by Nancy Warren
“If you’re going to be assisting me, can you come in and take notes? Is there someone who can cover for you on the front desk?”
“Oh, yeah. No worries,” Fiona said, taking the list that Jen had culled from the organization chart.
When Jen got to the boardroom right at eleven, it was packed. From a quick head count, not only were the people she’d requested present, but a few extras. She guessed that was better than sparse attendance. It argued an interest in what she was trying to achieve.
The only way she knew it was a boardroom was because the sign on the door said so. Transport that group around the table to a different setting, and they could be playing beach volleyball or hanging out at a bar somewhere or—no, she had it now. Surfing. They all looked like surfers, from the sales manager to Fiona taking minutes. Toned, tanned, young, and buff, she doubted there was anyone in the room over thirty. Well, apart from her—the grandmother of the bunch at thirty-one. And Cameron Crane, of course, who’d taken his place at the end of the pale wooden board table. He had a couple of years on her.
She was pleased he’d shown up. He had a lot of business interests, so she figured he was a busy guy. It didn’t matter that he probably came to the meeting to check up on her; his action still sent a message to his staff that she was to be taken seriously.
Jen hadn’t expected Crane’s executives to dress like Wall Street bankers, but neither had she expected them to look like they had damp sand in their shorts from catching a few waves before work.
Board shorts, loud shirts, khakis, mini skirts—it seemed anything was acceptable. Cam wore the loudest shirt of all. The red was so bright her eyeballs hurt to look at him, and was relieved with neon yellow flowers with purple centers.
She’d assumed the office would be reasonably casual, so she’d dressed in a sleeveless white blouse and a royal blue skirt and dress sandals, but she was totally overdressed for this crowd.
“Like the shirt?” Cam grinned at her as she stared at it, half-hypnotized.
“I can’t begin to describe what I feel for that shirt.”
He chuckled. “It’s from our clothing line. Crane Casuals.” Like there might be Crane Formal Wear?
He rose and came round to greet her, and she discovered he was wearing baggy black cargo pants with that shirt. “Everybody, this is Jennifer Talbot from the States. You can all introduce yourselves in a bit,” he said.
“Yes, I’d like that.”
“Here. Welcome to Crane and to Australia.” He handed her a cellophane bag. Inside were two tank tops made of lycra and cotton, she suspected; one in fuchsia, and one in aquamarine. A baggy shirt in a floral pattern—not quite as bright as Cam’s, but sunglasses-preferred bright—went with each of them. And, to complete the ensemble, there was a pair of drawstring surfer shorts in aquamarine, trimmed with the same pattern as the shirt.
“Like the boardies?” Cam asked with a grin as she inspected the shorts.
“Yes. Thank you,” she said holding up the shorts. Everyone was grinning at her, so she decided to show them she could be part of their team, or at least try to fit in. She slipped the shirt from the bag and put it on over her outfit. When in Rome. “I’ll never have to worry about getting lost at sea,” she joked weakly, wishing she were feeling as wide awake now as she had at three in the morning. Right now, she wanted to crawl off for a nap.
She glanced at Cam Crane. Yep, that shirt jolted her awake faster than a double espresso—a short black, as she’d discovered when she stopped at a café on her way into Crane’s building when the cab let her off. Cameron Crane had told her she was certifiable when she insisted on taking a cab to his office when he was driving that way in his car. But if he didn’t know that his employees would get the wrong impression of her if she arrived at nine in the morning with him in tow, she—whose entire career was about creating image—knew.
Taking her own place at the other end of the long oval table, she listened carefully as everyone introduced themselves. Because she knew image and reality didn’t always coincide, she refused to take these surfer kids at face value. There had to be some smarts in the room. Cameron Crane hadn’t built the number one surf and boogie board company in the southern hemisphere all on his own.
“Okay,” she said, once the introductions were done. She gestured around the room, feeling the new cotton on the wow-your-eyes-out shirt scrape her upper arm. Hanging on the walls were glossy posters and magazine ads, pictures of Crane surf and boogie boards and the clothing line, each with the tiny black crane logo.
Their ad campaigns tended to be straight up. The people in those photographs were defying waves, cresting breakers that made her—a born-and-bred Californian—shudder. As far as she could tell, the photos weren’t studio-shot or airbrushed to perfection; they were as raw as the powerful waves, and they packed quite a punch.
These were surf products for honest-to-God surfers. But if she was going to help them launch in the U.S., they were going to need a different approach.
She turned back to the group eyeing her with expressions from curious, blank-eyed, and possibly hungover, to the man at the end of the table whose expression read come to bed. She did her best to telegraph back, forget it, and then tried to ignore his presence.
“Crane Enterprises has saturated the Australian and New Zealand markets. Am I right?”
Nods all around the table.
“So, you think, they surf in California, they surf in Hawaii, we’ll take over those markets.”
More nodding.
“How are we going to do that?”
They gazed at her collectively as if to say, What do you think we hired you for?
“The vast majority of foreign products that try to sell into the American market fail. Not because they aren’t good, but because people don’t buy them.”
There was more nodding, but some frown lines appeared in those unlined faces.
“Now I know the California market, where we’ll begin. But you guys know the product. So tell me, why should a kid in California, who’s never heard the word Crane, except at a construction site, buy one of your boards?”
“Best-made boards in the world,” a young male voice piped up.
“Can you back up that claim?” She’d read all the bumph that the Crane people had sent her, but she wanted to know how the people making the products felt.
“Too right. I’m the chief engineer, I should know. We design and build for speed, planing, maneuverability, and sensitivity. I was a surfboard glasser when I met Cam, and he was the shaper. We’re best known for our longboards, but we build a full range of long and short boards, knee boards, and learner boards. They’re tops.”
The kid didn’t look old enough to shave and he was the chief engineer, and had obviously worked with Cam for quite a while. She’d read up enough to know that a shaper actually shaped the surfboards, sometimes to the specific requirements of a particular surfer, and a glasser applied the covering and finish.
“How do you know your boards are the best in the world?” she challenged him.
The kid gave her a smile so broad she wanted to laugh. “ ’Cause I’ve tried ’em all.”
She blinked. “You have personally surfed on every surfboard in the world?”
“Yeah, I reckon. Every competitor’s, anyway. Their top-of-the-line boards, and usually a few others. After I test them, I let the others ’round the office have a go.”
There was more nodding. “We’re all surfers.”
Of course they were. Well, it was an unorthodox way to choose staff, but who was she to argue with success?
“Okay, so you’ve got a quality product. Give me another reason for your success.”
“We’ve got great colors,” said a twenty-something woman with long dirty-blond hair who ought to be modeling. She reminded Jen of a young Elle MacPherson.
“Would you come off it with the colors?” the chief engineer scoffed.
“Color is important, especially for girls,” the Ell
e clone informed him. Her name was Bronwyn Spencer, Jen remembered from the introductions.
“She likes her surfboards to match her nail polish.” There was general laughter, but the young woman merely tossed her cascade of wavy hair over her shoulder.
“Not just surfboards, but wet suits, board bags, even wax and sunscreens. Sure, we only sell the best, but why shouldn’t the best have some decent color to it?”
“She’s my little sister. I have to give her something to do,” Cam teased.
The girl didn’t get huffy, merely tossed that mane of sun-licked hair once more and reminded him that without her, there would be no clothing line and hadn’t Crane Casuals boosted their profits by eighteen percent last year?
Jen assumed Bronwyn was used to the teasing and full enough of self-esteem that it didn’t bother her. She couldn’t imagine a woman that gorgeous not oozing self-esteem. So she was Cameron Crane’s younger sister. They had the same hair color, she saw, and a similar arrogant sexuality.
Pulling herself back to the discussion at hand, she nodded. “Great. We’ve got quality, designer colors, what else?”
“We can go in at a competitive price point, especially with the Australian dollar so weak against the greenback,” said another young man with a goatee and sun- or wind- reddened cheeks.
By the end of an hour, she had a great deal of information, but better, a sense of who these people were and how they operated. Cam himself hadn’t contributed a lot, but he’d listened and he’d watched. Mostly, he’d watched her. She tried not to let her gaze get caught up with his—even across a packed boardroom table, the impact was too much of a jolt.
“Good,” she said when things wound down. “I think you’ve hit our strengths very well. It’s not going to be easy. It’s going to be a real challenge, but I think we can have a lot of fun, especially based on the energy and commitment in this room.”
She smiled. “I’ve got a temporary office here, so please drop in any time if you have any ideas. We’re going to design a marketing strategy, an advertising campaign, and some targets. I’m hoping we can take over five to ten percent of the California surf and boogie board market within twelve months from the launch.”
“I’m after market domination,” Cameron Crane said.
Like that was a surprise. He struck her as a guy who wanted to dominate everything and everyone. And, of course, that was why he’d wanted to show up with her this morning. She knew the American market, which gave her the edge. But he’d wanted his staff to see that she was still under him. In bed and in business.
The man was as obvious as that shirt. Still, she’d been hustled by smoother operators than he and never succumbed. She didn’t think she was in much danger from Cameron Crane and his caveman tactics, although she had to give him credit for a certain animal magnetism.
She’d enjoy watching him try to get her into bed and failing spectacularly. She wondered if he thought for one second he was being subtle.
Chapter Four
“I see you’re not one to waste time,” Cam said, walking out with her after the meeting and accompanying her to her temporary office.
“I’m only here for three weeks. We have a lot to accomplish.”
“I think a person can accomplish anything they set their mind to,” he told her in a tone that had nothing to do with target markets and surfboards.
She wished this hairy, loud-dressing, barely civilized man didn’t . . . affect her, but she was too honest not to admit that he did. He was sexy in an earthy way, completely opposite to the type of man she went for, so it surprised her to find that her erogenous zones seemed to perk up when he was around. She must have worse jet lag than she’d thought.
“My phone works, I’ve got a desk, supplies, and an assistant. Thank you.”
“No worries. You’re going to have to get to see a bit of Oz and get to know a few Sydney-siders while you’re here.”
“Yes. I know.”
“Start by getting to know me. Have dinner with me tonight.”
She smiled. So he was back to trying on the charm, was he? “By dinnertime I’ll be sound asleep.” Still, they had to work together and she was determined to get them on a friendly professional footing. And two could play at power games. “Why don’t you have lunch with me?”
Lunch was much safer and she did want to get to know one particular Sydney-sider better. His own dynamic personality and boundless energy had a lot to do with his success, but she needed to know if he could bring that same level of intensity to a U.S. expansion. She also needed to know if there were any skeletons hiding in his closet.
She slapped a hand to her mouth too late to stifle a yawn.
“All right,” he said, grinning at her in a very unsettling way. “I’ll take you down the street to the touristy part of the Rocks. It’s noisy enough there to keep anybody awake.”
The Rocks was the oldest part of Sydney, a place of refurbished warehouses, museums, and quaint shops. They sat outside in one of a string of restaurants, and she was charmed to find the arch of the Harbour Bridge on one side of her and the famous white sails of the Sydney Opera House on the other.
“On the weekend there’s a great market here if you want to pick up some things to take home,” he informed her. “Over there is the oldest pub in Sydney, serves a very nice home brew.”
Since he’d acted perfectly normal since they’d left the office, offering her a running commentary on the city as they’d walked here, she let herself relax.
The restaurant was abustle with tourists, business people, and regular people, she supposed, having a meal out. She opened her menu and noted that Cameron Crane didn’t bother to open his. He must eat here a lot.
“Do you like seafood?”
“Sure.”
“You must try Moreton Bay Bugs.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“Trust me.”
“I’m not that stupid.”
He gave a diabolical chuckle, then ordered them anyway. She ordered a chef’s salad.
When the bugs arrived, they turned out to resemble tiny lobsters.
“Come on,” he said, “try one.” He forked up some of the white meat, dipped it in butter, and offered her the dripping morsel.
Of course she could say no and push it back at him, but she could see that’s what he expected of her. Somehow she didn’t feel like giving him the satisfaction of being predictable, so she opened her mouth and let him feed her in a gesture she pretended she found neither tantalizing or intimate.
Then her taste buds started getting blissed out and she almost moaned. “This is fantastic.”
“You see? It’s good to try new things.” He leaned closer, and his eyes crinkled at her. “You can discover all kinds of pleasures you didn’t know existed.” Her heart banged against her ribs and for a second she couldn’t pull her gaze away from his.
“Everything all right?” asked their waiter, and she had a moment to pull herself back together.
While Cam answered, she turned to look at the harbor. When the waiter had moved on, he slipped back into casual mode. “This is where they used to let the convicts off.”
“Is that how your family came to Australia?” she asked in her blandest tone.
He grinned at her. “No. The law-breaking in my family is more recent.”
And that was something personal she did want to discuss. “If your temper is an issue in any way, I need to know it ahead of time.”
“What? You want to know if I’m a drunken lout?”
“I wouldn’t have put it in quite those terms, but you did clock that photographer. If you come to the States I need to know—”
“That I won’t get pissed, trash my hotel room, and drop my dacks in public?”
She nodded. “Pretty much.”
“Well, I won’t.”
She toyed with her sparkling water. “Since we’re on the subject, there are some holes in your resume. I wonder—”
“Christ, I
thought this was a date, not a bloody job interview.”
“It’s a working lunch,” she said, holding on to her even tone with difficulty. “As I believe I mentioned, I’m engaged to be married.”
“When’s the wedding?” he asked so abruptly she blinked.
“We haven’t set a date yet, but—”
He snorted. “If you were mine, I wouldn’t let you traipse off halfway ’round the world without even having a date set to tie the knot.”
“I can’t believe you’re the kind of man who chases married women.”
“I’m not. You’re single, darl. Fair game.”
“As flattered as I am,” she said glaring at him to make it clear she was anything but, “I am not game to be hunted. I’m here to do a job.” She slipped a notebook and her solid gold Mont Blanc pen from her bag. She hadn’t intended to conduct business so blatantly but he needed constant reminders, and, besides, Mark had given her the pen. She twiddled it to be certain the Aussie game hunter could see the engraved script.
“Nice pen,” he said as though cued.
“Thanks. It was a gift.”
“From a grateful client?”
“No. From my fiancé, Mark. For my birthday.” Instead of backing off as she’d expected when faced with this proof of her fiancé’s thoughtfulness, he threw his head back and laughed, white hunter’s teeth gleaming in the sunshine.
She put down the pen, picked up her fork, and stabbed a piece of lettuce viciously, but couldn’t restrain herself from asking him, “What is so funny?”
“Darl, a man who buys his woman a pen is looking for a business merger, not a wife.”
He was trying to rile her. She knew it, so why did she want to use her pen to stab him somewhere soft and full of nerve endings? She drew a breath. “Mark is practical. It’s one of the traits we have in common.”
“A man doesn’t buy practical gifts for the woman he’s bedding. He buys jewelry, champagne, black sexy things you put on in order to tear them off.” His gaze moved to hers and there was a sexual intensity that had her forcing herself not to lick her lips.
She didn’t have the same control over her heart, which pounded as though she were some kind of game animal staring into a loaded rifle.
