by Nancy Warren
“Thanks. I’ll be down in five minutes,” he said, blinking.
He rose and stretched, and she was conscious of the lean power of his body. Nice, she thought. Very nice. He smothered a yawn. The bed between them was as crisp and neat as it had been this morning.
“Didn’t you sleep at all?”
“No. I told you. It’s better to stay awake. Prevents jet lag.”
“Right.” She wondered if he was always this rigid. Always so hard on himself. Seemed a shame. What he needed was a little fun. She smiled a tiny smile. “See you downstairs.”
He was as good as his word. In five minutes he was downstairs and, perhaps he’d taken his cue from her, but he’d changed his clothes. Now he wore a gray short-sleeved cotton shirt over navy pants that looked as though they contained silk. And they were sharply seamed as though freshly pressed, when they had to have been crushed in a suitcase for hours and hours.
“Your timing’s perfect,” she said, sliding two brilliantly barbecued fillets onto plates that already contained a pawpaw/mango salsa and green salad. She’d even made a risotto. Sure, it had taken half an hour to clean up the mess she’d made in the kitchen, but the results were worth a bit of mess. “I thought we’d eat out here.”
“Sure. Great.”
He didn’t seem overwhelmed by the romance of the setting, the purply-gray night sky, the soft breeze, the shushing sounds of the ocean. In fact, she wondered if he even noticed. She set the plates on the table and he waited until she was seated before sitting down himself. Such manners. There was crisp, chilled white wine from the Hunter Valley, bread, fresh from the bakery, looking crusty and golden in the flickering candlelight. Her meal, and her table, looked straight out of an Australian Women’s Weekly glossy magazine. Probably because it was.
She was trying so hard to be charming, attractive, and hospitable that she was getting on her own nerves. The trouble was, that for all her talk about moving in with a friend temporarily, she didn’t have a friend left who’d take her in. It wasn’t really her fault; it was just that there were always incidents when she was around. She didn’t blame her friends. If she’d been them, she wouldn’t invite her to stay, either. If they didn’t end up with some dickhead who’d fallen for Bron singing at the top of his lungs in the wee hours, they got hassled by credit people. Very annoying. She poured wine before Mark had a chance to refuse, and raised her glass in a toast.
“Welcome to Australia.”
He grinned and clicked her glass with his own. “Thanks. And thank you for this meal. It looks great.”
“It’s barramundi, a whitefish you won’t find in North America.”
“Wonderful. I’m starved.”
She tucked in, happy that the fish tasted as good as it was supposed to.
“Hey, what’s that bird?” he asked, staring past her shoulder. She glanced over to where he pointed and laughed.
“That’s not a bird. It’s a flying fox. There must be a fruit tree around somewhere. They’re fruit bats, really. They sleep all day and then go feeding at night.” Even as she spoke several more of the dark-winged creatures flapped past.
“I read about them, but they’re so much bigger than I thought.”
He sounded carefree in that moment, when he lost himself in the thrill of a new sight. The breeze whispered by her cheek, warm and soft as a lover’s caress. In the distance, she heard good-natured, back-and-forth joking coming from the beach. Closer in, she heard the steady hum of traffic below. The scent of barbecuing meat traveled over from next door; recognizing it, she laughed.
“That’s what you almost got. Lamb. You’ll probably get that tomorrow.”
He smiled, but a crease formed between his eyes. “I don’t want to be rude about this, but you won’t be here tomorrow.”
“I didn’t say I’d cook it for you, did I?” she said, exasperated. “I’ll shove off,” she paused, leaned forward, and said slowly, enunciating each word, “if you don’t want me.”
She knew damn well he did want her. As she wanted him. Although she’d wanted him a lot more before she’d heard his plan to be a lad about town.
Mark drank a lot of the fancy bottled water she’d put on the table, but he drank his share of the wine, too, she was pleased to note, and he seemed to relax. “So, what do you do at Crane?” he asked.
“I’m with the product marketing team. We’ve got the lion’s share of the Oz and Kiwi markets, but we’ve been really busy since Jennifer Talbot arrived. She’s come up with some great ideas for the American launch,” she said with enthusiasm, then could have stabbed her tongue with the fish fork as Mark’s interested gaze clouded over. “Anyway,” she babbled on, “I’m also the head designer for our women’s clothing line, which mostly means I get to boss about the real designers.”
“Do you like working for Crane?”
She wasn’t certain whether he meant Cam or the company in general, but having stuffed up once, she played it safe and decided to assume he meant the company.
“I love it. The people are mostly young and really fun. We all love surfing. That’s a prerequisite of working there.” She looked over. “Do you surf?”
“Not since I grew up.”
“Right.” She imagined that insult was leveled at Cam and not her. Still, it rankled. “You’d be surprised how many adults do love to surf. It’s our biggest growth area.”
“Forget the job, what about you personally?”
“I grew up right here in Sydney. Mum was from the country, but after her first husband was killed in a machinery accident, she moved here and worked in an office. That’s where she met my father. He’s an engineer.”
“Brothers or sisters?”
“A half-brother.”
Cam was her half-brother, and she was surprised Jen hadn’t mentioned that when she’d told Mark about the job. Although, since she’d dumped him, they probably didn’t chatter a lot about office gossip. The last thing Bron wanted was to bring Cam’s name into the conversation. The less they talked about Jen or Cam, the better.
“He’s eight years older, so I grew up more like an only child.” She shrugged. “I took clothing design at school and now I have a good job and some great mates. When I’m not working, I love to surf and party. That’s my life.”
“Is there a man in your life?” he asked.
This was more like it. Moody purple shadows darkened his eyes, and once more she felt that elemental and unexpected connection between them.
“No.”
“I’m surprised.”
She laughed lightly. “I’ve always believed there’s a perfect person out there. I haven’t met him yet.”
“You’re a romantic.”
“Well, what’s the alternative?”
“Intimacy with strangers.”
She reached out and touched his hand, which had been idly toying with the stem of his wineglass, then she raised her eyes and captured his gaze just as deliberately, letting the waves of attraction build, feeling her heart speed up.
“Well, until Mr. Right comes along, I can go along with that.”
“Bronwyn . . .”
He was going to turn her down when she knew how much he needed her. He was gorgeous and sweet and hurting, and she wanted to kiss everything better.
“My friends call me Bron,” she said softly and rising, walked around the table. Then she leaned over and kissed him.
He muttered a protest that she muffled with her mouth. For a moment she felt his struggle, wanting her and wishing he didn’t, and then his arms went round her and he pulled her to his lap. Now things were going better. She smiled into the kiss, liking the way they fit together. He tightened his hold and kissed her back with meaning. His protest had been so weak and easily overborne that she knew he wanted her as much as she wanted him. Her pulse picked up as excitement skittered everywhere like a bag of dropped lollies. He felt good—lean, but muscular—and she couldn’t help but remember how he’d looked when he’d arrived home after his
run, his lightly bronzed skin gleaming with sweat and pulsing with the warmth of a workout.
“Bronwyn,” he mumbled against her lips, “we should talk about this.”
“Absolutely,” she purred, and nibbled his bottom lip until his tongue was hers once more.
It had been a very long time since a man had made her so hot so fast, and they were both still fully dressed. He had a way of kissing her that was more about giving than taking, and it gave her a lot of confidence that once they hit the bedroom, her pleasure, rather than his, would be top on his mind. Very nice. He felt so good, so warm and strong and dependable somehow. And he smelled good, too—a little foreign, no cologne or aftershave or scented product that she could identify, just clean, excited male. Her favorite kind.
He pulled away, dragged in a breath, and said, “Bron, we had an arrangement, I expect you to—”
He groaned helplessly as she shifted her bottom against the ridge of an impressive erection. He grunted something incomprehensible and gave up on his attempts at conversation. About time.
“I want to see you,” he muttered thickly, reaching for the hem of her shirt. “Been thinking about it for hours.”
“Oh, yes,” she sighed, tipping her head back.
She pictured him peeling off her tank top, her breasts free to the night air, making love out here where . . . Wait a minute! This is where things always started to go wrong for her. Next thing she knew, offended old people would be watching, police would be banging at the door, or a riot would start outside. She shuddered. No. She had to be sensible for a change. If she caused trouble at the company house, Cam would kill her. So she slipped her hands down to cover Mark’s.
“Upstairs,” she said gently, and slipped from his lap, never letting go of his hands so he followed her, his front to her back.
They managed a respectable bit of rumba as they mounted the stairs still pressed together. They were both breathing heavily when they reached the top of the stairs, and she didn’t think it was from the elevation. They reached his bedroom and he turned her to face him, not lunging as she’d expected, but taking a moment to study her face as if he were about to go blind and had to memorize it forever. Slowly, she warned herself. Maybe she should take this slowly. But even as the thought flitted across her consciousness, she knew somehow that for all his rash talk about bedding every straight woman in Sydney in the next fortnight, Mark was essentially a one-woman man. And that he’d never deliberately hurt her.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said softly. For all that his eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue and his skin pale with tiredness, she thought he was beautiful, too. His fingers skimmed her breasts, bringing them to tingling life. “Now can I see you?”
“Get on the bed,” she said, deciding to make tonight so special he’d never forget his first night in her country. “I promised you some sightseeing didn’t I?”
His eyes took on a wicked glint that matched her own reckless mood. Even for her, things were moving a little fast here, but he felt so safe somehow, so right. She was going to make love to this man because her body gave her no choice. But she wasn’t going to be stupid about it, either. She’d protect her body and her heart. What could go wrong?
Knowing that once she’d stripped in front of him, there’d be no turning back, she said, “Make yourself comfortable, I’ll be right back.”
She slipped out of his room and ran to her own to grab a handful of condoms. She stopped in her bathroom long enough to clean her teeth and run a brush through her hair, then, with every part of her tingling with anticipation, she reentered his bedroom.
“And now, for one of the most highly prized sights in all of Sydney,” she announced, grabbing the hem of her tank and preparing to bare her breasts.
A gentle snore answered her. Mark Forsythe was stretched out on the bed, gloriously naked, and sound asleep. Before her horrified gaze, even his proud erection put itself to sleep. Torn between frustration and laughter, she approached the bed.
“Mark?” She shook his shoulder. “Mark?”
He was so deeply asleep she doubted the crowd at a footie grand final would wake him. She placed the bright foil packs on the bedside table and stood there, gnawing her lip as she watched him sleep. His clothes were in an untidy heap on the floor, and even one day’s acquaintance told her this was not his usual behavior. So she picked up his clothes, tossed jocks and socks in the hamper in the bathroom, and hung his pants and shirt in the closet, where a row of crisp pants and plain-colored, short-sleeved shirts hung in precise order.
She could go back to her room and finish the night in a bed far too big for one person, or she could crawl in with Mark and hope all he needed was a short nap. Maybe if she snuggled her naked body against his, he’d wake. So she shucked her own clothes with a lot less showmanship than she’d planned and crawled in. She flipped the fancy light cotton cover over both of them. There was a moment’s rekindling of excitement when she pressed against him and he grunted, turned, and captured her breast in his hand. But the slow deep breathing of sleep wafted against the back of her neck, and she felt he was cuddling her the way he would his teddy bear.
Chapter 3
Mark woke with his heart pounding, wondering where the hell he was. Something didn’t feel right. He took a moment to breathe, and let himself come to full consciousness. Of course. He wasn’t at home in his San Francisco townhouse. He was in Sydney, Australia. In a corporate house. All that fit with what he knew. What didn’t fit was the naked woman sleeping beside him. No wonder his heart was pounding. What the hell was that about? What had happened? He raised onto his elbow and gazed down at the woman beside him.
Everything fell into place as he recognized Bronwyn, her hair a sexy mess down her back, her skin smooth and fresh, her lips parted slightly in what looked like a smile. A naked and beautiful woman beside him in bed with a smile on her face was a good thing. What wasn’t so good was that he had no memory of the night. None at all.
He touched her hair and wondered what had happened between them in this bed. It would have been nice if the earth had moved. It would be terrific if she’d cried out three or four times in ecstasy; it would be stellar if one of those times, preferably the last, he’d cried out with her. And it would be goddamn stupendous if he could remember any of it. No wonder his heart was pounding. He didn’t expect to be Mark, the Wonder Stallion every time out, but he liked to think he never left a woman unsatisfied.
Could his complete mental blackout of the night before mean he’d humiliated himself as a lover and a man? Okay, he said to himself, get a grip. He ran his hand in a light exploratory fashion over her back. Nice back. Long and muscular. It didn’t ring any bells. But it did cause her to shift in sleep so her back pressed intimately against him. Casually, he put an arm around her and ran his fingers lightly over her breasts and belly. Ooh, nice, nice, nice. She had full, firm breasts with pointy nipples, and her stomach had the tightness and tone of a professional swimmer.
Whatever sense impressions his brain was receiving came across as brand new ones. He felt as though he’d never touched those particular contours before—all the textures and angles that made up her body. Odd to be so clueless about a woman you’d made love with. The only thing in his life he’d ever blocked out was having his wisdom teeth extracted. Having decided against general anesthetic, he’d gone gamely into the oral surgeon’s chair and to this day didn’t remember a thing about the experience. He knew the procedure had been completed, since he was sans wisdom teeth, but he had no memory. Like certain shock victims who blanked out intensely painful experiences. Had last night been one of those?
His hand froze, claw-like, against her naked breast. Oh, God. Had he been so terrible in bed that he’d blocked the experience from his memory? Would Bronwyn have all the women of her acquaintance squealing with laughter over his performance while he was forever in the dark about what happened? He squinted at the clock on the bedside table. Nine. Sun streamed in the windows, suggesting i
t was morning. He rolled to his back and blinked hard a few times. What day was it? Sunday, he thought. It must be Sunday.
Sneaking out of bed, he headed for the bathroom where a nice long morning pee relieved his mind somewhat as well as his bladder. While he brushed his teeth, then splashed cold water on his face, he tried to pull himself together. If she was still in his bed, the night couldn’t have been a complete disaster, otherwise she’d have sneaked out of bed sometime in the night. Wouldn’t she?
He walked back into the bedroom and watched for a moment as she slept. She had the kind of natural beauty that’s as potent first thing in the morning as it would be when she was all made up to go out somewhere. Her shoulders were lightly tanned against the white of the sheet, and he wished he could see the breasts he’d so recently touched. She shifted and made what could be a waking-up noise. Panicked, he didn’t want to be caught standing there naked staring at her, and his robe was hanging in the closet. Her eyelashes fluttered. He dove back under the covers beside her and rolled up behind her in his previous position. A bit of sighing and then a kind of morning stretch that had her spine elongating itself against him from shoulders to ass in a way that made him want to bash his head until his memory returned.
“Morning,” a sleepy and very female voice said beside him.
Oh, no. Reckoning time. And he wasn’t ready. “Morning.”
“Sleep well?”
“Yes.” He said politely. “You?”
“Fantastic.”
She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips. That had to be good, didn’t it? Mark glanced over at her with her sleepy morning skin, golden hair tossed over the pillow, a twinkle of humor in her eyes. It was the humor that did it. If he’d made an ass of himself last night he needed to know. Insane as it was, he’d torture himself forever if he didn’t have the truth. He cleared his throat. “I had a great time last night.”
Her smile dazzled him. “Me, too.” Well, she looked happy.
