by Nancy Warren
Star Kissed, A Crane Series romance
Nancy Warren
Ambleside Publishing
Copyright 2014
Nancy Weatherley Warren
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written consent of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Contents
Romance Downunder
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
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About the Author
Journey to the land downunder with three scorching tales of love and laughter with the Crane Series of romances. In Sun Kissed, Cameron Crane, the billionaire playboy who turned a love of surfing into an empire, meets the cool, sophisticated marketing professional from California, Jennifer Talbot. He determines to gain control of the relationship in the most basic of ways, but Jen won’t mix business and pleasure, even though she’s wildly attracted to the rough, gorgeous Cam. Not when she’s promised to marry another man.
In Sea Kissed, laid off steelworker Steve Jackson reluctantly takes on the role of Crane’s spokesperson for their big launch into the US market. When he meets Lise Atwater he gets the wrong impression about the workaholic PR exec. He thinks she’s a party girl. Lise is just as wrong about Steve. She thinks his muscles were forged in the gym, his hair streaked, not by the hot sun but by expensive salon treatments. Both are in for a surprise.
In Star Kissed, broken-hearted Mark Fosythe, Jennifer Talbot’s former fiance, is in Sydney to set up Crane’s accounting system for the US launch. He’s also determined to enjoy Sydney as a newly single man. He’s up for anything. And any woman. Bronwyn Spencer has other ideas. One look at the gorgeous, wounded Mark and she decides that he needs some personal attention. Also, she’s just been chucked out of her latest flat, so with nowhere to stay she decides to share the corporate house with Mark until she finds somewhere to live. Now, all she has to do is convince Mark that she’s the perfect person to show him a good time.
This collection is a revised and newly edited version of Bad Boys Downunder.
Chapter 1
“Flat white, please,” Bronwyn Spencer said to the young guy at the coffee stand at Sydney Airport.
Trying to organize coffee and smother a yawn at the same time was using all the energy she possessed this early in the morning. A Saturday morning, too, her prime laying-in time sacrificed for some stiff-arsed Yank she had to babysit. Honestly, if it were anyone but Cam who’d asked her to give up a Saturday for a boring suit she’d have laughed right in his face. But Cameron Crane was her big half-brother and, in spite of the fact that he drove her crazy, bossed her about, lectured her about her extravagance and poor taste in men, and generally interfered in matters he should leave well enough alone, she adored him.
Nothing else would bring her here at this time of the morning. Not after the party last night. Bron was young, healthy, and attractive, and she firmly believed that youth was a time to party. Which she’d done heartily until hunger drove her out for a pie at Harry’s Café de Wheels in the wee hours, and then reluctantly she’d gone home, deciding on a few hours of sleep before her babysitting assignment.
She dragged out the photo of the man she’d be looking after for the next fortnight. Mark Forsythe. Even his name sounded wet. He was some sort of finance type, coming over to sort out Crane’s financial system and explain how all the taxes worked in the American market. She knew this was important, but she couldn’t imagine anything more boring. She’d tried to balance her checkbook once and found it so futile she’d given up. She’d discovered instead a wonderful thing called overdraft protection. And after she got to the limit over overdraft protection, in extreme emergencies, there was always Cam.
Except that he wasn’t here. Off with his new lovey dove right when she most needed him. Why did her overdraft have to run out right when the week’s rent was due? Oh, well. Luckily she was a resourceful woman and had allowed Cam to bail her out of a jam once more, even though he’d done it without his knowledge. Which wasn’t her fault. He hadn’t been around to ask.
She wasn’t going to stand around like a dickhead holding a sign with Mark Forsythe’s name on it, so she was going to have to recognize the man. She studied his corporate photo while she drank the coffee. Mark Forsythe gazed back at her from a corporate head shot, earnest and dull. Black hair that would look better if it was a little longer and not so neat, serious blue eyes in a serious, narrow face. Firm lips that looked as though they never smiled at a joke, never mind told one. Her lip curled. It was going to be a long two weeks. Already she was irritated with the man since she was on time and his flight wasn’t. She could have snatched a bit more sleep.
Her feet ached from all the dancing last night, and she stretched them out, noticing the coral polish on her nails was already chipped. With a quiet chuckle she remembered that Fiona had outlasted her at the party, and seemed pretty keen on a blond surfie from Brisbane wearing a shirt of so hideous a green that it ought to be burned. She wondered how Fi was faring and pulled out her mobile. She hesitated, and then decided that if she had to be up and functioning at nine in the morning on a Saturday, her best mate ought to as well. She punched in the number and after a few rings, Fiona answered.
“This better be life or death.”
“Did you go home with your surfie?”
A great groan met her ears. “What the bloody hell are you doing ringing me at this hour?”
“Well, did you?”
A few passengers began drifting out from the California flight. Idly she watched them blinking with tiredness, or stretching after more hours than she cared to contemplate stuffed in a tin can thirty thousand feet above earth. Bron shook her head; she firmly believed that if God had meant man to fly, he’d have given surfboards wings. She glanced down at the black-haired, serious and controlled-looking man in the photo and kept her eyes open while Fiona yawned and groaned.
“No,” her friend said, finally. “I didn’t go home with him. Now would you piss off?”
A man came through the glass doors alone. Right general age and he had black hair, but he was nothing like the photograph. His hair was a mess. He must have fallen asleep against something that had pushed his hair up one side. His face was shadowy with stubble, giving him a disreputable look. He wore a navy short-sleeved shirt that had wrinkled badly and tan chinos. He moved slowly, but she liked the way he walked, with a kind of rolling gait, as though he were getting off a boat rather than a plane.
He stood as though he were about to fall asleep on his feet, his gaze searching out someone. Then their gazes connected and she felt he
r heart flop over. No photograph could have captured the blue of his eyes. They were the dark, smoky blue of a wailing sax at some bar at three in the morning, with a half-drunk whiskey and a smoldering cigarette. They were so tired, and so lonely in a cynical way that she wanted to fix everything for him and kiss his hurts better. It was an odd reaction for her to have for a stranger, but he didn’t even look like a stranger she thought with a spurt of recognition. He held a briefcase in one hand and a black suitcase in the other. She glanced at the photo and back at him, every hormone in her body doing a victory dance.
“Oh, my God,” she said into the phone. “He’s gorgeous.”
“I dunno,” her friend said in her ear. “He was all right looking, I suppose, but that shirt! I thought he’d—”
“What are you going on about? You can’t see him.” She’d have to remember never to wake Fi early on a Saturday again. “I’ve got to go.”
And she ended the call, while Fiona was in the middle of saying something. Mark Forsythe’s gaze had paused only briefly on hers and kept going, but whew, what could happen to a person’s pulse in a few seconds. Slowly she rose and approached. Could she really be this lucky and find that she was being asked to look after just about the sweetest sexpot she’d ever seen?
Taking a deep breath, she said, “Mark Forsythe?”
He looked at her for a moment, and a crease formed between his brows as though he weren’t quite sure what his name was. She wanted to kiss the frown away.
“Yes, I’m Mark Forsythe. You must be Bronwyn . . . I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten your last name.”
His voice was nice. Soft but commanding, somehow, and the American accent of course, that she usually only heard on telly or at the pictures.
She smiled. “That’s all right. It’s Spencer. I work at Crane Enterprises. I was sent to fetch you.”
“I was expecting someone older.”
“You’ll have to wait a while then,” she said briskly, and he blinked before smiling weakly at her bit of humor.
“You look tired,” she said, longing to smooth down the hair that stood straight up.
“I’ve never been so tired in my whole life,” he admitted.
“Did you sleep at all on the plane?”
“I never sleep on planes.”
“Oh, dear,” she said, barely resisting the urge to pat his cheek. “Come on. My car’s this way.”
He seemed almost shell-shocked. He walked stiffly, which she assumed was from having his long frame cramped for all those hours. He was so unkempt, in comparison to the perfectly clothed and groomed man in the photo, that she felt an unwanted intimacy, like accidentally seeing a stranger naked. They walked out of the airport into blinding sun, and the man beside her recoiled.
“Welcome to Sydney,” she said cheerfully, giving him a moment to find and slip on a pair of sunglasses.
“Thanks.”
They didn’t speak again until they’d reached her Ford hatchback. She opened the boot, shoving a chartreuse knee board and her black and red wet suit to one side so he could stow his gear.
“Sorry, it’s a bit daggy in there.”
He looked horrified at the idea of putting his pristine cases into a mess of sand, but finally shrugged and placed the black suitcase gingerly inside, and hung onto his briefcase as though it contained state secrets. There could only be boring tax things in there; the poor man needed to loosen up. And, she thought, he couldn’t have picked a better country in which to do it. Or a better woman to help him. She unlocked the driver’s side door and as she opened it she collided with Mark. He was more solid than he looked, and the current as their bodies jolted sent a thrill to her toes. She thought he felt it, too, before he stepped back quickly.
“Planning to drive?” she said with a grin.
“I forgot. You drive on the left. Sorry,” he said, and he went around to the other door.
“Is this your first time in Australia?” she asked him as they sped through the relative quiet of a Saturday morning.
“Yes.” He stared out of the window, but didn’t talk much. She described a little of the areas they passed, but she didn’t think he was taking in a lot of what she said.
“It’s not too far,” she said. “Have a nap if you like.”
“No. The only way to prevent jet lag is to stay awake until it’s nighttime in the new location.”
“Suit yourself.”
It sounded like a crazy idea to Bron. If you were hungry, you ate. If you were tired, you slept. If you were drawn to a man—as strongly as she was to this one—you let nature take its course. From cursing Cam for foisting the Yank onto her, she now silently thanked him. Since her passenger didn’t seem up for talking, she listened to Angus and Julia Stone. Big Jet Plane. Yep, the big jet plane had brought her something interesting and she couldn’t help wondering what Mark Forsythe would be like. Her fantasies were rich enough that she was well-primed when she pulled up in front of the Crane corporate guest house right across the road from Bronté Beach. “Here we are,” she said brightly.
He blinked owlishly. “This isn’t a hotel.”
“No. It’s a corporate guest house. Cameron hates hotels and owns more houses than he knows what to do with, so he likes to offer a proper home to our out-of-country guests,” she parroted what she’d been told. “It’s fully stocked and comes with a maid who does daily cleaning. There’s a cook on call.”
“Then it’s got more comforts than my home,” Mark said, glancing up at the pale cream stucco house as though he mistrusted it.
She bit her lip, thinking his instincts were bang-on. For all of Cam’s big love of buying homes, he’d never bought his own sister one. He wanted her to be self-sufficient, he’d told her. He’d given her a job, she conceded, but she was damn good at it. And sure, he paid her a good wage, but her lifestyle was expensive, and somehow she always slipped into financial messes. Cam didn’t seem to have much sympathy for that. He told her she was spoiled, but it wasn’t only clothes and shoes that did her in. There were her friends. How could you not help a friend out from time to time? Honestly. If she didn’t keep getting lovely offers for new credit cards, she’d really be in the basket.
Although, come to think of it, it had been a while since she’d been offered a new one. Oh, well, Cameron was out of the country and therefore out of her mind, and in his absence, he was being more than usually generous. She grabbed Mark Forsythe’s case before he could get to it, and walked on ahead of him.
“Come on. I’ll show you around.”
She led him up the path to the two-story modern house with big windows and a balcony overlooking the beach. It was a bit sterile for her taste, and not as close to the heart of the action as she liked but beggars, and in particular squatters, couldn’t afford to be choosers.
“That’s great. Thanks,” he said, when she’d finished the tour.
He reached into his pocket and then stopped. She was pretty sure he’d been about to hand her a tip as though she were a bellhop. Because he looked so adorably confused, she grinned at him.
“We’re not big on tipping in Australia. Anyway, I work for Crane. I have to help out for nothing.”
“Well, I appreciate the ride and the house tour,” he said, and stood staring at her, obviously waiting for her to leave.
“So, what do you want to do on your first day?” she asked brightly.
“Unpack, shower, and set up my computer.”
“Well, I’ll make some coffee,” she said, heading for the kitchen.
“I really don’t want coffee,” he said with a slight edge.
“It’s for me,” she said. “It’s the only thing that gets me through an early morning.”
“It’s ten-fifteen, local time,” he said glancing at his watch.
“Exactly.”
So he was one of those organized sorts who set his watch to local time when he traveled. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised. He disappeared into the bathroom and she got the feeling he’d have been a
ble to get rid of her a lot easier if he wasn’t tired and jet-lagged. The trouble was, she couldn’t leave quite yet. There was something she was going to have to explain. She’d lead up to her news over coffee.
When Mark emerged from the bathroom, his eyes were a sharper blue and a shade of annoyance crept into his tone. “There are cosmetics in the bathroom.”
Damn. This wasn’t how she’d planned to ease into her news. “Like I said, all the comforts of home.”
“Used cosmetics. And a drawer of underwear.” He held up a glittery thong that she wore on special occasions.
“Right. I was going to tell you about that. Over coffee.” She turned away and he stepped forward, grasping her forearm with surprising strength.
“Why don’t you tell me now?” he said pleasantly, but with no loosening of his grip.
“Well, we’re sort of sharing the premises.”
“Are you the cook or the cleaner?”
“Neither. We’re sharing.”
“Sharing?” He blinked in stunned disbelief. “As in room-mates?”
“I suppose,” she said, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. “Yeah.”
He started shaking his head before she’d finished speaking. “No. We’re not. Drop me downtown and I’ll check into a hotel.”
“No! You can’t do that. Cameron . . .” Cam would chuck a wobbly if he heard of her latest stunt. “Cam specially asked me to show you around and look after you. I can’t fail on the first day.”
She tried to look appealing, and earnest and hopefully a little scared of her big brother and boss. She couldn’t tell if Mark was buying it. His face remained impassive— and implacable—and his eyes gave away none of his thoughts.
“There’s plenty of room,” she continued. “Two bedrooms, three bathrooms, and your own in-house driver and sightseeing guide. Can’t we give it a bash?”
“Tell Crane thanks, but no thanks,” he said shortly and reached for his bags, hefted them, and started for the door.
