‘No, you can’t. Erica’s home tonight.’
‘So? I know she knows about me. I’m sure she’s dying to meet me.’
‘She doesn’t altogether approve.’ Which was true, it was, so there was no reason for her stupid eyes to be flicking to the left just because she was choosing to ignore the fact that Erica was indeed ‘dying to meet’ Adam. Ignoring was not the same as lying.
‘She doesn’t approve of me? Tsk tsk, Lane. There’s a confidentiality clause, remember? I hope you’re not gossiping about me to your friends.’
‘She doesn’t approve of the contract,’ Lane said. ‘And it’s not like there’s been much to gossip about, anyway.’ But when her eyes flicked to the left again she had the grace to add a silent apology for spilling the beans to the girls about what Sarah had referred to as ‘Buttongate’.
‘And when there is something to gossip about?’
‘Then … then of course, I’ll keep it to myself as I … I hope you’ll do, even with … with Sarah. Sarah’s told me she doesn’t want to know anything, anyway.’
‘Oh you can count on me not sharing anything. It’s not what I’d call a respectable topic for family discussion. And Sarah … Well, Sarah’s old-fashioned at heart, you know.’
‘Sarah? Old-fashioned? No!’
‘Trust me on this. A white picket fence, two point five kids and a perfect love are what she’s after. Now, you and I know that perfect love doesn’t exist—’
‘I didn’t say that. I know it does. My parents had it.’
‘If you really believe it exists, you couldn’t have drawn up that contract for sex with a stranger. It’s not exactly “Be still my beating heart” stuff, is it?’
‘You signed it. You can’t be that shocked by it.’
‘Ah, but as I said, I don’t believe in perfect love. If I did, you wouldn’t have got my pen anywhere near it. But since I did sign, you need to follow my lead. Think of me as your Mandarin teacher showing you how to form hànzì. That’s what those Chinese characters are called, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then a perfectly formed word in hànzì would have me picking you up and driving you to dinner, if I expected to have sex with you afterwards.’
‘But are we going to have sex afterwards? Because if we’re not, I might as well drive there myself.’
Pause. And then: ‘Do you want to actually get to the sex bit, Lane?’ he asked in a dangerously controlled voice.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you hire me to get you there?’
‘Well … yes.’
‘So will you shut up and let me pick you up and take you to dinner?’
She bit her lower lip as it hit her, for the first time, that their situation wasn’t just unorthodox, it was all kinds of wrong as well. Forget the ‘perfect love’ angle, this wasn’t even an imperfect friendship. And all it had taken was an invitation to dinner to make that clear. To show up the contract for the tawdry, deceitful, dirty thing it was. Definitely not suitable for family discussion. No wonder Erica and Sarah—old-fashioned Sarah according to Adam—had been shocked to silence when she’d first raised her plan with them. No wonder they’d tried so hard to talk her out of it. No wonder they’d been gossiping about it during the shopping trip.
Yes, the girls had both had sex without falling in love, but as far as Lane knew, neither of them had ever had sex without a proper date first. Cocktails, or dinner, or a movie, or … or something. But there was no room in Lane’s contract for dinner dates and movies. Those things were for real couples, not hired sex partners. And that was fine. Just fine. As long as she didn’t delude herself. As long as she kept things at a transactional level.
‘Lane?’ he prompted, impatient now.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but not unless you promise me sex afterwards. Is it a deal?’
‘I’m not making a deal like that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m not going to fuck you on command, Lane. So, dinner. Yes, or no?’
Yes. Or no. She wished she was brave enough to say ‘no’ but she knew she had to accept the dinner invitation—to appease him, if nothing else, and make sure he didn’t give up on her. But no way could she allow him to pick her up like a real date. It was a step too far, a step too embarrassing, given the nature of their agreement. And who knew what Erica would make of him? Erica wasn’t supposed to ever meet him. Sarah hadn’t intended for either of them to meet him, and she had what she considered a valid reason. Just because Lane had met him was no reason to expand the circle.
‘Okay, dinner, yes,’ she said. ‘But it’s pointless for you to pick me up. You can’t come to my place with Erica there, even if we do have sex after dinner. We’re not a real couple and never will be, and there is the confidentiality clause to consider as you just said a minute ago and … and this is a short-term proposition that shouldn’t be overcomplicated by socializing with each other’s friends and family.’
Silence. A bad one. ‘Are you saying I’m not fit for public consumption?’ he asked, and there was silky, treacherous danger in his voice.
‘I’m sparing you from being paraded in front of people like you’re my boyfriend. I can’t believe you’d want me to do that to you, anyway.’
‘I don’t.’
‘So what exactly is the problem?’
‘It’s just …’ He made a half-choking, half-explosive sound. ‘I guess I’m not used to being a gigolo. It takes some … adjustment.’
‘You knew the terms. I explained them all very carefully before you signed.’
‘Yeah, well the reality is less tasteful than I expected, and believe me, I didn’t expect much from this liaison so that’s quite an admission.’
‘I thought you had a lot of women who were sexual partners and nothing more.’
‘There’s a difference between both partners knowing the score and one partner directing all the action. One way is good clean fun sex; the other is prostitution.’
Lane found that her fingers were squeezing the life out of the phone. Tawdry, deceitful, dirty. ‘Is that really how you see yourself? How I treat you? Like a prostitute?’
Silence.
‘I see,’ Lane said. 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 agreement. My aim was to learn new skills, not to get some cheap gratification.’
‘I’m not cheap, goddammit.’
No, you’re far from cheap, Lane wanted to snap back—but she suspected all that would accomplish would be Adam throwing down the phone.
And maybe that was what he should be doing, after all. Maybe she was hanging on to him unfairly.
She rubbed tiredly at her temple. ‘Adam, you’re not dealing with this, are you?’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘It means 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. I had this feeling before we met that we’d probably like each other because of our links to Sarah, but it’s not happening, is it? I’m finding it’s more important than I thought it would be to … to like each other.’
Silence.
It felt like there was a rock in Lane’s throat, and swallowing didn’t budge it. Failure. She was a failure. After all her grand intentions, her insistence that nothing would stop her from going through with this, she was about to stop herself. One deep breath, then another, but it had to be done.
‘So, thinking about all that …’ she said, and paused to wrestle into submission the tiny shake she heard in her voice. ‘I mean, all things considered, I’d say what we’re doing isn’t working out for you. So I’m offering you a chance to terminate the contract. No hard feelings on my part. I’m still grateful to both you and Sarah for trying. And I’ll still pay you what you’re owed, of course.’
‘You can’t think I’m w
orried about the money!’
‘That’s what this agreement is about. Payment for a service.’ Pause. ‘I’m just trying to be fair, Adam.’
There was a muffled, inarticulate curse at the other end of the phone. And then: ‘We’re not terminating the contract, Lane.’
The relief that flooded her made her light-headed. She closed her eyes. Thank you, thank you, thank you. But, ‘I don’t want you to feel degraded in any way,’ she said.
‘I wouldn’t feel degraded if you’d stop dragging me into the bedroom the moment I step into the house. That’s why I asked you to dinner tonight—because dinner is a normal segue to sex. I’m sure your friend Erica would tell you the same thing.’
‘Yes, I see. Yes, I think she would.’
‘We just need to take things one step at a time, okay?’
‘Within reason,’ Lane said, very calmly. Exactly how she wasn’t feeling.
‘Oh, within reason. Remember the “wiggle room”, 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 that aloud? This was getting out of hand. ‘Just—just the presentation I’m working on. You interrupted me. Actually, I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t call me at the office.’
‘No, we didn’t agree; you instructed and I have chosen to disobey you.’ He chuckled, a wonderfully throaty sound. ‘I guess you’ll just have to spank me,’ he said, low-voiced, and hung up.
She hoped he hadn’t heard her gasp. Her stupid, virginal gasp.
A gasp … followed by a full-body fizz that took her by surprise. Spank, said in that way, sounded interesting.
She gave herself a mental shake. This was what came of pent-up sexual tension. If Adam would just get on with it there would be no tension, and everything would be less fraught. More amicable. She wouldn’t have this achy, daydreamy fixation 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 at her temple again.
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.
Which of course was the perfect time for David Bennett to walk past the room! Then stop. And backtrack until he was just outside the room, smiling in at her.
Next moment, he was opening the door, entering, moving to stand behind her.
She stiffened as he leaned down, right into her personal space, peering over her shoulder at her laptop screen. He was close enough for her to smell his cologne. Rich and creamy. Very different from cologne-free Adam. Less soapy. More exotic man-of-the-world.
‘Making pies?’ he asked, his voice full of gentle humour. ‘That’s very domesticated.’
‘Actually, these are international pies, not domestic—Chinese pies.’ Lane could feel herself blush as she looked at the screen. Nothing like having the man you wanted to have sex with stopping by when your work was a complete mess. ‘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 went saucer-wide. She fixed them on the computer screen and swallowed convulsively. David Bennett. Here. Flirting with me. But … damn. ‘Um … tonight?’ Too soon. Way too soon. She wasn’t ready. And there was Benedetto’s. With 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 out.
And that was how relationships were supposed to go, Lane thought. A little banter, and taking no for an answer without any snarly, brooding sarcasm.
David was the end game. Not Adam, David. Blond, blue-eyed, handsome David.
Lane refocused on her computer. Started tapping in data.
Male prostitute.
Really, how absurd! He hadn’t deserved to be offered a contract termination for that reason. 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 okay, if he were totally, totally honest with himself, it wasn’t much of a 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. His hand tapping 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.
He groaned, long and loud.
Okay, time to face the truth. He was in a state of rampaging lust with an uptight brainiac who sucked in the sack and exuded all the warmth of an ice cube.
Sucked.
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 wasn’t how it was supposed to be. She was supposed to be desperate for him by now. Instead, she was suggesting they terminate the contract because he was 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? He’d thought he could write the book on unemotional sex, but he’d been outclassed by a woman who treated the mysteries and delights of sex as though she were getting driving lessons.
That’s the level he’d sunk to: he was the sexual equivalent of driving lessons. Which was actually worse than being the sexual equivalent of Mandarin lessons. At least Mandarin was exotic!
Absolutely bloody fabulous.
No wonder he felt like a prostitute.
What is wrong with you, Adam Quinn? Be a 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 straitjacket would be coming his way any minute.
CHAPTER TEN
Lane reached Haberfield—Sydney’s Little Italy—with ten minutes to spare, and parked in a side street a few blocks from the restaurant because she intended to take her time strolling there. She wanted a chance to savour the special flavour of the little strip of pizzerias, delicatessens, cafes and pastry shops that was the heart of the area. She also needed practice walking in the shoes she’d borrowed from Erica, so she didn’t fall over in front of Adam. Plus, she knew a few minutes’ breathing space would help her to calm herself down.
But as she passed a block of dark brick federation-style houses, their homey verandas, gables, leadlight windows and im
maculate gardens unsettled her so much, she regretted the stroll. Haberfield was so obviously a family-based community, she felt like a fraud, a marauding invader. Immoral. An imposter. People on their way to an appointment with a sex teacher didn’t belong anywhere near this place.
Was it too late to back out of the dinner? Just because she’d never skipped class in her life before didn’t mean she couldn’t bail out of one measly lesson, did it? Although after that phone call, after Adam had made such a fuss about feeling degraded, about dinner being a way not to feel degraded, about it being a normal segue to the sex she needed, she didn’t see how she could stand him up. Not if he was already in the restaurant waiting for her, anyway.
If he wasn’t already in there, however, she could make up an excuse for not coming and call him or text him—an excuse he’d no doubt see straight through, but would that matter? She was paying him, as she kept reminding herself. She could offer to let him off duty one other night as some kind of recompense for his wasted time; he’d probably jump at that—at the chance to have two whole nights off teaching duties. Of course, that would be two nights’ lessons taken away from her, too, which would be a bit like cutting off her nose to spite her face.
But she was getting ahead of herself. First, she needed to sneak a look inside the restaurant to see if he was there—which should be simple enough because she could see from across the road that it had a glass front emblazoned with ‘Benedetto’s’ in gold lettering. That meant she’d be able to see through the glass while remaining partially hidden by the opaque paint. Excellent! She crossed the road and carefully positioned herself to peer through one of the holes in the ‘B’, and … ‘Ohhhhh,’ she breathed out. Because he was there, sitting at a well-positioned table for two, laughing at something a waiter was saying to him.
A moment later, the waiter was gone and Adam was alone, sipping from a glass of red wine and looking completely qualm-free—as though he belonged exactly where he was, as though he were not the other half of a perverted sex-teaching duo.
But then, Lane had already figured out that he always looked as though he belonged, wherever he was. He’d be at home whether he was in a monastery, on building site, at a black-tie dinner, or visiting a brothel. He was the poster boy for easy self-confidence. With any luck, some of that ease would rub off on her over the coming three months so she’d look like she belonged a few places other than behind a computer or in front of a PowerPoint presentation!
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