The Dating Game
Page 33
Oh God, didn’t that mean her own suit was a poor choice? He was going to take one look at her and realize she didn’t know how to dress, and he was going to run away before even getting inside the house, which would mean she’d failed before she’d even started.
All right, she officially hated this!
She was calling it off. He was too late. It was too late. The whole thing was too rushed. More planning time was required.
She walked purposefully back to her briefcase and this time she didn’t slide out the checklist, she wrenched it out. The two copies of the contract, too. She was going to get all ‘symbolic’ for once in her life, the way Erica was always telling her to do, and rip every page in half.
And then it came.
The sound.
A car pulling up.
Stay calm. Breathe.
Car door slamming.
Breathe. In—out—in—out. Maybe it’s not him.
Front gate squeaking.
Oh God, he’s here. He’s actually here.
Something was muttered—a curse, definitely a curse—outside the front door.
Oh. Oh, oh, oh.
The knock was loud and short. Two raps.
Lane closed her eyes, just for a moment, gathering her courage. To settle herself, she neatened the edges of the pages that were thankfully unripped and positioned them precisely on one end of her glass-topped coffee table …
And then she headed for the door. He wouldn’t notice the tremors in her fingers, she told herself, as she reached for the door handle. And next minute, the door was open, and there he was, but Lane found she wasn’t quite ready to look him in the face so she kept her eyes down. His feet were challenging enough —the size of them! In tough-looking work boots, so yes, he probably had been on a building site. Except that he smelled like soap. Clean. Obsessively clean. No disgusting habits. Tick and tick.
She heard him breathe. In—out. And at last she managed to start slowly raising her eyes. Blue jeans … long legs … slim hips … black shirt … broad chest, as in broad, with a tiny peep of dark hair showing where his top two shirt buttons were undone. Strong neck. Chin like granite beneath a five o’clock shadow. Hard mouth. Strong nose. Dark eyes … burning. Ohhhhhhh, God. She was looking up into his eyes—and she was five feet ten!
Her mind went blank. She was staring. She knew she was staring, but she couldn’t seem to stop. She took in his eyebrows now: bold, dark slashes, one bisected by a fine white scar. And his hair, which was black and close-cropped in a style that seemed to say, Don’t mess with me. He looked … he looked … good. Not conventionally handsome, and—yes—rough around the edges, but so good.
The whole package seemed to scream at her that the concept of a quintessential alpha male was real after all, and it was mesmerizing to have it personified and standing on her doorstep.
He waited for her to finish her perusal, unsmiling.
And then, feeling caught out, Lane said a breathless ‘Oh’ and thrust out her hand to shake. ‘You must be—’
‘Yes, I must,’ he said, and took her hand—not to shake it but to hold it. As she blinked up at him, he drew her close. Close enough that the soapy scent of his skin slid right into her nostrils. He smelled wonderful.
He drew her a little closer and she stumbled, catching her heel on the hallway rug. He reached out his other hand to steady her, gripping her arm. Two hands on her now, reeling her in. ‘Careful … Lane,’ he said softly.
Her heart lurched, then started thumping as their eyes locked. His eyes were so dark they looked black. Laugh lines fanned out from the corners. He must laugh all the time, Lane thought. But he wasn’t anywhere close to laughing now. He seemed about to pull her even closer—could she get any closer?—then stopped. Frowned as though he’d lost his train of thought. Released her and stepped inside, then kept walking without a backward glance, through the hallway and into the living room.
Lane rubbed at her arm just above the elbow where his hand had gripped her. He hadn’t hurt her, but she’d felt him right through the dermis and down to the bone.
Squaring her shoulders, she closed the door and followed him into the living room. He was standing in the middle of the room, looking around without any indication he liked what he saw—which was basically her mother’s cast-off furniture.
Lane saw him glance at the canapés she’d arranged on a white oval platter, centred on the glass top of the coffee table. She fought a blush. It was obvious, now she’d seen him, that Adam Quinn wasn’t a canapé eater; he was the type to consume a whole wild boar thrown on a campfire. And suddenly she felt like she was pretending to be a grown-up. Blue suit. Canapés. What would he expect next? Scrabble board, lap rug, and cup of hot cocoa?
He turned and faced her. His lips were smiling but his eyes were not. ‘Now where were we? Ah, yes, I must be—’ The smile vanished. ‘Adam Quinn. Reporting for duty.’
Duty? Reporting for duty? Another deep breath. ‘I was hoping we could approach this situation with a degree of sensitivity.’
Adam looked down at the coffee table. ‘It will take more than smoked salmon on rye to achieve that.’
Lane felt her stomach dip. ‘Sarah said you were willing.’
‘I know what she said.’
His voice was almost a growl. Like he was angry. That couldn’t be right, could it, when he’d already agreed? She ran her eyes over him again trying to work out what was wrong, and her heartbeat, which hadn’t yet recovered from his entrance, kicked up an extra notch. He wasn’t only tall, he was incredibly big, too. He filled her living room the way an army tank might. The fact that he was watching her just as intently as she was watching him made a funny, jittery feeling that wasn’t exactly nerves erupt in her stomach.
What was he seeing? Was she the thing that was wrong? Could he tell just by looking at her what a massive job he had ahead of him? Was he regretting telling Sarah he’d do it? Was he going to ask to be let off the hook? Should she just give in and release him without being asked? Hadn’t she just been thinking more planning time would be good?
Maybe she should look further afield and see who else was out there. Or maybe she could ditch her plan altogether and buy a book or a download a how-to documentary or try an online chat room. There had to be chat rooms for this kind of thing, didn’t there?
Adam moved his hand—impatient. It was only a small movement but enough to have her catch a waft of his soapy scent, and her nostrils flared as though by reflex. And her mind was made up at that instant.
She was not going to resort to the internet or a book or a documentary, and she was not going to find someone else. She had her bird in the hand and from the look of him, he was worth way more than two in any bush. He’d already agreed and she was holding him to it. He would just have to suck it up and make do, regardless of what he thought of her. She didn’t care what he thought of her; she wasn’t paying for his thoughts. So he was going nowhere, and she would make that very clear to him!
She set her jaw. ‘Adam, have you or have you not agreed to help me?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Good,’ she cut him off. ‘Regarding the smoked salmon, I was aware of the inconvenient hour I chose for this meeting, so I thought you might like some refreshments. But of course, you’re late, and I imagine you’ve eaten dinner, so I’m happy to get down to business immediately.’
Adam crossed his arms over his chest in what Lane assumed was a ‘quintessential alpha male’ pose. ‘By all means, Lane, let’s get down to business,’ he said. ‘Oh, sorry, should I call you Lane? Perhaps you’d prefer Miss Davis? Ms Davis? It’s not Dr Davis, is it? Because Sarah tells me you were some ace university student, so I guess a PhD isn’t out of the question.’
Lane did not allow even the flicker of one eyelid as she picked up her briefcase and retrieved the all-important paperwork off the coffee table. ‘It’s Ms, but Lane is fine.’
‘All right. Lane it is.’
He drew out the sound of her name until it was thick and honeyed and beautiful.
Lane caught her breath before it could hitch in her throat. Checklist. Checklist. Concentrate on the checklist. But her eyes didn’t seem to want to focus on that perfect document in her hand. ‘Then let’s move on,’ she said. ‘We can get away from the smoked salmon by sitting at the dining table. This way, please.’
She could feel him following, though he lagged several steps behind. The knowledge of him was as pervasive and intimate as a layer of musk oil on her skin.
She was about to contract Adam Quinn for three months of sex.
God help her.
Copyright
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First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2017
Copyright © Avril Tremayne 2017
Avril Tremayne asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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E-book Edition © May 2017 ISBN: 9780008249465