The Contract

by Avril Tremayne

  “And what part of the work is yours?” Lane asked, as their bowls were cleared away.

  He seemed puzzled. “What part?”

  “Well, I know you’re a builder. So are you…like…doing the frame, the carpentry…?”

  “Actually, it’s my firm doing the whole thing.”

  “Yes, I understand that, but what firm do you work for? And what’s your specialty?”

  “The firm is Adam Quinn Heritage Projects. And I’m an architect.”

  She stared at him. “But…I was sure Sarah said you were a builder.”

  “I am, in a way. But I guess I direct the building. Actually, I get stuck into the actual building work, too.” He held up his hands. “You’ve felt these. Rough and ruined.”

  Oh yes, she’d felt them. Wonderful, strong, capable hands. “Aren’t you young to have your own firm?”

  “Yes, but so what? I promise I’ve done the degree, got the qualifications. Nothing’s fallen down yet.”

  “I just…thought…”

  “You thought I was a construction worker and needed a bit of extra cash, and that’s why I was so eager to sign on your dotted line.”

  “Well…at least…I thought…”

  “My father is an architect—a very fine one—so I’ve lived and breathed it most of my life, and that gave me a perfect understanding for starting my own business a bit earlier than might be considered usual.”

  “And so…you don’t need my money? I thought that was why…I mean, why else…?”

  He waited a heartbeat. “I’ll take your money, Lane. But I’m really doing this because Sarah asked me to. And because you needed someone who was not going to turn out to be a maniac who got his jollies from dismembering redheads and bricking them up in cellars.”

  Lane was spared the necessity of responding by the arrival of the main course—lasagna with a rocket side salad—but it unsettled her so much that she gulped half a glass of wine. It didn’t matter why he’d signed—only that he’d signed, she told herself. But…somehow it did matter. She had nothing to offer him, except money. Fee-for-service. That’s the kind of deal she’d brokered. Fee-for-service was businesslike, easy to deal with, no pitfalls. I’ll take your money, Lane, he’d said. And she had to go with that, because if he didn’t want her money, that made this arrangement something…different. Unequal. Uncomfortable.

  An awkward silence descended as they started eating. Lane didn’t know how to break it, so she was relieved when Adam did, asking, “So Lane, what about you? Why economics?”

  She took a sip of wine. “Like you, I followed in my father’s footsteps.” Good—her voice gave no sign of her rattled state. “But he’s dead, I’m sure Sarah told you that.”

  “Yes, she did. I’m sorry.”

  “It was thirteen years ago—old news.”

  “But it still matters, Lane.”

  She blinked hard. “You’re right, it does matter. But life goes on.”

  “I’m sure he would have been proud of you.”

  “I…I hope so.”

  “And I’m sure your mother and your brother are proud.”

  “Not so much. I’m gawky and clumsy and nerdy and they’re…not,” she said and then, before he could drag any more out of her, she changed the subject. “So…why don’t you?”

  “Don’t I…?”

  “Want a commitment.”

  He smiled slowly. “See, I knew you wanted to know. Well, Lane, it’s simple. Divorce, that’s why.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re divorced?”

  “No, and I don’t want to be.”

  “But…there are lots of married people who aren’t divorced.”

  “And lots who are. My father has three under his belt. My mother is heading for number four. My two aunts and one uncle—one apiece. Best friend—just filed.”

  “What happens if you fall in love?”

  “I look at it like this. Relationships are like curveballs. You have to accept that life sends you curveballs—but you can choose whether to catch them or let them go. And I choose to let them go.” He sent a mischievous smile across the table. “And in any case, who needs love when you can have lust?”

  Lane put down her cutlery. “I’d settle for lust,” she said. “Or a full-hearted grope. And I promise not to propose.” Subtle, Lane, subtle.

  He laughed. “God, the things you say!” He took a sip of wine, and choked on it as another laugh escaped. “You know what, Lane? Laugher is an aphrodisiac—that’s Lesson Number Five.” He reached across the table and flicked his finger along her cheek. “So keep it up and who knows what will happen?”

  “I don’t think Lesson Five is going to do me any good,” Lane said a little despondently. “I’m not very funny.”

  “Oh, you’re funny. Maybe not intentionally, but you are.”

  “It would just be better, from my perspective, to get straight to the sex.”

  “Well, Lane, I’ll tell you what. How about we go into the restroom? It’s close. We can do it there.”

  “The—” she started, but couldn’t find any more words.

  “Because I’ve done it in a restroom,” he added. “A very fine restroom in a top restaurant. In one of the toilet cubicles. Mia, her name was. She was leaning over, hands on the cistern. Me behind, hanging onto her hips. I call that experience my royal flush—because she was the friend of an obscure member of some European royal family.” He raised his eyebrows at her. “Well, Lane? Want to give it a whirl?”

  Lane waited a moment, trying to look like she was thinking it over. “On balance, I think not,” she said, pleased she sounded so calm, given she was about to have palpitations. Because she could picture him, just like that. But not with her like that. Lane hadn’t even managed to get things right in the missionary position. How did he think she would know what to put where in a toilet cubicle? She’d probably end up flushing her own head.

  “Oh, you think not.” He leaned across the table and spoke softly. “Well, I will have you like that, Lane. When we’re out, and you least expect it, I am going to follow you into your private little cubicle and bend you forward and rip your panties off and shove myself inside you.”

  Lane felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She felt almost hypnotized, staring into Adam’s dark eyes. There was a half smile on his lips. Threatening. Promising.

  “We’re skipping dessert,” he said. “Let’s go. My place.”

  Lane’s heartbeat kicked. Hard. His place. Not hers. The last time she’d been at a man’s place, it had been DeWayne’s. Oh, God. God, God, God, get it together, Lane. You’re paying Adam—it’s different. “I have to pay first,” she said. “I mean, pay for dinner.”

  “It’s done.”

  She blinked at him. “But we don’t have the bill yet.”

  “I told you it’s a standard deal here, and I’m a regular, so it’s all sorted. I made the arrangements when I got here tonight.”

  “Then I’ll pay you back.”

  “No you won’t.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Get up, Lane. We’re not going to bicker over the bill. We’re leaving.”

  She allowed Adam to take her hand, lead her through the restaurant, and out onto the footpath. But then she stopped and turned to face him. “Would you have asked me out for dinner if there wasn’t a contract in place?”

  Adam didn’t answer. He didn’t need to—his tightened jaw told the story.

  “I didn’t think so,” Lane said. “So it wasn’t a date. It is therefore an expense associated with our arrangement. And that means I should pay.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. You teach—I pay. That’s the deal.”

  “I said no.”

  Lane sighed inwardly. She had no idea what was going on, or why a restaurant bill should be so important, but Adam’s eyes were narrowed, his mouth was a tight line, and she was suddenly too depressed to argue. “All right, since it’s so important to you. But this is the only time I’ll allow
it.”

  “You’ll allow it?” Adam, looking both outraged and grim, reached for Lane’s elbow. “Come. I’m parked across the road.”

  With stomach-clenching clarity, Lane knew he was going to get mad at her next words but she didn’t know what to do about it other than get them out quickly and totally without inflection. “I drove my own car, remember?”

  His jaw worked—he seemed to be grinding his teeth. He gestured her onwards, and Lane, feeling very uncertain and a little tottery in the alien shoes, led the way to her car. No strolling this time. “Here it is,” she announced unnecessarily, stopping beside it.

  “So it is,” Adam agreed. “A Ford Focus. If I’d had to guess, it’s what I would have picked. Everyone drives them. Even the Pope chose a nice, humble Ford Focus.”

  “You have a problem with my car, too?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “It’s economical and reliable. And you’re not the one driving it.”

  “The problem is that I am driving it.”

  “Is this an alpha male thing? Because it’s stupid. I can drive my own car.”

  “Not tonight.”

  “I’ve driven myself all over this city for years.”

  “I asked you out. I’ll get you where you need to be.”

  “Oh, all right,” she said, hitting the unlock button then slapping her keys in his hand.

  She was midstride on her way to the passenger door when she realized Adam was keeping pace beside her.

  “And don’t tell me you can open your own door, Lane, because I don’t give a rat’s ass.”

  “All right, I won’t tell you—but I can.”

  He opened the door. “Thought you weren’t telling me.”

  So much for laughter being an aphrodisiac, she thought to herself, as she got in the car.

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  Damn! Said it out loud. “I said so much for laughter being an aphrodisiac, because you are not displaying any evidence of good humor.”

  “Well, you do have a way of spoiling a man’s mood.”

  Lane felt a horrible urge to burst into tears. Of rage, she told herself. Tears of rage. Not hurt. Not…hurt. She was angry because…spoiled moods equaled no sex. That was all. He would use the excuse to put her off. Again. And she had no idea how to fix it. How to make him want her.

  But she would not cry in front of Adam Quinn. Lane stared straight ahead, waiting it out, willing herself to swallow the rage, the wounded pride, the…oh, all right, it was hurt. She admitted it. He’d hurt her.

  She sensed Adam getting into the car, heard him start the engine, felt the car ease out onto the street.

  A motorbike roared past on Lane’s side, and Adam turned at the sound.

  She felt his eyes on her and gripped the handbag on her lap harder. She had no idea what she looked like, but she wanted to look calm, in control. Unhurt. Because there was no room in this agreement for hurt feelings.

  In the next second, he was pulling into the curb.

  He unbuckled his seatbelt. Started on hers.

  “What are you—”

  Before she could finish her question, Adam had dragged her half out of her seat and was kissing her with a passion that managed, by some miracle, to be incredibly tender.

  “What was that for?” she asked, dazed, when he released her.

  Adam touched her hair. “Because I wanted to,” he said simply. “And because I was acting like a pig and I’m sorry. But, Lane, you’ve got to realize that men are proud bastards, and when they’re pushed too far, they react.”

  “Is that—” Lane stopped, swallowing. For some unfathomable reason, she didn’t want to think that kissing her in that way was another lesson. Except that of course it was. “Is that Lesson Number Six?” she asked.

  He looked at her for a moment then nodded. “Yes. Lesson Number Six.”

  “And you’re talking about the money, right?”

  Pause. “The money. Yes.”

  Lane pursed her lips, ready to discuss the nuances of this lesson now that their mutual anger seemed to have abated, but chose her words carefully lest she spoil everything all over again. “All right. I know I’ve got a lot to learn. And I’ll try to be sensitive when I’m on a real date. But I think it’s ridiculous to argue over money.”

  His lips twitched. “It is ridiculous. But I didn’t say men were smart.”

  Lane wanted to smile, felt her mouth start to stretch in response. But this was a lesson, and she would do well to remember it and not be sidetracked. “But you’ll agree—I know you will—that between us it’s different. You and I aren’t really dating, so you have no financial responsibility for me.”

  “What if I want to do something that costs money and you don’t?” he asked.

  “I can say no if I have a problem with it.”

  “Wiggle room, Lane. Remember the wiggle room.”

  Lane thought about that. “Well…I do want you to suggest things to do if you think they’ll help with…the mood or whatever. In fact, I’m sure that will give me a much better understanding of the things men like to do. And I promise, if I can’t afford it, we can discuss it. But I…” She buckled her seatbelt. “I earn quite a lot.” It wasn’t much above a mumble.

  Adam was silent for a moment; she could feel him watching her. He seemed about to say something.…

  Then he surprised her by lifting her hand, threading her fingers through his and bringing their joined hands to his lips to kiss the back of her hand. “All right, moneybags. You pay. But, just every now and then, remember Lesson Six and let me buy something—an apple, movie tickets, a bottle of water… Otherwise I’m liable to start beating my chest, because my ego’s as fragile as the average guy’s—which means pretty bloody fragile.”

  As he pulled up at his house, Lane thought about the way Adam had kissed first her mouth and then her hand. She wanted him to kiss her again. She wanted him to do more than kiss her. Surely he wanted that, too. A man didn’t kiss a woman like that then just leave things there.

  But when she started to unbuckle her seatbelt, he gave a shaky laugh and said, “Let’s call it a night, Lane. We’ve covered two lessons tonight—Five and Six—and I don’t think either of us is stable enough for a third. I’ll drive you home.”

  What could she say to that but all right?

  Because Lane never shied away from the facts.

  And the facts were that Adam Quinn didn’t really want her; he wasn’t really attracted to her; he was an expert lover, so he made it seem like he loved kissing her, even when he didn’t.

  Sure, she was within her rights to demand sex, since it was what she was paying him for. But these lessons weren’t about providing her with sex; they were about teaching her to seduce a man. And until Adam Quinn could be seduced by her, until he could bring himself to make love to her of his own free will, she would have accomplished nothing.

  Because maybe—with Adam—she could demand. Maybe. For three months.

  But after the three months were up, she had to be desirable without the payment plan.

  And she clearly had a long way to go.

  Chapter Seven

  Lane’s next scheduled date with Adam wasn’t until Saturday, when they were to shop for what Lane had privately labeled her ‘sex wardrobe’.

  So when she answered a knock on her door on Thursday night, she was stunned to find him outside, holding a bottle of red wine and a DVD.

  “I like the jeans,” he commented.

  Lane looked down at her only pair of jeans—washed to within an inch of life—at the too-big sweatshirt, at her besocked feet. She looked a wreck.

  “Sweatshirt’s good, too,” he added.

  Was he serious?

  Adam grinned, reading her mind. “Women in men’s clothing. Mmm. Almost irresistible. Lesson Number Seven—and I didn’t even have to teach you. Ex-boyfriend’s?”

  “I don’t have one of those,” she said, pondering the significance of the DVD. “I bought
this sweatshirt for my brother, but he didn’t like it.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me in?” Adam asked, and Lane realized she’d been barring entry to the house.

  “That depends.”

  “On…?”

  “What your plans are.”

  “Just a movie,” he said and pushed past her.

  He flashed the DVD cover on his way and Lane grimaced. The Notebook? Seriously? A man knew about this movie?

  “Then no, I’m not letting you in,” she said. Which was not vey intelligent, because he already was in. She crossed her arms over her chest and tried another tack. “I’m not interested in seeing that movie. I’ve seen it before. And what are you doing here, anyway? We weren’t scheduled until Saturday.”

  “Lesson One, remember? Anywhere, any time,” Adam said cheerfully, and booted the door closed.

  “I don’t want to watch it.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with sex.”

  “Nothing to do with sex? It’s one of the sexiest movies ever.”

  She uncrossed her arms and put her hands on her hips. “If I want to learn from movies, I can watch Deep Throat.”

  Adam took a step toward her, wine bottle in one hand, video in the other. They were almost nose-to-nose, and neither backed away an inch. “You’re not ready for Deep Throat, sweetheart.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  “What, I’m to blame for all those years of repression, am I? I only met you a week and a half ago.”

  He leaned fractionally closer. She could see the most amazing chocolate flecks among the dark depths of his eyes. She could smell him. So delicious.

  “If you wanted the kind of guy who’d bring over Deep Throat a week and a half into a relationship, you backed the wrong horse,” he said. “But I’m who you’ve got. So it’s The Notebook.”

  Lane couldn’t seem to drag her gaze away from his eyes. They were mesmerizing.

  “And Lesson Number Eight is…?” she asked, feeling a little breathless.

  “That watching the right kind of romantic movie together can be very…well, you’ll see.” He smiled—a sexy, secretive smile.