Kiss Don't Tell

by Avril Tremayne

  And as if that wasn’t bad enough, DeWayne had then had the insensitivity to post the experience on Facebook. That was when Lane had come face-to-face with the true meaning of the word ‘mortification’, as his friends had obligingly shared it with their friends, and so on, and on until it reached multi-friended Sarah Quinn, who’d not only told Lane what was going on behind Lane’s back but had also gone ballistic at DeWayne, threatening legal action and getting the whole mess taken down.

  Sarah had a way with words that was simply masterful and she’d reduced DeWayne to a blubbering mess, but of course there was no putting that kind of evil genie back in the bottle. And so Lane had walked around the office like a semi-smiling automaton, determined to ride out the disaster with her usual coolness. But when sniggers still followed in her wake after two weeks, she could no longer pretend she was handling it and had subsequently changed jobs.

  At least there’d been a hint of a silver lining. Leaving the consultancy and joining the bank had not only given her a better job and a much better salary package than DeWayne could ever dream of, but it had also brought her into the orbit of David Bennett, corporate banking executive and hunk extraordinaire, giving Lane a new goal, a new target. A man to try again with.

  Lane thought about David as she ran the soap over her skin, which felt super-sensitive tonight. David—blond, blue-eyed, Hollywood handsome, smart, debonair, a little rakish, a lot experienced, divorced, a rising star at work. All the girls at the bank were in love with him, but it seemed to Lane that she was the one who’d caught his eye. Or at least she was the most recent one to catch his eye—a distinction that was fine by her.

  David had made a few veiled suggestions that indicated he wouldn’t mind getting Lane into bed, and she’d been thrilled, no matter how many women had come before her, or how many women would come after her. The only problem as far as Lane was concerned was her own ineptitude.

  She closed her eyes, remembering the unexpected encounter with David two weeks ago at the launch of one of the bank’s many art sponsorships. When he’d seen her across the room, his eyes had narrowed speculatively. He’d made his way over to her, brushing off the approaches of an assortment of people—mostly women—en route.

  ‘Are you into etchings?’ he’d asked. ‘Because I have quite a collection.’

  Lane, elated at the unexpected attention, had decided to do her best to engage him in conversation. ‘Are you an experienced collector?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he’d said, an encouraging twinkle in his eye. ‘I’ve had years of experience.’

  ‘And what interests you most? I mean, what do you look for when you’re ready to add to your collection?’

  ‘Nudes. Most definitely, nudes.’

  ‘I’d love to see your nudes.’ Lane—absolutely clueless.

  David had laughed and leaned closer. ‘My suspicions are correct, then. There’s fire under the ice.’ Then he’d touched her elbow—just her elbow, but it was clear he wanted to touch more.

  And with just that touch, Lane had realized what she’d said, what he’d heard, that he’d liked the sexual banter she hadn’t even intended. And she’d known she had a lot—as in a lot—to learn if she was to avoid boring David to death in bed.

  Oh God, she was twenty-three! How had she let herself get to such an advanced age with only one sexual experience? She was a freak, an anachronism. She was pathetic.

  She turned off the shower and dried herself with no more recourse to the mirror because looking at herself was hardly teaching her anything—and nor was it helping her self-confidence.

  As she got ready for bed, she worried that three months might not be long enough to learn everything she needed to learn. Experience was what seemed to make people sexy, but experience as in years, not months. People like David Bennett oozed sex appeal because he had a long track record of sexual encounters. Adam Quinn oozed it, too—same reason. Erica and Sarah both oozed it, having been out and about sexually for a good eight years apiece.

  But unfortunately, Lane didn’t have the luxury of time. Even three months seemed an unconscionably long time to expect a man like David Bennett to wait for her, but she was, in effect, stuck between a rock and a hard place. If she jumped in too soon she risked her performance disappointing him; if she waited too long he might forget he was ever interested.

  At least Lane knew she was an excellent student, and Adam looked like he’d turn out to be an equally excellent teacher. Seriously, after just one meeting she was ready to swear he could teach her things she’d never even imagined, so given all she really needed was to get the basics down with perhaps a couple of frills as optional extras …? Yes, three months should cover it perfectly! Think positively, Lane!

  She slid under the quilt, determinedly bringing David’s face to mind, imagining him looking at her with longing three months from now.

  ‘Let’s make love,’ she whispered to her make-believe David—then sat bolt upright as butterflies swooped through her stomach. Because David’s face had disappeared, replaced by a different one. A swarthier one, with a scarred eyebrow and a five o’clock shadow and eyes that were dark as night.

  It wasn’t blond, perfectly coiffed, pleasantly smiling David Bennett in her head; it was Adam Quinn with his short black hair and ferocious frown.

  Lane ran a trembling hand over her belly, where the butterflies were rioting. ‘Stop it,’ she told them.

  But they ignored her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘You what?’ Sarah Quinn demanded, after a full thirty seconds of shocked silence.

  ‘I signed on,’ Adam repeated, sinking tiredly into his favourite green leather armchair with a freshly poured single malt Scotch—his preferred remedy in a crisis—within easy reach on the table beside him. A nice, warm, antique, wooden table.

  Sarah slid into the armchair on the other side of the table and just sat there.

  More silence.

  At any other time, Adam would have been amused at his garrulous sister’s rare state of speechlessness. But not tonight, when he longed to have his library to himself to brood in peace. A man needed privacy to lick his wounds.

  ‘One job,’ Sarah said at last. ‘You had one job!’

  Adam tossed back the full two fingers of his neat Scotch.

  ‘Seriously!’ Sarah went on. ‘What was so hard about it? Fifteen minutes, max—in, out, over. You’ve had entire affairs that have lasted longer than that.’

  ‘Shut up, Sarah.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have let you anywhere near her if I’d imagined, even for a second, it would turn out like this.’

  ‘Yeah, well if it was really that easy, why didn’t you talk her out of it yourself?’

  Sarah grimaced. ‘I tried. Erica tried. Believe me. No luck.’

  Adam poured more whisky into his cut crystal tumbler. ‘And who the hell is Erica?’

  ‘Lane’s housemate. Erica’s a flight attendant.’

  ‘Ah, a flight attendant. Now you’re talking. Where’s her contract? I’ll sign that one in a heartbeat.’

  ‘Dream on. They’ve known each other since they were kids—next-door neighbours, living in each other’s pockets, sleepovers, the works. Erica’s not going to whistle that history down the wind by stealing you out from under Lane’s nose. It’s a girl code thing; there’s no breaking the code.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Language!’

  ‘There’s no such thing as a girl code.’

  ‘Maybe not in your fast and loose world, but there most certainly is in ours. And in any case, Erica has a boyfriend, Jeremy, who isn’t insane enough to stand aside for you to have a crack at her. And she certainly doesn’t need to hire anyone for sex. She’s got enough raw material to write a regular blog on the subject.’

  ‘In your league, then. How many boyfriends are we up to for the year, Sarah? Remind me, will you?’

  ‘About on par with your excessive number of girlfriends, Casan
ova Quinn.’

  ‘They’re not my girlfriends.’

  ‘No they’re not, are they? Which makes my dating patterns more morally defensible than yours. At least I’m looking for love, not just shagging my way around the city of Sydney a street at a time.’

  ‘Who says I limit myself to Sydney?’

  ‘Ugh! You really are shameless. Brazen, blatant, debauched—’

  ‘Yada, yada, yada. Give the thesaurus a break and just think for a moment about your “morally defensible” crapola in light of the fact that you’re pimping me out to your friend.’

  ‘You weren’t supposed to sign,’ she said through her teeth.

  ‘And yet I did, and you set it up, therefore you are my pimp.’

  ‘Well someone had to step in.’

  ‘No, Sarah, they didn’t. At least not someone from this family. We’ve got enough problems with divorces and marriages happening like they’re on a spin cycle. We’re the last ones anyone should come to for sex therapy.’

  ‘Well that just goes to show that you know nothing, Adam Quinn, because it was Mum who suggested you for this job despite where she currently is in the spin cycle.’

  He jerked upright. ‘What the—the fuck? You did not—tell me you did not!—talk to Mum about this.’

  ‘Well of course I did!’

  ‘I am going to murder you, Sarah.’

  She opened her eyes at him. Wide, bright blue. Innocent. Like hell innocent. ‘I had to talk to someone!’

  ‘What about Erica the flight attendant? If she and Lane are so close, where was she when she was needed?’

  ‘Well duh! Thirty-five thousand feet in the air, that’s where! She was rostered on a flight to LA this morning, and that’s a four-day trip so she’s beside herself over what might happen while she’s gone. Which is probably why Lane chose last night to divulge her great plan. You know, get it out there and deal with the initial fallout knowing Erica wouldn’t have a lot of time to talk her out of it. So the end result is that I’m catapulted into the hot seat, with Erica begging me to come up with something to keep Lane safe in her absence. Damage control, that’s what Erica calls it. I’ve been nothing short of petrified, because Lane doesn’t see things the way the rest of us see them.’

  ‘Yeah, I’d say you’ve got that right. Jesus!’

  ‘Oh and I suppose you know everything about her, do you, after just one meeting? Because you don’t—that I can promise you!’

  ‘Okay, okay, so tell me: how does she see things?’

  ‘Straight like a ruler. Got a problem? Her brain tells her to fix it by going direct from A to B in the straightest line possible, no deviation. Whereas my brain goes all convoluted with curlicues and twists, via, F, G, and M, so I usually need someone to help me keep track of things, and when I woke up this morning and it all came flooding back to me and I realized there was nobody to help me and—’

  ‘Sarah, stop!’

  Sarah stopped.

  ‘Draw breath, Sarah!’

  Sarah, obligingly, drew breath. And then: ‘Whew, okay!’ she said more calmly. ‘So this morning, I popped into Mum’s for coffee, and I was talking to her about something that had nothing to do with Lane, something completely different, but she knew—’

  ‘She wormed the real story out of you the way she always does.’

  ‘Ha ha ha! I was going to say that she knew there was something seriously bothering me and …’ She threw up her hands. ‘And yes, all right, she wormed the story out of me. And I was glad, too, because she had the perfect solution. Only now, because you couldn’t do one simple thing, it’s turned out to be not so perfect after all.’

  ‘If you’d told me it was Mum’s idea, I wouldn’t have gone anywhere near it.’

  ‘Which of course is why I didn’t tell you.’

  ‘And now I’m stuck in the hell of being pimped out not only by my sister but by my own mother as well! It’s fucking disgusting, Sarah.’

  ‘Language!’

  ‘You are on such thin ice, I suggest you step carefully with the “Language” stuff.’

  ‘Then perhaps I’ll just remind you, again, that you were supposed to talk Lane out of it. That was the basis of Mum’s suggestion. It was all supposed to be over and done with tonight. And let me tell you, I have no idea what Erica’s going to expect you to do when she gets back.’

  ‘So you and Mum and Erica-whoever-the-hell-she-is—’

  ‘Erica Wilder.’

  ‘—are basically a coven of fucking witches standing over a cauldron and controlling my moves. And do not say “Language!” to me, or I will pick you up bodily and throw you out of this fucking house.’

  ‘I weigh more than you think.’

  ‘You weigh about as much as a half-starved sparrow but every gram is packed with pure evil when you get a plan in your head.’

  ‘Sheesh, Adam, you signed the contract, not me!’

  ‘Sarah …’ Warningly.

  ‘How about if I promise not to discuss it with Mum again? I’ll tell her you did the job you were supposed to do, scared Lane silly, as you’d scare any girl with even half a brain let alone Lane with her one-and-a-half, and it’s all over, and her plan worked. Okay?’

  ‘Not okay! You know she’ll worm the truth out of you again.’

  ‘No she won’t. This morning was my one window of opportunity with her because tonight, Massimo raised the prospect of taking her on a Mediterranean cruise in a few weeks’ time and then home to Siena to meet his family, and now she’s not interested in anything else. She’s told me she’s going to be popping in and out of the house but staying with him until they depart. She is seriously goo-goo eyed over him, so forget getting any sense out of her for the foreseeable future.’

  Adam shook his head in disgust. ‘She’s going away with Massimo before the divorce is even final?’

  ‘Yep,’ Sarah said, and sighed.

  Adam examined his sister’s face, saw that she was blinking away an out-of-character tear, and his temper drained away. ‘Want a drink, squirt?’ he asked, all gruff, the way he always was when confronting emotion.

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact I do,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Whisky?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Adam got up to pour her a small measure of Scotch, and by the time he brought it to her, she had herself under control again.

  ‘How about we move you out of the granny flat while she’s gone?’ he asked. ‘Then you won’t have to deal with what I’m sure will be her new husband when they get back. If they ever get back, that is. She’s gone so far off the deep end about Italy lately I wouldn’t put it past her to move there.’

  Sarah sniffed at her drink, wrinkling her nose. ‘Massimo’s okay, and I’m pretty isolated from the main house anyway.’

  ‘Yeah, well if he’s ever not okay, you know you only have to say the word.’

  ‘I think one attempt at stepfather-castration is enough for this lifetime.’

  Adam poured more whisky for himself and took his seat again. ‘I castrate on a needs-must basis.’

  Sarah giggled then, and reached across for his hand. She held it, then squeezed it, and Adam’s heart squeezed right along with it as he gripped her hand back. ‘I’m sorry she’s dumping Bertie,’ he said. ‘I know how much you love him.’

  ‘He’s the only decent step-parent in the bunch. I just wish I knew what she thinks is missing. Not that Dad’s any better. What are they looking for, Adam, and why can’t they find it?’

  ‘They’re looking for the same thing you keep looking for. Perfect love. And they can’t find it for the same reason you can’t find it—because it doesn’t exist.’

  ‘What if it does exist?’

  ‘Then we obviously don’t carry the gene for it—giving or receiving.’

  Silence, and then Sarah sighed again and released his hand. ‘So okay, let’s talk about how we extricate you from the thing with Lane.’

 
; Adam shook his head. ‘I can’t be extricated.’

  ‘Of course you can.’

  ‘I signed a contract, Sarah.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not legally binding. It can’t be. It’s a sex contract. Like Fifty Shades of Grey. They’re not enforceable.’

  ‘It is not like Fifty Shades of Grey. Jesus, Sarah! Do you really think I have a red room?’

  ‘So you’ve read Fifty Shades have you?’

  ‘No I bloody well have not, but I haven’t been living under a rock, you know.’

  ‘Anyway, how would I know whether or not you have a red room?’

  ‘Because you’ve snooped all over this house, that’s how! And that’s not the point, anyway. It doesn’t matter whether the contract is legally enforceable or not. I signed and that’s it. You know how I feel about commitments. If you make them, you keep them.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. Which is why you don’t make them to women, as you’ve been at pains to point out ever since you hit puberty. So I just can’t work out why you did it. I mean Lane is a woman, isn’t she?’

  Why had he done it? It was a question Adam had been asking himself ever since signing on the dotted line. He didn’t like the only answer he’d come up with: that Lane’s particular combination of defencelessness and intractability had goaded the self-control and common sense right out of him. He sure as hell wasn’t going to admit such a thing to his sister.

  ‘This isn’t a commitment to a woman—not as such,’ he said. ‘It’s a paid business proposition.’ Which was the truth—what was between him and Lane Davis was nothing like a normal relationship—but damn if he didn’t sound like a snake oil salesman saying it.

  ‘“Paid business proposition”?’ Sarah scoffed. ‘As if you need either the money or the proposition!’