by Nancy Warren
So she stepped back to give herself some room.
“What’s the matter?” Cam asked.
That was the trouble when a man thought you were no fun. The minute you got silly he thought there was something wrong. Time to show Mr. Cameron Too Sexy for his Own Good Crane that there was absolutely nothing the matter with her.
She felt fabulous. Free, sexy, and as fun as a woman about to have sex with a business client could be.
Okay, forget the words client and business, she warned herself. Those were not fun words.
No. And she was about to show Cam so much fun he’d never dare to criticize her again for lack of spirit.
“Do you have any music?”
“You want to listen to music?” he asked in half panic, half confusion.
“Yes.” It was really hard not to smirk, but he had no idea what he’d unleashed. Fun was throbbing through her veins—well, that might have been sexual excitement, it was getting hard to separate the two.
“Okay.” He looked disappointed but game. He walked to a built-in cupboard and opened it to reveal a sound system, including a nicely crowded rack of CDs. “What are you in the mood for?”
She walked up beside him and nudged him out of the way. “Settle yourself on the bed. I’ll choose my own.”
“Will you be joining me?” He sounded so completely bewildered she wanted to kiss him and reassure him that everything was going to be fine. But telling was too easy. She decided to show him.
“Yes,” she crowed, when she came across a CD she was amazed to find in his collection. It was too perfect. She wanted something with a very nice bump and grind beat to it. And there was David Lee Roth’s version of California Girls.
“In a minute,” she said, and flapped her hand at him until he was leaning back against the padded headboard, looking a little confused, half-dressed and inexpressibly sexy.
“Did I ever tell you I used to dance?”
“No.”
“Ten years of jazz and ballet. I’ll show you.”
“You want to dance? Now?”
“Yes. It will be fun.” Hah, would it ever. She put the CD on and moved to the foot of the bed, tipped her head back, closed her eyes, and let her own sexuality out.
She hadn’t danced for a long time, she realized. Once she got serious about her career, she’d let it go. But the impulses were still there. The way her muscles and bones responded to the beat, oh, that was still there. Amazing.
She’d forgotten how much she loved to dance.
Okay, so maybe he was a teensy bit right when he said she was no fun. But she had been fun once upon a time, and she was pretty sure she could be fun again.
Now seemed to be the moment to test that theory. Listen to the music. That’s what she had to do. Listen and move. And have fun!
When he heard the music she’d chosen he started to laugh. And when she began to move he abruptly stopped laughing. She was a bit rusty, but she’d never felt as in tune with her own body. And if things got a little rocky, she could always blame the ocean swell.
The music spilled out, kind of funky, kind of rock and roll, totally upbeat, and very catchy. She wondered if she could do this without screwing up.
And decided that if she screwed up she’d deal with it. That was what fun was all about she realized: the unexpected. The surprise. The thrill of being alive, crazy over some guy she barely knew on a boat in the middle of one of the world’s greatest harbors.
That man made every cell in her body turn into a cheerleader. She spun. She leapt, she posed for a second, one leg extended, her back arched and her hands thrown back. She held her scarf above her like a parachute.
And realized she wasn’t as flexible as she’d been at eighteen.
But then, Cam wasn’t going to judge her on agility or flexibility. All that mattered was showmanship. And the more she showed, the less he was going to figure out her best dancing years were a decade behind her. She made up a routine based on some half-remembered moves from dance school combined with a few stripper routines she’d witnessed over the years until she figured she was about two steps away from back spasm, immobility and physiotherapy.
Time for plan B.
She did the last leap she had in her, then turned and gave the old bump and grind her best, thrusting her hips back in his direction and rotating. While she was there, she placed her hands behind her neck and played with the bow that held her halter in place.
There was no sound from behind her but David Lee Roth reminding her of her roots. She was from the Fun Girl state for God’s sake; what had happened to her?
She felt Cam’s concentrated focus on her as though it were a laser beam. And her body began to heat.
She pulled the bow with a flourish, felt it release, until the silk bodice was sliding down her chest leaving goosebumps in its wake.
She caught the silk in one hand, turned in time to the music, and kept it going, though her step faltered momentarily when she encountered Cam’s gaze and almost swallowed her tongue.
If she’d wondered whether her jazz striptease was working—it was.
His eyes scorched her skin with a glance. She felt paths of heat trail from her head to her toes. Neither of them could stand much more of this. They’d wanted each other too much. Denied it too long.
“I wish they all could be California Girls,” David Lee Roth belted out. She lifted her arms, arched and swayed, while the silk bodice sighed in surrender and slipped until her breasts were naked and danced right along with her.
There was a sound from the bed. The sound of a man at the end of his rope.
She smiled at her hold over him and kept dancing. Never had she felt so powerful, so alluring, so utterly sexy.
There was a bit of a zipper holding the skirt in place, and she made it last, pulling so slowly that she felt every tooth of the zipper disconnect, and she had a pretty good idea that Cam felt every tooth also.
She held his gaze, her body moving by instinct to the music since she’d long since given up any formal steps, and simply let the thing drop. The silk licked its way down her bare legs, ending with a sigh of blue silk at her feet.
Now she wore heels, pretty peach silk bikinis, and her scarf.
Oh, yes. Her scarf.
She smiled at him, and got the impression that he was trying to smile back but his lips were numb. She licked her mouth glossy, tossed her hair and kept her hips moving as though they twirled a hula hoop she was never going to drop.
She toyed with the scarf, and now understood why peelers always had props. She could be coy with a scarf, draping it just so to hide her breasts, or she could be bold, wrapping it around his ankle like a restraint, just enough to make his eyes widen before pulling it free and draping it boa-style.
“You’re killing me,” he finally managed.
“Do you still think I don’t know how to have fun?”
“I can’t believe I ever thought that.”
“Do you now?”
He shook his head, slow and definite.
“Good.” She rewarded his common sense by peeling off her panties, slowly, still moving with the music and the gentle rocking of the boat.
She’d never before considered what it would feel like to be a stripper, but now she had an inkling of what it must be like. She felt power of the most elemental kind. The sort of power that has a man begging at your feet, unable to tear his gaze away.
She was used to corporate power, and basic, attractive young woman power, but this was new, and heady stuff. This was sexual power.
She saw his hands clench against his thighs and knew he wanted her so much it was testing his willpower to remain a passive spectator. And she loved him for his struggle.
But enough was enough. Her own heat was building relentlessly. So, she planted one heel on the bed, threw her scarf out like a lasso and caught her man around the neck, pulling him forward.
She felt the heat coming off him in waves, caught the sizzle of his gaze, and then c
losed her eyes and touched her lips to his, feeling electricity pump and sizzle between them. She pulled him in closer and hoisted her other foot, ready to seduce him with a dancer’s grace.
The boat lurched. Whether it hit the wake of another vessel, banged into a wharf or beached itself, she didn’t much know or care. She tumbled, naked on top of Cam.
So much for her smooth, coy routine.
She was plastered on top of him, naked and heaving like a sexually desperate woman. Oh, the hell with coy, she decided, and attacked him.
She yanked at his clothes, and he helped. They kissed while they wrestled with sleeves, belt, socks, and a pair of cotton boxers that had naval flags all over them. Later she’d tease him about them, she was certain. Now she only wanted them off.
He clicked a discreet cupboard open and pulled out a handy box of condoms and donned one while she waited, half-impatient and half-ready to postpone. For her, this was it. Once he entered her body, her life would never be the same.
But she’d come to realize in the last couple of weeks that somehow she’d been on the wrong course. Now, amazingly, on the other side of the world, she’d discovered she wasn’t the person she’d thought she was, and the man she’d planned to marry was the wrong man.
As Cam settled himself between her thighs, the possibility flashed that he was the right man. She trembled beneath him.
Cam didn’t plunge inside her as she’d suspected, but kissed her softly and gazed down into her eyes.
He entered her slowly and even through her intense excitement she felt the emotional pull. She’d seen him tough, she’d seen him vulnerable, and tonight she’d seen him tender. Under her stroking hands the muscles of his back rolled like the swells beneath them while his hips thrust in a rhythm that suited her perfectly. Not too fast, not too slow, each slide pulling her deeper into bliss.
It was so easy and so sweet that a wave of pleasure caught her and carried her off without her even realizing she was about to come.
Every bit of her clutched at him, wanting, giving, loving. His response was a long, grunting groan, but it was quite eloquent enough for her as she felt him jerk and shudder inside her and she held him through to the end.
They still didn’t have any words. Didn’t really need them. They kissed slowly and deeply, and she realized they’d only just begun.
“You in a hurry to get home?” he asked her.
He meant back to his house, she knew that, but she realized she was in no hurry to get back to San Francisco either and leave the most interesting man she’d ever met. He was still inside her body, as though he belonged there, and in that moment she realized he did belong there.
She loved him. The thought made her blink rapidly and bury her face in his neck. “No,” she said, kissing the warm skin. “I’m in no hurry.”
“We’ll stay overnight then.”
“All right.” The night couldn’t last long enough.
Someday it would be tomorrow, and she would have to face the fact that she’d fallen in love with a man who was completely foreign to her in every way.
But, she decided, wrapping her arms around her new lover, she’d deal with it when tomorrow dawned.
Chapter Ten
“That’s him!”
Jen grabbed Cam’s arm and blinked and blinked again at the man who’d walked into the front reception area of Crane, hardly daring to believe her eyes.
No. The man didn’t walk. Swagger was closer, but that wasn’t right either. He had the loose, confident stride of an athlete and something about the easy roll of his hips suggested a potent sexuality.
He stood around six two or three, she guessed, and his open shirt revealed a nicely bronzed chest and a hint of copper hair. He wore jeans and the kind of plaid shirt worn by road crews and cowboys everywhere. His hair was sun-kissed brown, his skin weather-beaten, and his smile both boyish and knowing.
“I have to have him,” she said when her heart remembered to beat.
“You just had me,” Cam reminded her in an aggrieved tone.
She smiled at him, thinking the early bout of sex before work this morning seemed to have boosted her creativity. She was full of great ideas. “Don’t worry. I don’t want him for sex. I don’t have the energy.” Since their time was running out, she and Cam spent every possible second together, usually naked. They couldn’t seem to get enough of each other. He hadn’t mentioned putting off her trip again, but she knew it was on both their minds. She’d never been so happy. Or so terrified. Would she give up everything from her citizenship to her job for this man?
Would he even ask her?
She wanted to kiss Cam but since that was grossly inappropriate, she squeezed his arm and let go. “I’ll see you later.”
Then she turned back to the paragon, pleased to see he was just as perfect as he’d been twenty seconds ago. He glanced around as though he might have the wrong address and the idea he might leave again had her almost racing across the foyer, intercepting him before he could vanish.
“Hello,” she said, extending her hand and giving him a warm smile. “I’m Jennifer Talbot.”
“Steve Jackson,” he said, shaking her hand and giving her a smile that could melt chocolate. Strong, masculine hand. Nice hint of callous. Up close he was as utterly perfect as he had been from twenty feet away. Maybe even more so, for from here she could see that his eyes were a stunning blend of gray and green, that he handled himself with innate confidence, and that his voice was incredible. Deep and rich, but also approachable. If she didn’t sit down soon, she thought she might swoon.
“Are you here to see me?” she asked. One of the agencies must have sent him. Whichever it was they were going to get a fat bonus along with their fee.
“I suppose,” he said. “I’m here about the job.”
“Wonderful.”
He followed when she led the way to her office.
“Did you bring a portfolio?” she asked when they were sitting. She couldn’t wait to see how he photographed.
“A portfolio? You mean like a CV? Didn’t think of it. Sorry.”
Okay, no portfolio. She could live with that. Somehow she knew the camera would love him as much as she did. “Do you have any television or film experience?”
“Television?” He was even gorgeous when he wrinkled his forehead in a puzzled frown. “I’m a steelworker. Just finished up a bridge.”
“But you are here about the job?” she asked in dismay. He was the perfect image she was searching for, the spokesman for Crane.
“Sure, I’m here about the job. I’ll be laid off for the next couple of months, so I’m here about temporary work in the packing plant. It was advertised in the paper.”
He was between jobs and had a couple of months to spare. That was all she needed to know. She smiled and opened her drawer to find her digital camera.
“I’d like to interview you for a different job. Something I think you’ll find much more exciting than packing surfboards.”
“What is it?” He eyed her and her camera with suspicion.
“We’re searching for a spokesman for the new product launch into California. You’d become the face, body, and voice associated with Crane Surf and Boogie Boards in North America. You’ll travel, shoot commercials, and make public appearances, promotional videos, and print ads.” While she became more enthused with each word, she wasn’t getting the same reaction from the man sitting across from her. If anything, he was looking more and more revolted.
“You’re looking for a male model?” He made it sound as though she were asking him to star in a gay porn flick.
“Not exactly. More a product spokesman, though a little acting may be required. I’d like to take a few pictures of you and a bit of video just to get a feel for how you come across on film.”
He raised a hand in front of his face and rose to his impressive height. “Sorry, lady. I’m not your man. I’ll be right packing boxes. I’ll find my way back to the front.”
He was
walking away. Vanity, fame, and travel hadn’t hooked him. She tried filthy lucre. “If you get the job, you can expect to earn at least fifty thousand dollars for a couple of months’ work.”
He stopped mid-stride and turned to her, his eyes widening. “Fifty grand? To parade around with a surfboard for a couple of months?”
“At least fifty. Probably more. You’ll travel all expenses paid, naturally. And I did mention the pay is in U.S. dollars?” With the exchange rate, that was a hefty bonus right there.
“Fifty grand.” He rubbed the back of his neck. Thank goodness he wasn’t immune to the lure of filthy lucre.
She held up the camera. “Can I take a couple of shots?”
“You did say U.S. dollars?”
“I did.”
He sent her a smile that she suspected would make women the world over take up surfing because he was so sexy. She bet men would rush to buy products he endorsed because he was so confidently virile. If her initial instinct turned out to be right, he was Crane’s dream come true.
“Take your photograph,” he said.
“Oh, he’s perfect,” Jen gushed, slapping photos of the cocky looking bastard she’d fallen all over herself running after this morning.
“Perfect for what?” Cam wasn’t feeling quite so thrilled to stare at photos of another man pushed under his nose by the woman who’d just become his lover.
“The spokesman!” she said, as though he were being incredibly dim. “For your California launch. He’s exactly, wonderfully perfect. He’s got the build.” She shuffled through until she found one of the guy shirtless, and looking less than pleased. Couldn’t blame him. The background was Jen’s office. She could persuade men into the damnedest things.
“He’s got the look of a hard-playing, rugged surfer, a man who braves the tallest waves and triumphs. Tough, manly, but something in his eyes says he’s got a soft spot for women.” She sighed. “Even his voice is right. Low and sexy, his accent’s not so strong you can’t understand what he’s saying. Like I said, perfect.”
“If he’s so perfect, why haven’t I ever seen him in a film or on telly? Or advertising some fruity men’s cologne in a magazine?”
