The Contract

by Avril Tremayne

  * * *

  An hour later, Adam decided he was ready to knock on the door of Lane’s super-neat house in her super-neat street, chosen pragmatically, he’d bet, to be close to the airport for the flight attendant housemate. He expected—hoped—Lane would lose her cool and snap his head off now that they were out of the public eye. It would be a sign she was human, at least. And it would make him feel less ashamed of his own little hissy fit over the whole not-in-the-office thing—because he was honest enough to admit he deserved to be slapped down for forcing the office meeting on her. It was in the contract that the office was off limits. And he knew he wouldn’t be pleased if one of his lovers sauntered onto one of his sites and planted her mouth on him in front of everyone, the way he’d done to Lane—she’d hit that nail on the head.

  But she opened the door and… Nope. There she was, back to normal, wearing the just-barely-there smile he thought was probably her habitual expression. Not even bothering to comment on his lateness—even with a subtle glimpse at her wristwatch.

  Impressive.

  She held the door open for him.

  He stepped in, walked past her into the living room, looked around. No canapés this time. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be seeing smoked salmon in this house again any time soon.

  “All right, I’ve been imagining, as instructed, and I’m ready,” she said. “So—here or in the bedroom?”

  Adam shook his head to clear it. Had he heard right? This was taking cool, calm, and collected a little too far, even for her.

  “The bedroom,” he said, a little awed, a lot curious.

  “Through here,” she said.

  Was that a tremble in her voice or did he only hope it was?

  She led the way to her room and turned to face him. “Right,” she said. “Shall we get undressed?”

  She had already removed her jacket. Now her hands went to the buttons on her blouse.

  Chapter Four

  There was no doubt who was calling the shots tonight. And it wasn’t Adam Quinn.

  Was he gaping? Adam thought he must be.

  But Lane just kept unbuttoning. She managed to get half her buttons undone before Adam could find enough of a voice to say “Keep your clothes on.”

  That stopped her. “Is it a…a…turn-off?”

  Turn-off? She sounded so uncomfortable saying that. He recalled how she’d also tripped over the word “douchebag.” Weirdly, it cheered him up, that she couldn’t say it easily. “Is it a what?” he asked, hoping she’d repeat it.

  “I mean, is it unappealing?” she clarified. “When a woman takes the initiative and starts the…you know…the ball rolling?”

  Starts the ball rolling? Adam swallowed a laugh. She was brazen enough to pay a man for sex but couldn’t actually talk about it without sounding like a prude? Ball rolling? It was kind of adorable.

  “Well, is it unappealing?” she asked again, a little impatient.

  Adam knew exactly what the early stages of arousal felt like, and figured Lane was certainly appealing to something in him, because the half-moon of bra he could see through the slackened opening of her blouse was pushing him into it—and God only knew why, since it was the most utilitarian undergarment he’d ever seen on a woman. Maybe seeing Lane even slightly dishevelled was as forceful as seeing another woman butt naked. Especially coming on top of that kiss earlier, which had been so much hotter than he’d expected it to be.

  “I like women who take the initiative,” he managed to get out in a fairly normal tone.

  Lane’s shoulders seemed to slump—yet they didn’t actually move. “Then what is it?” she asked, re-buttoning her blouse briskly.

  Adam closed the distance between them. “There’s just no need to hurry.”

  “But there is,” Lane said then winced. “And no, I’m not ordering you to do anything. It’s just I’m giving a presentation on economic indicators in the morning so I have to be in the office early. I can’t take all night.”

  “One of the first things to learn—” Adam reached out one finger, and ran it smoothly, slowly around the edge of her lips “—is you don’t have to do everything all at once.” He moved the tip of his finger so that it circled inwards. “Waiting can be extremely…exciting. Lesson…Number…Two.”

  Oh, God, her lips were soft. He moved his finger again, running it down her chin to the top of her collar, dipping it just below the stiff white fabric to rest where her clavicle dipped in the center, at the base of her throat. He had to pause there because his breathing started to get erratic. And he was supposed to be the experienced one! His finger still hooked in her blouse, he kissed near her eyes until they fluttered closed then he softly kissed her eyelids.

  He moved back again, but Lane’s eyes stayed closed. She was leaning forward, lips parted. Showing him that he was her guide in this, that she was willing to be led. It was as though that uncomfortable scene at the office had never happened. She was smart—she’d had him pegged at the office; she was clearly not a sulker; she was driven—as Sarah had told him. All these things had led her to forgive the embarrassment he’d caused her and move on, and that was pretty damned classy in his book. In short, she was anything but unappealing just then.

  Stop now, Adam’s brain ordered. But somehow, his finger moved again. Then both hands were moving. One button…two. A third, a fourth. One more.

  Adam watched the rise and fall of her chest. The plain white cotton bra was bared to his gaze, the hint of her surprisingly full breasts visible over the tops of the cups. The freckles meandering down her cleavage were surprising. His finger couldn’t seem to help sliding along their path.

  * * *

  Lane’s breath caught. His touch was so soft it was almost a whisper against her skin. She could feel a spinning sensation inside her, but didn’t know if it was in her head or somewhere else. She wanted to open her eyes, see what he was doing, watch his face, but her eyelids felt so heavy. Her arms felt heavy, too, which had to explain why she was standing there like a rag doll. Even her breasts—especially her breasts—felt heavy, the tips so sensitive she was willing his questing finger to touch her there.

  But he didn’t. His finger dragged upwards, making a slow retreat along the same path, and Lane knew instinctively he would do no more that night.

  She opened her eyes, biting down on a sigh of disappointment. Men weren’t supposed to pull away from you when you were making it so easy. Even she knew that.

  Adam’s fingers moved against Lane’s flesh. He was re-fastening her buttons.

  She sucked in her breath as his hands brushed the tops of her breasts. It was on the tip of her tongue to demand he do what she was paying him for, but the words jammed in her throat. She’d embarrassed herself enough for one night, oozing at him like an overripe Camembert cheese.

  And she suddenly couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear the thought that she was forcing him to touch her when he so clearly didn’t want to. “Please don’t bother,” she said. “I can do it.”

  She turned her back to him, her own hands moving into action. She was forcing the last button through its opening when Adam’s hands on her shoulders stopped her.

  He turned her around and very deliberately undid the same five buttons. “I want to do it,” he said huskily. “At the end of three months, I’m going to know every button of yours intimately.”

  Lane stood rigid, letting him undo them—then do them straight back up. But she wasn’t fooled by the sexy voice. It was a lesson. A mechanical lesson. A lesson she’d bought. On that basis, she concentrated on not swooning towards him again and tried instead to analyze what it was about the way he smelled, the way his calloused fingers felt, that made her feel so restless, so…edgy. She came up with nothing. She was clearly going to have to work harder, think more and feel less if she was going to make these lessons work for her.

  Adam was frowning, his hands sliding up and down her arms as though he wasn’t even aware that he was doing it. And then, abruptly, he stepped
away, jamming his hands in his pockets.

  “I can’t make Sunday,” he said. “If you want to uphold your two night minimum, you’ll have to reorganize your weekend and meet me on Saturday,” he said.

  Lane said nothing. She was trying to work out why his voice sounded so sexy. He wasn’t saying anything sexy, after all.

  “Okay Lane?” he asked. “Lane? I’ll come to you, okay? No surprises.”

  It was kind of gruff, his voice. Even when he was talking softly. Her own voice was more tinkly. Could she get the timbre of her voice a little lower?

  “Lane?”

  And now it was kind of urgent.

  “Lane!”

  She blinked. “Sorry. I was thinking of…” How your voice will sound up close against my ear, how my voice will sound in yours, when we— “Never mind. Yes. All right. Saturday,” she said.

  Adam sighed. “You need to think less,” he said, shaking his head.

  Chapter Five

  Surely the green dress Erica—or was it Sarah?—had just thrown over the fitting room wall was the only remaining untried outfit in the metropolis.

  But apparently not. Because two other dresses, a skirt and a satin top followed in quick succession.

  Lane groaned. She was so over this girly shopping trip, which had lasted three hours so far, with a black cocktail dress she didn’t need the only thing to show for it. As if she’d be going to a cocktail party with Adam Quinn!

  “I can’t take much more of this,” Lane called out to the girls, who answered her by lobbing a leather jacket into the room.

  Dispiritedly, Lane slipped the green dress over her head and wiggled it into place. She looked at herself in the mirror and another groan escaped her. Awful. She looked like a green bean with breasts.

  It shouldn’t be this difficult. She was tall and thin like a model—so why did every outfit look silly on her?

  She put the leather jacket over the dress, and, with a last disgusted look at herself in the mirror, came out of the fitting room.

  Erica’s hastily bitten lip did not suggest anything good. “Maybe take off the jacket¸” Erica suggested.

  Lane took off the jacket.

  “The color’s nice,” Sarah said.

  Lane raised her eyebrows.

  “Well, it is,” Sarah insisted.

  “We’re making a mistake with the too-tight sheaths,” Erica said thoughtfully. “You’ve got the boobs for them but the leanness everywhere else isn’t screaming sex. Try the pale pink silk. It’s kind of floaty and romantic, and if you cinch it with this—” she handed over a thick, dark gold belt, “—we might be onto something.”

  “Pink?” Lane asked doubtfully. “With carrot hair?”

  Erica shook a finger at her. “I keep telling you, it’s not carrot—it’s scarlet. And you will be very surprised at how lovely pale pink will look with it. Now, in!”

  Lane narrowed her eyes at her. “As long as you realize this isn’t about looking good for Adam, right?”

  Erica gave her a push. “In, Lane.”

  “All right, but if I buy it, can I go home?” Lane asked.

  “No. But if you buy it, we can go and drink margaritas. Deal?”

  “Okay, I can live with that.”

  Oddly enough, when Lane, dressed and cinched, looked in the mirror, she wasn’t too horrified. She came cautiously out, and did a slow turn.

  Sarah and Erica smiled at each other, like proud parents.

  Erica came up behind her, ripped out her hair elastic and turned her to the larger mirror. She smoothed the straight fall of Lane’s hair. “Darling, if you wear this with my chocolate suede high heels, I’m going to want to shag you,” she said. “If only I could be there tonight to see the look on his face at the transformation. Ah well, it’s not to be. Go. Change. Pay. Margaritas.”

  * * *

  Erica ordered a second round of drinks, then fixed Lane with a laser stare. “If you say one more time you’re not dressing yourself to please Adam, I am going to cut up every white shirt in your wardrobe.”

  “Well, I’m not dressing myself to please Adam,” Lane said.

  “Hide the scissors tonight, Lane!” Erica sing-songed.

  “You should be dressing to please him,” Sarah put in.

  “It’s a contract, Sarah. I don’t have to look good.”

  “I didn’t mean Adam per se,” Sarah said. “I meant, Adam as in ‘man to experiment on.’”

  Erica licked a patch of salt off the rim of her glass. “Sarah’s right. Because you do want to look irresistible for the legendary David Bennett, don’t you Laney?”

  Lane frowned. “Yes, but—”

  “So practice dressing up and see the effect on Sarah’s brother. Practice, practice, practice. That’s what he’s for, isn’t he?”

  “Hell yeah!” Sarah agreed.

  “And since you don’t care what Adam thinks of you, it’s no big deal.” Another laser stare over the cocktail glass. “You don’t care what he thinks, do you Lane?”

  Lane took a big gulp of margarita. “Of course not.” She slanted a look at Adam’s sister. “Sorry Sarah.”

  “God, Lane, I hope not!” Sarah said. “You must never, ever, fall for him. He’s a total, unrelenting tart and not for you.”

  “Oh, I know he’d never be interested in me,” Lane said, and took another quick gulp.

  “Now that we’ve established neither of you cares for the other, let me revert to the mantra—practice. But do it in pink silk,” Erica said.

  Into Lane’s head popped an image of Adam, undoing her buttons. She felt herself blush. Would the pink dress make a difference? If she’d been wearing it on Thursday, would he have pulled down the zip and dragged it off her body? Put his hands on her skin? His mouth? God. Oh, my God.

  “What is it?” Sarah asked. “What are you ‘oh, my God’-ing about?”

  “Did I say that out loud? I didn’t mean to.”

  Sarah narrowed her eyes. “Well you did, so spill it, babe.”

  “Just…he…he…”

  Erica’s eyes were wide. “We’re talking about Adam, right? Okay. So…he…? Don’t make me beg, Laney.”

  “It’s nothing, really, so I guess I can tell you without—”

  “Yes, yes, the confidentiality clause. My freaked out brother has already warned me off. Keep it as vanilla as you like, because ew, it’s Adam—but come on!” Sarah urged.

  “It’s just that the other night, I started taking off my clothes and he stopped me. But when I did the buttons up…he undid them.” Pause. “Then he did them straight back up again. What does that mean?”

  Erica’s face fell. “Oh.”

  Sarah frowned. “What were you wearing?”

  “A suit. The navy blue one.”

  Sarah pantomimed banging her head on the table.

  “Clothing is incidental,” Lane said defensively.

  “It bloody well is not,” Erica said. She signaled to the waiter. “No time to lose. Go home. Get in the bath. Primp yourself. Put on the pink silk. If he does that back up, we’re ripping up the contract and starting again with someone else, even if I have to lend you Jeremy.”

  * * *

  Bath—check.

  Primp—sort of check. She’d brushed her hair and tied it back, hadn’t she? And dabbed on a few drops from her one and only bottle of perfume—Frederic Malle’s Musc Ravageur. Which didn’t sound like her at all—being kind of sexy and mysterious—but somehow felt like her. The hidden her, maybe. Or the delusional you, Lane!

  Dress…well, no. She just couldn’t bring herself to put on the new outfit. The contrast to the blue suit was too great. He would know. Know she was wearing it particularly. She knew she was being stupid, and she didn’t care what he thought about her—and of course she wasn’t going to fall for him (clearly he would never fall for her).… She just hated to appear so vulnerable to a man who was so effortlessly sure of himself.

  Clothing is incidental, she reminded herself, as she donne
d the blue skirt of the suit he’d seen her in twice, and buttoned up a white blouse from her endless supply.

  But when she opened her door to Adam, the laugh that erupted from him got under her skin just the same.

  “Half a blue suit. Is that progress?” he asked.

  “I’m an economist. I’m supposed to look boring,” Lane said, not quite as nonchalantly as she would have liked.

  “And there we have Lesson Number Three,” Adam told her. “Clothing can be many things, but boring should not be one of them. To the bedroom, please.”

  Lane walked ahead of him into her room, her insides quaking, swooshing, churning. Nerves. Anticipation. And something…else. The night was young—young enough for him to take off her boring clothes and do it to her. “It.” Hmmm. Her sexual vocabulary needed a bit of work.

  There was a predatory look in his eyes as he watched her. Waiting, he was waiting for something. For her to…what? He’d said he liked women who took the initiative. So maybe…?

  She took a hesitant half step towards him. Then stopped. God, she didn’t know how to touch him. Where? His face? Hair? Chest? He would have to teach her even that.

  The silence in the room stretched. Her heart was racing. She could feel it, hear it: a rhythmic whooshing in her ears. But she couldn’t move. And he still waited.

  Flustered, she raised her hands to the first button of her shirt. But before she could touch it, he was there; right there, his hands on her shoulders. Yanking her close. He kissed her—hot, hard. She opened her lips, welcoming the swirl of his tongue. And then—over. His mouth was gone, and she was simply standing there, feeling dazed and a little woozy. It took her a moment to blink herself back to reality.

  Could she learn to kiss like that? So that it was all consuming and thought-zapping and incapacitating? Or did she only feel like this because it was so new? Only their second kiss, if she didn’t count the tiny kisses on her eyelids the other night. Maybe she would get used to the shivery, out-of-control feeling that hit her when he put his mouth on hers.

  Lane braced one hand against his chest. Felt the hard and fast drum of his heart beneath her palm. She looked up, startled that his heartbeat was going a little crazy, and he gave her a crooked smile.