn’t sound like she was being kicked to the curb and forgotten.

  “I’m saying I’d like to see you again later tonight. I have that phone call to my financial manager, and I need to bid farewell to a few important guests, but afterward—.”

  He gave a casual shrug. “I could come to your hotel. I’d invite you to mine, but it tends to be overrun with reporters.”

  “Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “I noticed. Fortunately.” Eric cupped her face in his hands and pressed a feather-light kiss on her lips. “I think I might like to stay.”

  Amanda pulled away again. She bit her lower lip and remained silent, afraid to understand him.

  “How would you feel about that? About me staying all night and us waking up together in the morning?”

  The offer intrigued her, no doubt about it. But she hadn’t expected it at all. Nor had she expected this gentle, affectionate Eric to emerge in the aftermath of furtive sex in the middle of a glittering cocktail party. She wasn’t even sure she liked the new, softer Eric, but he seemed oblivious to her ambivalence.

  He pressed his lips to hers again, and this time he was the fiery, demanding Eric she’d come to—well, to really like quite a bit. His tongue plunged into her, invading and demanding a response. She tangled her hands in his beautiful black hair again and pulled him closer to her. He caught her lower lip between his teeth and gave it a playful nibble, then rained kisses down her throat and over her shoulders.

  Amanda began to laugh as he continued his ministrations. “Stop, stop!” she said at last. “Deadlines, remember?”

  Eric straightened to his full height, his eyes bright with mischief.

  “Yes, of course. Deadlines.”

  He stepped aside, allowing her to open the library door. Once through it, she hesitated. Then she turned to face him again. “The Loreley. Room 237.”

  He reached for her again, but she dashed away. As she hurried down a long corridor, her mind whirled. Sex with Eric had been fabulous, possibly the best she’d ever had. And that had been quickie sex in his friend’s library. What would he be like when he took his time? Her heart quickened at the mere thought of being with him again, but she reminded herself not to get carried away. In a week, this would be over. She’d have a wonderful, exciting memory of her time on Capri, and that was way more than most people got out of life. She’d be foolish to start fantasizing about anything permanent with a pla
yboy like Eric.

  At the end of the hallway, she rounded a corner and found herself in the central foyer. Zeke leaned on the staircase railing, chatting with another reporter. When he glimpsed her approaching, he bid the other man good-bye.

  “Where the heck have you been?”

  “We said we’d meet in an hour,” she snapped, self-consciously smoothing down her skirt and checking the tie of her halter-top.

  “That means five minutes ago. Let’s get going. Last time I drive anywhere with you.”

  “Hey, it was your idea, not mine,” Amanda replied. She looked back down the corridor, a glow of remembrance warming her skin.

  “You coming?”

  She turned and hurried out the front door ahead of Zeke.

  “By the way, your hair’s different.” He barely glanced at her when she turned to look back at him.

  Amanda darted her hand to the back of her head and fingered her barrette.

  “The butterfly’s upside-down. He’s got the green part on top. It was the yellow before. You wanna tell him to watch the details. I knew no woman could resist a big movie star like Jason Everest, even if he is a total jerk with the IQ of cabbage. Thanks for confirming my low opinion of your entire sex, Jackson.”

  Simultaneously relieved and insulted, Amanda struggled to formulate a coherent response.

  Zeke shook his head dismissively. Then he gathered up his camera bags and headed down the winding path to their car.

  ***

  Franco stole into the library as Eric was finishing up his telephone conversation with Cathy.

  “Did you read the samples by that young lady reporter?” she asked.

  He had read them, before going to the beach the other day. Amanda had real talent, a gift for weaving a vivid image with her words. That was why he’d been so appalled when she’d confronted them in the beach restaurant. He’d known she could do so much more with her talents.

  What if he did hire Amanda to work for him? Could she be his employee and his lover, or was that too unfair to both of them? Would she stay on when their affair ended? He’d hate to lose a good reporter, but women seemed to have difficulty compartmentalizing these things. She wouldn’t want to work with him anymore if they stopped having sex. He’d have to choose one or the other. In fact, it looked like he’d already chosen.

  “Yes, I read her samples. She’s very good.” He kept his voice level and nonchalant. “But I think it’d be premature to hire any new staff at this time.”

  “You’re the boss,” Cathy replied.

  “For now.”

  Eric rang off and put his cell phone in the pocket of his jacket. His eye fell on the wastepaper basket and he glimpsed a hint of beige silk. He should have kept them in his pocket or burned them in the fireplace. He wondered whether Franco noticed them, then decided he was being too self-conscious. It was ridiculous, since Amanda was certainly not the first girl he’d had on Franco’s Persian rug.

  A sudden memory of her body, so warm beneath his, threatened to engulf him in a new, futile wave of desire. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the sofa, focusing his mental energy on the company’s threatened takeover and the board meeting. Thoughts like that did a fabulous job of dampening all desire, and this time was no exception. When he felt more in control, he sat up and spoke to Franco, who’d been waiting patiently for the phone call to end.

  “I’ve directed my financial manager to buy up a majority of the company’s stock as soon as the markets reopen. A sizable majority, one that will give me voting control.”

  “Some days I wonder why you try so hard,” Franco mused, sitting down beside him on the couch. “Is it your chronic inability to accept defeat?”

  “Very likely.”

  “You don’t owe this to your brother. Or even your father.”

  “Antony was always at my father’s right hand while I was off rock climbing or exploring or playing polo. I owe them both something.”

  “Not your entire future.”

  “It’s not only because I want to honor my brother’s memory, Franco.”

  Eric rose and paced across the room to a wall of bookshelves beside the mantel. He’d made a deliberate point of taking himself far away from that Persian rug in front of the couch. Idly, he ran his fingers over some of the leather-bound volumes on Franco’s shelves before speaking again.

  “I want to prove to myself that I can do this. Not just run this company, but take it in a whole new direction.”

  “What direction is that?”

  “Move away from the magazines and newspapers and start acquiring television stations. Maybe even get into production. We could produce nature documentaries, create a travel channel devoted to wilderness excursions. Produce Internet content.”

  He took a deep breath and watched Franco’s reaction.

  “How very grown-up you sound.” Franco said, eying him with skeptical amusement.

  Eric let it roll off of him. He’d been contemplating this plan for months, but he’d talked himself out of it repeatedly, knowing his elder brother would have rejected it as too risky. His father would be downright appalled. Television? That’s a whole different game, his father had said to him once when he’d dared to broach the subject. We might as well open a chain of grocery stores.

  As the younger son, Eric had always wanted to get his father’s approval. Succeeding his brother at the helm of Greyford Publishing had been his chance to do exactly that.

  Yet in the last few months, Eric had developed the growing conviction that both his father and brother had been wrong-headed in their staid, conservative management of the company. As Amanda had rightly observed—Peter Tate hadn’t created his corporate giant with cautious half-measures. He’d been a bold risk-taker. The sort of man Eric had been before his brother’s death.

  If parental approval meant following his father and brother’s management methods, Eric would have to give up on that particular prize. It would be hard to suggest his family’s management of the company had been misguided. But it would be even harder to tell his father Peter Tate had bought a controlling interest in Greyford Publishing. Eric could handle his father’s reaction to criticism now. Tonight especially, he felt suffused with a bold new confidence. Even Franco’s questioning stare couldn’t stifle his newfound optimism.

  “I can do this.”

  Franco’s expression grew serious. He looked Eric up and down, as if appraising his worth.

  “Why?” he asked.

  Eric shrugged, not understanding the question.

  “Why do you suddenly care so much?” Franco elaborated. “Until now, you’ve been marking time, eager to get back to the ski slopes and the supermodels. Now you have a vision and the enthusiasm to follow through on it. And you are even willing to defy your father’s wishes on how to run the company. Where did this come from, eh?”

  “Maybe I want to be a better man, Franco. I want to be known for something more than dating pretty but dim celebrities.”

  Franco arched an eyebrow.

  “In any event, I think this is the way to save Greyford Publishing, and I’m prepared to put up every penny I have in order to prevent it falling into Peter Tate’s hands.”

  His friend said nothing, only smiled with irritating composure.

  “Well? What do you think?” Eric demanded after a long silence.

  “I think you will be fine, my friend.” Franco strolled across the room and patted Eric on the back. “You have the fire of a man in love now. It will stand you in good stead.”

  Eric bristled. “A man in love? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  Franco smirked. “Of course I refer to your newfound love for Greyford Publishing. What else?”

  “Yes. Of course.” Eric fumbled for a conclusion to his sentence and then abandoned it entirely. “I’d better go get Stacey and take her back to the hotel.”

  “No need.” Franco waved a hand in the air. “I had my driver escort her there some time ago.
It seems she couldn’t find you anywhere after her impromptu concert.”

  “I might have been on the phone to London,” Eric said.

  “Of course you were.” Still smirking slightly, Franco raised a hand in farewell. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, eh? Stacey’s invited me to take her to lunch after her sound check.”

  “Then I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.” Eric’s smooth demeanor belied the outrageous confusion Franco’s remark had provoked. A man in love indeed.

  ***

  Amanda yawned again, even more dramatically than the last three times she’d done it. Still Zeke scrolled through the two hundred photographs he’d taken at the party, contemplating the pros and cons of each individual shot as it related to their story.

  “Zeke, I’m getting tired, and we need to transmit the story and the photos in the next few minutes, okay?”

  “Do you think we need photos of Senator Harkness?” He spoke as if he hadn’t even heard her complaint.

  “No, I don’t, Zeke. He’s not a sexy, young, photogenic senator. He’s an old, fat, pompous senator. Fame is a glossy mag full of glossy people, isn’t that what Dan always says?”

  Zeke nodded. “Yeah, but look at this one of him with the Italian model. That’s a good one, isn’t it? And every guy in America knows who she is from those lingerie ads. She’s pretty damned glossy, if you ask me.”

  Zeke leered at the image in view on Amanda’s laptop.

  “Okay, let’s include that one too.”

  Every time she worked with Zeke, the assignment ended like this. The man wanted every photo he’d taken to be used in the article—and he always took way too many photographs. Amanda hovered behind Zeke at the little desk in her hotel room. Her entire body thrummed with electricity, and she wanted him out so that she could dwell on that feeling, revel in it. She wanted to stand on the balcony like Juliet and wait for her lover to come to her, not examine photographs of strangers at a party.

  “Man, you are restless tonight,” Zeke muttered, glancing over his shoulder at her. “That Everest guy got you all wound up, eh?”

  “I haven’t seen Jason Everest since we interviewed him at the party.”