“Hey, now wait a minute—” Amanda protested.
Eric Greyford shrugged and lowered his hand. He stepped over to the writing desk and picked up the receiver of the phone perched there.
“Mi scusi. Dammi la polizia, per favore.”
“Wait! Wait!” Amanda scrambled over to the table.
He flashed an infuriating, triumphant grin and spoke into the phone again, apologizing to the front desk operator for any confusion he’d caused. Hanging up, he turned towards her, leaning a hip against the desk. He crossed his muscular arms over his chest and stared at her.
This time, he did look at her breasts. And her hips and her legs and every other inch of her. He could hardly have been more thorough if she’d been stark naked. Her color rose higher as he appraised her.
“Good,” he said. “Very good.”
“I’m so glad you approve.” Amanda wanted to crawl under a rock, but she didn’t dare protest his lascivious gaze. It might be the one thing keeping her out of an Italian prison.
“Where are you staying?”
“The Loreley.”
Eric looked perplexed. His kind probably didn’t even know there was another town besides Capri on the island.
“It’s in Anacapri.”
“Ah.” Eric straightened and strode away from the writing desk, walking right past Amanda. He moved with the smooth, rolling gait of a jungle cat. There was that image again. Eric Greyford the tiger, and Amanda a mouse in his paws.
Amanda followed him into the vast sitting room. The whole room was done in creamy shades of white, with a few dashes of lemon yellow as accents. Wildly impractical. They must have to shampoo the carpet every five minutes in a place like this. It annoyed her that her entire apartment back in New York would probably fit inside Eric Greyford’s hotel suite.
“Do join me, Miss Jackson.” Eric called to her from over his shoulder.
Remembering her awkward position, Amanda scrambled after him. She couldn’t help admiring the snug fit of his tuxedo trousers and the firm, well-rounded shape they did so much to accent.
She made a little growl in her throat and clenched her hands into fists. She was not one of those celebrity groupies that read her father’s magazines. She absolutely would not start worshipping this guy because he was richer than God and almost more famous.
Although she might consider worshipping him for his perfect physique.
No, no, no. Focus. She was here on business, trying to get a story. And he was the enemy. Target. Subject. Whatever.
Well, whatever he was, he had come to a halt in the center of the sitting room and turned to look her up and down once more.
“This could work out very well for my purposes.”
There was an obscene purr in his throaty voice. Amanda refused to give him the satisfaction of babbling some incoherent response, so she stood before him in silence.
“Have you ever been to Da Paolino?”
“On my salary?”
“I’ll take that as a no, then. You should enjoy it.” Eric smiled. “I suspect you’re a woman with strong appetites, and one who doesn’t get to indulge them as often as she might like.”
Amanda blushed again. She’d turned red more times in the last few minutes than she had in the previous twenty-six years of her existence.
“Is it very dressy?” No doubt she sounded like a nervous schoolgirl. “The airline lost most of my luggage.”
“What size are you?”
“Excuse me?” Amanda’s hands went to her hips again.
“Calm down, Miss Jackson.” Eric re-crossed the room in a few quick steps, stopping inches in front of her. “When a strange woman invades a gentleman’s bedroom, it’s too late to be coy.”
She could smell his cologne again. What the heck did they put in that stuff?
“Size six,” she said faintly.
Eric stroked his jaw again. “I’ll have something appropriate sent round to your hotel tomorrow. Are you registered as Miss Jackson, or did you use some other nom de plume there?”
“Amanda Jackson. It’s my real name.”
Eric chuckled. “Are you sure you’re not new at this paparazzi game?”
“I am not paparazzi. I’m a serious journalist. Or I was, once upon a time.”
Again came the upraised eyebrow and the smirk. Amanda wrinkled her nose at him and toyed with the notion of stomping her high heel down on his foot.
Eric laid a firm hand on her shoulder. Gently but irresistibly, he turned her towards the door to the hallway outside his hotel suite.
“I’ll have my driver pick you up at your hotel, tomorrow night at eight. We can discuss your journalistic aspirations then, Miss Jackson. You’ll forgive me, but I’ve had a very full evening, and I’d like to get to bed. Alone.”
“Good. Because I know I wasn’t offering anything. And forget the driver—I’ll meet you at the restaurant.”
Amanda thrust out her chin as he reached past her to turn the doorknob with his free hand. At the same time, the hand that had come to rest on her shoulder slipped down to the small of her back. The unexpected movement was so sudden and so smooth, she shivered.
As he opened the door, Eric managed to angle both of them into the doorway. He wasn’t quite touching her—except for that gentle hand on her back. But he stood so near, she could feel the heat of his body radiating out towards her.
She gazed up into his eyes and caught her breath, her heart thumping out a thousand beats per minute. She could drown in the blue whirlpool of those eyes. Eric pulled her snugly against him, a wavy lock of dark hair tumbling forward onto his forehead. His lips brushed her hair, and her legs began to wobble on those agonizing heels.
“Tomorrow night, then.” He murmured it right into her ear, his warm breath fluttering a few loose wisps of her hair. “Under the lemon trees.”
She closed her eyes, ashamed of her weakness, but ready and even eager for the kiss that would surely follow. A sharp thunk startled her and her eyes snapped open. The door to Eric Greyford’s room had closed, and she found herself alone in the corridor outside.
“Manipulative pig!” she shouted at the door. With a grunt, she yanked off the spikey heels and padded down the hallway barefoot.
***
After the girl had gone, Eric made an immediate move for the sitting room’s wet bar. He fixed himself a whiskey and soda and slumped onto the spacious suede-covered couch. With a sigh, he ran his fingers through his hair. Then, he flipped open his cell phone. He’d have to cancel tomorrow’s dinner engagement, but his friend Franco would understand being thrown over in favor of a pretty girl. The man was an Italian, after all. As he expected, however, Franco did not let him go easily.
“This one must be very beautiful indeed,” Franco chuckled. “You are never one to shirk your social obligations or slight those close to you.”
Eric picked up one of the many glossy magazines littering the surface of the coffee table. “Ah, Franco. Haven’t you heard that I am—and I’m quoting—a self-absorbed playboy who loves them and leaves them? Hardly the picture of reliability you paint.”
“Is that according to one of your own publications? If so, you should hire new writers.”
Eric heard amusement in Franco’s faintly accented English.
“No, it’s according to Fame, of course, Tate Global’s flagship publication. This article is part of Peter Tate’s concerted effort to scare off Greyford investors by making me appear dangerously immature.”
“If your brother’s music festival is a success, that should help capture a more youthful audience for Greyford publications. Then your alleged immaturity will be an asset.”
“Thank you, Franco,” Eric snapped, a defensive edge creeping into his voice. “I am aware of my late brother’s interest in using me to create a younger, hipper image for Greyford Publishing. Why else am I spending every waking minute babysitting our star performer?”
“Ah, the star,” Franco’s voice made his appreciation of her ob
vious. “What does she think of this date you have lined up for tomorrow evening?”
“She doesn’t know. But as long as I keep it out of the public eye, she won’t mind.”
The entire charade with Stacey Dakota had gotten out of hand. He’d been sent to keep her sober and out of trouble over a year ago, when his elder brother had first thought up the Capri Music Festival and signed Stacey as the headliner.
“Someone has to keep her on a short leash,” Antony had said. “It can’t be me. I have to run Greyford Publishing. Besides, you’re more photogenic. And you’re always boasting about how much you love adventure. Minding Stacey should be an adventure and then some.”
Eric had always felt guilty about not being more involved in the family business, so he’d agreed to the project. But now, Antony was dead, and Eric had been forced into the not very adventurous role of his successor as the company’s Chief Operating Officer…
“Did you hear me, my friend?” Franco’s voice dragged Eric back to the present.
“Lost my train of thought for a moment,” he apologized. “It’s getting quite late, I suppose.”
“True. Which reminds me—where did you find your new ladylove? I was with you earlier this evening, and you had Stacey on your arm then. You do work quickly.”
“In fact, she was the one working quickly,” Eric replied. “I found her ransacking my room.”
“So you’re taking her out to dinner? This is an odd English custom they didn’t teach me when I was at Eton.”
Eric laughed. “She’s a reporter, Franco. I’m not sure for whom she’s working, though. That’s one of the things I hope to learn tomorrow night. In the meantime, I’ll have my assistant do a background check on my mystery lady.”
“If the lady in question is working for Tate Global, you might pick up some useful information from her. Perhaps she’s privy to their entire plan of attack for next week’s board meeting.”
Eric smiled at the memory of her fumbling attempts to lie to him. “I doubt she could keep any secret for very long, much less something on that level. I don’t think she’s very highly placed within her organization.”
“Still, a responsible company officer must learn all he can about the competition.”
“Precisely.”
Eric and Franco shared a suggestive laugh.
“I must do my duty for the good of the family business. If that means wining and dining the pretty Miss Jackson under the lemon trees of Da Paolino, I shall have to endure it. And if an even greater sacrifice is needed, I’ll be happy to oblige. Good Lord, you should have seen her.”
“Any parts in particular you would like to tell me about in greater detail?” Franco’s voice was rich with suggestion.
“Her eyes,” Eric said, surprising even himself.
“Her eyes?”
“Very brown, they were.” Eric rubbed his thumb along his jaw, once again seeing the rich, coffee-colored darkness. The biggest brown eyes he’d ever seen, with little flecks of gold near the pupil. A surprise, considering the blonde hair. He’d looked for dark roots when he whispered in her ear and found none. Either the best dye job in the world—better than any actress or heiress he’d ever dated—or else she was a natural blond. She’d worn it bound up in a high ponytail, but unruly wisps had managed to escape and frame her face like an angel’s halo. He imagined pulling the elastic out of her hair, those blonde curls tumbling down for him, spilling around him as she leaned over his reclining form. Now that would be an entertaining way to spend an afternoon.
After an uneasy pause, Franco spoke again. “Enjoy yourself, Eric. But do be on your guard with this one.”
Eric promised his friend he would do exactly that, and then the two made plans to meet in a few days. Eric hung up the phone and found himself still thinking about Amanda. He recalled her little lecture about his perceived mistreatment of Stacey, and he smiled. Stacey would find it hilarious when he shared it with her. However, Franco was right. He’d need to take care with this one. Her forthrightness made her a danger, because it made him want to reach out to her.
That couldn’t happen. Although he regretted agreeing to the job of pretending to be Stacey’s boyfriend, he certainly wouldn’t reveal that secret to a reporter from a rival publication.
No. He couldn’t be honest with Miss Jackson. But he could do other things with her.
He rubbed his fingers together, remembering the silken texture of her soft springy curls. In his mind, he saw again those probing, disconcerting eyes of hers. And her lush, curvaceous body, with those ripe round breasts she was so uncomfortable displaying. Last but not least, he thought of her slender legs. Those well-rounded calves had been shown to excellent effect in the black stiletto heels.
He’d taken one look at her when he’d first walked into the bedroom, and immediately he’d imagined having her in nothing but those shoes. And he would have made her love every minute of it. He’d meant what he said about her being a woman of strong appetites. He could feel it in his bones—and perhaps some other part of his anatomy too. She had a body built for pleasure. She just didn’t know it yet. But bloody hell, he was going to enjoy teaching her.
TWO
The sharp tinny ring of the hotel’s telephone shattered Amanda’s dreams and roused her into grudging wakefulness. She pulled an extra pillow over her face and burrowed deeper under the covers. No use. The dream had been embarrassing anyway—something to do with crashing waves and a knight galloping towards her through the surf and sand. A knight with steely blue eyes and wavy black hair. How corny could her subconscious get?
Casting aside the pillow, Amanda fumbled for the phone. “Yes? I mean, ciao?”
“Listen to you going all native!” Danielle’s smoky voice dragged Amanda into full consciousness. “Find any hot Mediterranean pool boys to frolic with yet?”
“I’m not looking for a hot Mediterranean pool boy, Dan.”
“See, honey, that’s why you’re so crabby all the time. Gotta take the car out of the garage on occasion, or the engine seizes up for good.”
“Danielle!”
“Fine. Did you snag any racy photos? Your dad is going to be so proud when I tell him. I gotta tell you, Kiddo, I’ve been pulling for you all along, but I didn’t think you had the ambition. How’s this for your headline: Pop Tart Dating Playboy Pornographer? Cute, eh?”
“Brilliant. But what if it’s not true?”
Danielle made a razzing noise. Amanda could imagine her poking a very sharp pencil into her updo and shrugging as she spoke. “As if anyone cares whether it’s true, Amanda. If our readers wanted reality, they’d subscribe to one of Greyford’s publications, not Fame.”
Amanda squirmed at her end of the line. She sat up in the bed and noticed the dappled Mediterranean sunlight spilling across the floor next to her bed. How late was it anyway?
“It didn’t go as planned.” Her voice quavered a little. As editor-in-chief of Fame, Danielle was a powerful supporter—and an equally powerful enemy.
“I have a possible interview with the playboy, though.”
“A possible interview?”
Amanda sighed. She began to explain about her new What Would Danielle Do? philosophy. When she got to the part about bribing her way into Eric’s room, Danielle almost cried, she was so proud of her protégé.
“So did you find anything incriminating? The alleged stash of very naughty photos of all his famous former girlfriends? Those would be worth quite a bit.”
“I know,” Amanda admitted. “I thought I might find them, and not do any interviews at all.”
That would have been her preference. At the Lake Havasu Star, her home prior to Fame, Amanda’s specialty had been writing about nature and environmental issues. Interviewing gardeners and park rangers had been easy. Interviewing famous people made her queasy.
“My little girl is growing up!” Danielle gushed. “Did you find them?”
“Um, no. But he found me.”
“He who?�
��
“Eric Greyford. In his bedroom.”
Danielle shrieked and dropped the phone. When she picked it back up, she was barely coherent. A string of babble eventually settled down to, “You’re not serious, are you?”
Back in their New York office, Amanda knew heads must have been turning at the sound of Danielle’s loud, raspy shouts.
“This is a disaster, isn’t it?” Amanda moaned.
“Disaster? What disaster? This is fabulous! New headline: My Steamy Night With the Playboy. Every juicy detail of what Eric Greyford is really like. His five o’clock shadow, his cologne, his morning breath. Does he have morning breath, or does he wake up all magically fresh and minty? Does he wear boxers or briefs? Or boxer-briefs? He’s pretty ripped, so I’m betting boxer-briefs. Now the women of the world will know the answer!”
“Dan, hold on right there.”
“What?”
“No underwear updates. I don’t do underwear stories.”
“Yes, honey, so you’ve told me. And considering our current crop of celebrities, that severely limits your potential assignments.”
“Dan, I didn’t interview him. I’m going to try to talk him into doing an interview, but I haven’t succeeded yet.”
“You wound up in his bedroom with the guy and you forgot to interview him?” After a brief pause, Danielle gave a little snort. “Okay, I can see how that would happen. I wouldn’t be thinking about journalism either if I were in Eric Greyford’s bedroom. You know, he might be younger than me, but I’ll bet he could teach me a thing or two about doing the nasty.”
Amanda couldn’t help herself; she dissolved into a fit of giggles. “Doing the nasty? Dan, you have such an impressive vocabulary.”
“Yeah, honey, I do. That’s why I’m the editor and you’re not.”
Amanda went on to sheepishly explain about getting caught rifling through Eric’s things—how she’d bought off a threat of criminal charges and a lawsuit by agreeing to dinner.
“What lawsuit?” Danielle retorted.
Love Capri Style Page 2
