Chapter Six
How can I get him to do it?
The question had been running through Lane’s head all day yesterday.
And all day today, despite her determination not to think about him when she was at work.
How? How? How? Over and over and over.
Until she couldn’t get her pie chart to explode in the right proportions.
At least she could unexplode the chart and try again—for the fourth time—but she doubted she could unexplode the incendiary device that seemed to have landed in the middle of her agreement with Adam Quinn.
What she’d thought was going to be a simple business transaction—three months of lessons, not dissimilar to her approach in the past to learning Mandarin, presentations skills, and Japanese cooking—was turning out to be not so simple.
Because he wouldn’t do what she wanted!
More precisely, he wouldn’t do it! She didn’t care what Adam said about how waiting enhanced the experience. It was unbelievably difficult to be around him, knowing that at some point they would be naked in bed but not knowing when.
And it made her think about him when other things—like pie charts—were supposed to be occupying her mind.
He’d had an erection when he’d circled her from behind, kissing her neck and putting his hands…well, there. And there. She’d felt it. It had felt…good. Right, somehow. And she wasn’t stupid—it meant he was aroused, just like she was. So he must have felt like pushing on, right?
So why hadn’t he pushed on? It wasn’t like she was stopping him.
And what did he do with that achy, aroused, unreleased feeling afterward?
According to Erica, he would be fixing himself up, probably in the shower. And her advice to Lane was to do the same. Lane had given it a go but…nope. It just felt silly. She wanted his hands there, not hers.
She growled as the phone rang just as her fifth attempt with the pie chart became a mash of wrongly proportioned colored slices. “Yes?” she asked testily then froze as Adam tsk-tsk’d.
“Interesting phone manner,” he said.
Lane took one of those secret breaths then said calmly, “Sorry, I was preoccupied. I’m working on a presentation.”
“What, not daydreaming about me?”
“I’m not sure a few kisses and a half-hearted grope constitute sufficient grounds for daydreaming,” Lane said.
“Then let me try a full-hearted grope tonight,” he said. It sounded like he was talking through his teeth, though.
“Okay. Good. Wonderful,” she said, not happy the testiness was still there.
“Have dinner with me.”
What? How was she going to get groped over dinner? She didn’t want to get groped over dinner. She wanted to say no to dinner, just on principle. Dinner was not businesslike. Dinner was not appropriate for them.
But—deep, deep breath—how do I get him to do it? Not by refusing to go out with him the first time he asked, that seemed certain!
“All right,” she said. “Although I think public groping is juvenile.”
“Then I’ll grope you in private, after dinner.” The gritted teeth voice again.
A little shiver snaked down Lane’s spine. Bring it on! On, on, on. “Private groping is…acceptable. Where are we going?”
He laughed then choked on it—as though he’d been caught off guard. “A small place I know, called Benedetto’s, in Haberfield. Everyone gets the same meal, whatever the chef decides to cook, so it’s easy, and it’s always good.”
“Okay, I’ll meet you there at, what, seven-thirty?”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“No, you can’t. Erica’s home tonight,” Lane said.
“So? I know Erica knows about me!”
Lane winced. Yes, Erica knew about Adam—but having Adam turn up at the house to collect her as though they were going on a real date was a step too far. A step too embarrassing. “We have a confidentiality agreement, remember?”
“Yes, but she knows, Lane.”
“Only in general terms. But knowing is not…well, it’s not socializing. There’s a difference.”
Silence. A bad one. “I get it,” Adam said. “I’m not fit for public consumption.”
Lane rolled her eyes. This was ridiculous—the last thing he should have a problem with. He’d been sensitive about her attempts to keep him away from her office, too. She didn’t understand it. Surely Adam couldn’t really care about meeting her friends! “I can’t believe you want me to parade you in front of people like a trophy,” she said. “Or a boyfriend.”
“I don’t. It’s just…I guess I’m not used to being a male prostitute. It takes some adjustment.”
Lane swallowed. “Is that how you see yourself? How I treat you?”
Silence.
“I see,” Lane said, and her heart started to thump. “That’s not what I intended. It’s not how I want you to feel. And it’s not what I want out of this…thing. I wanted to learn, not just to get some gratification.” Her fingers gripped the phone like a lifeline. “Adam, you’re not dealing well with this, are you?”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I mean…you don’t like the agreement. You don’t like the way I’m managing things, you don’t like how it makes you feel, you don’t like…me.”
Silence.
It felt like there was a rock in Lane’s throat. She swallowed again, but it didn’t help. “So, thinking about all that—I mean, all things considered—do you want to terminate the contract? It’s early days, so I have time to find someone else. No hard feelings. And I’ll still pay you what you’re owed, of course.”
“You think I’m worried about money?” The question was almost growled.
“That’s what this agreement is all about. Payment for a service.” Her fingers had tensed up and she couldn’t seem to get them to relax. “Adam, I’m just trying to be fair.”
A muffled, inarticulate curse at the other end of the phone. “We’re not terminating the contract, Lane.”
The relief that flooded her made her lightheaded. She closed her eyes. Thank you, thank you, thank you. But, “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, or degraded,” she said.
“I won’t if you stop dragging me into the bedroom the moment I step into the house. Hence my invitation to dinner tonight—because dinner is a normal segue into sex.”
“All right. I guess that makes sense.”
“And we will start taking things one step at a time, okay?”
“Within reason,” Lane said, very, very calmly. Exactly how she wasn’t feeling.
“Oh, within reason. Remember the wiggle room about where we do this, how we do this, Lane.”
She could hear the temper rebuilding in his voice and almost gnashed her teeth. Why couldn’t she talk to this man without getting both their backs up? Get it back on track, Lane.
“Get what back on track?” Adam asked.
What? She’d said it aloud? This was getting out of hand. “Just—Just the presentation I’m working on. You interrupted me. Actually, didn’t I ask you not to call me at the office?”
“You did. Hmm.” He chuckled, a wonderful throaty sound. “I guess you’ll just have to spank me when you see me,” he said, low-voiced, and hung up.
She hoped he hadn’t heard her gasp. Her ridiculous, virginal gasp.
Lane’s nerve endings were tingling. Spank, said in that way, sounded…interesting.
She gave herself a mental shake. This was what came of pent-up sexual tension. If he would just get on with it there would be no tension, and everything would be less fraught. More amicable. Straightforward. She wouldn’t have this achy, daydreamy obsession that made her go over in her head, endlessly, everything he’d said, every look he’d given her, every touch, every kiss. There wouldn’t be this need to have him. Particularly him.
She rubbed a hand tiredly across her eyes.
And now, the spanking image. Fabulous.
“I’d like
to spank you all right, Adam Quinn—with a giant wet fish! How sexy do you think that would be?” she muttered then clapped her hand over her mouth. Talking to herself was becoming a pattern, and it was not a good sign she was in control.
David Bennett chose that moment to walk past her desk.
Lane almost jumped out of her seat as he stopped, backtracked so that he was standing behind her, and leaned down to look over her shoulder at her computer screen. He was close enough for her to smell his cologne. Sharp and spicy. He smelled very different from cologne-free Adam. Less…soapy. More…man-of-the-world.
“Making pies?” he asked, his voice full of gentle humor. “That’s very domesticated.”
Lane blushed. Of course he would have to stop by when her work was a complete mess. “Actually, these are international pies—Chinese pies. Or they would be if they’d stop exploding.”
His hand. On her shoulder. Squeezing. “Hmm, could be you’ve got the temperature set too high. I can help you let off a little steam if you like…maybe tonight?”
Lane’s eyes were saucer-wide, fixed on the computer screen. David Bennett. Here. Flirting with me. Clearly, the lessons were already working. But… “Um…tonight?” Too soon. Way too soon. She wasn’t ready. And…Benedetto’s. Adam! “I’m sorry. I’m busy tonight,” she said. “But…some other time?”
David straightened. “Definitely,” he said. “Let’s make it soon, Lane. And don’t let off too much steam in the meantime.”
With a last squeeze of Lane’s shoulder, David sauntered away.
And that was how relationships were supposed to go, Lane thought. A little banter, taking no for an answer without any snarly, brooding sarcasm.
David was the end game. David, who with any luck would not be an unrelenting tart who couldn’t stay faithful.
Lane refocused on her computer. Started tapping in data.
Male prostitute.
How ridiculous.
As though she were doing this for her own pleasure!
Damn—there went another pie chart.
* * *
Adam smiled at his reflection in the mirror on the wall opposite his office desk. “Score one for Adam Quinn,” he said.
Then he grimaced. “Except you’ve started talking to yourself. That can’t be good,” he added. “Damn! You said that out loud, too.”
And if he were totally, totally honest with himself, it wasn’t such a monumental victory, getting a prude to gasp by suggesting she spank him.
What was he—a G-rated Marquis de Sade?
“No, you’re just a wanker, buddy,” he said sternly to his reflection—then he burst out laughing. Spank him! As though Lane Davis would have the faintest idea how to get a little hot and rough in the bedroom. She couldn’t even say “turn on” without blushing. She made “douchebag” sound like a new kind of soap. “Consummation” came out like the name of a genetically modified breakfast cereal. Spank me? Get real!
Now spank her…that he could picture. Her tight little tush over his lap. Naked. White. Raised. His hand tapping, but just hard enough so he’d have something to kiss better. Then his mouth would be on her skin, and his hand would be moving, slipping between her legs, into her wetness, fingers inside her.
Groan. Face it, man, you are in a state of rampaging lust. With an uptight brainiac who sucks in the sack and exudes all the warmth of an ice cube.
Sucks.
That was a bad choice of words, if his straining erection was anything to go by.
Because he could see that prim mouth of hers, sucking.
He banged his head against the back of the chair.
This was not how it was supposed to be. She was supposed to be desperate for him by now. Instead, she was suggesting they terminate the contract as though he were a failure. Him! A failure! It wasn’t his fault she had an apparently limitless store of reserve and an almost clinical approach to sex, was it? It wasn’t his fault she treated the mystery and delight of sex as though she were getting driving lessons.
That’s the level he’d sunk to: he was the human equivalent of driving lessons.
Absolutely bloody fabulous.
No wonder he felt like a prostitute.
What is wrong with you Adam Quinn? Be a male prostitute! What the hell difference does it make if Lane only wants you in the bedroom? That’s the only place you want her, isn’t it?
“I just…want her. Somewhere. Anywhere.”
Yep. He’d said that aloud. A straightjacket would be coming his way any minute.
* * *
Lane reached Haberfield with ten minutes to spare and parked in a side street. She intended to stroll slowly to the restaurant. It would give her a chance to savor the Italianness of the little strip of pizzerias, delicatessens, cafes and pastry shops that were the heart of the area. It would also give her a chance to adjust her gait to suit the shoes she’d borrowed from Erica so she didn’t fall over in front of Adam. And it would give her time to calm herself, with a nice series of deep, slow breaths.
But first she had to walk past a row of dark brick federation-style houses—and their homey verandas, gables, leadlight windows and immaculate gardens somehow unsettled her past the help of breathing exercises. They were so obviously occupied by people in steady relationships—established couples and families—that she felt like an imposter.
People on their way to an appointment with a sex teacher didn’t belong here.
She hated the way her heart skipped a beat as she saw Adam through the window of Benedetto’s. Hated that, unlike her, he managed to look like he belonged one hundred percent, despite being the other half of the sex teacher appointment.
But Lane figured he would always look like that, wherever he was—whether it was a monastery, building site, black tie dinner, brothel—because he was the poster boy for easy self-confidence. Hopefully, some of that would rub off on her.
She watched as one of his hands came up to scrawl impatiently through his hair. The sight did something strange to her skin. How could he make her flesh tingle without even touching her? She felt a moment of equal fear and anticipation.
Running a double-checking hand over her ponytail, she walked into the cheery warmth of the restaurant—and tripped. Erica’s stupid high heels.
She saw Adam’s gaze dart to her. She supposed it would be hard to miss a woman of her height and screaming hair color who’d narrowly avoided a face plant.
The knowing look in his eyes as he took in the pink silk dress made her regret not treating him to the blue suit again. But that would have been childish. That would have been her consciously not learning Lesson Three: clothing should not be boring.
Adam got to his feet and Lane’s heart skipped another beat. He was wearing black pants and a shirt so white it dazzled the eyes. And he was smiling. Not one of his cold smiles, or his “hanging on by a thread” smiles. It was like he didn’t even know he was smiling. Doing it by reflex. He really was gorgeous.
He came over to her, guided her to the table and held out her chair.
Without having uttered one word, Lane took a breadstick from the cane basket in the middle of the table and nervously snapped it in two. She laid both pieces aside, untasted.
She cleared her throat. “So, we’re having dinner.” And what an intelligent way to start a conversation that was.
“Yep. Chatting over dinner is a good way to get to know someone.”
“But why do we need to get to know each other?”
He examined her as though she were an exotic insect beneath glass. “Lane, it’s not a good idea to keep your man locked in the bedroom. Any decent man would want to come out of there eventually. And you want to end up with a decent man, not a douchebag, right?”
She was very conscious of Adam watching her. The waiting-watch. He did that a lot. But what was he waiting for? She reached for a second breadstick, ignoring the two perfect halves of her first one. “But you and I,” she said slowly, “we’re only together for three months.”
>
“That doesn’t mean we have to stay an assortment of body parts to each other.”
“Sarah said you didn’t want commitment. That’s what made you perfect for me.”
“I don’t want commitment. Just the thought of it makes me break out in a cold sweat. But I don’t consider getting to know someone a commitment, Lane.”
“It’s a commitment of sorts,” she said. “Of time if nothing else. And time is valuable.”
“Then you must be valuable, since I’m spending my time with you.”
The second breadstick snapped. Lane picked up her glass of water and took a sip. She didn’t know what to say. How to protect herself from comments like that, from taking those comments more seriously than he meant. That’s why dinner and conversation was such a bad idea. Sex, just sex—was it too much to ask?
Adam made a funny sort of sound—halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “What else has Sarah told you about me?”
“Nothing. Well, nothing much. Just that you…you know…are very experienced.”
“And you didn’t ask her anything specific?”
“I didn’t think I needed to know anything else.”
“Aren’t you even interested in why I don’t want to make a commitment to a woman?”
“No,” she said. Took another sip.
“Now that’s a lie,” Adam said. “Your eyes do a little flick to the left when you tell a lie.”
Choke. Cough. “Really?” she asked.
“Really. If you want to pretend you’re not interested in why I’m a commitment-phobe, that’s fine. But we can’t sit here all night in silence staring at a white tablecloth and snapping breadsticks in half. So I’ll tell you instead about…about the contract my firm just landed. We’re turning an old hostel in eastern Sydney into a heritage-style, boutique hotel.…”
Talking about the project carried them through a first course of classic minestrone and crusty bread. And Lane thought the hotel sounded wonderful—a rundown 1890s mansion being transformed from its current use as cheap backpacker digs to its original grandeur. It was even going to have a conservatory recreated from the original garden.
The Contract Page 6