Bad Boys Down Under Read online

  “Well, he’s damn good at it.”

  A low chuckle shook the older woman. “I think the next couple of weeks are going to be beaut.”

  She was more than a little surprised when a soft knock a few minutes later had her opening her bedroom door to find not the odd-job man Roger but big-shot Cameron Crane himself, hefting her suitcase as though it weighed nothing.

  And he wasn’t naked, thank God.

  “This is a surprise,” she said, stepping back so he could bring the suitcase into her bedroom.

  “Marg said I was being an arse,” he told her, his hazel eyes twinkling at her in a way that suggested there was more to him than she’d suspected.

  “Marg is a very intelligent woman.”

  He laughed, big and easy. Now that he was closer and there was no mist between them she noticed the way his eyes crinkled when he was amused, and she imagined him squinting into the sun, gazing over red-soiled land. Sure he was a Sydney-dwelling surfer, but it was the Outback that had bred him.

  “Let’s start over, shall we?” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Cameron Crane. Call me Cam.”

  She took his hand and shook it. His palm was warm and firm and tough-skinned. She let him hold on a moment too long and told herself she was amused by him, and not feeling the tug of attraction.

  “So,” she said, pulling back. “Arrogant didn’t work, now you’ve moved to charming?”

  Once more his big chest rumbled with laughter. “Glad you noticed.” He glanced around the guest room as though checking up. “Got everything you need?”

  “Yes, thanks.” This had to be the strangest introduction she’d ever had to a client. She’d seen him naked and they’d been alone together in her bedroom within the first hour of meeting.

  Tomorrow, when she’d had some sleep, she was going to get them on a professional footing. Tomorrow.

  As she stifled a yawn, Cameron Crane walked to the door. “Sleep well,” he said, and he was gone.

  While she dragged out her night things, she couldn’t help wondering about him. He’d struck her as an arrogant beer-swilling jerk on their first meeting, but when he’d brought the suitcase he’d exuded warmth, almost teddy-bearish in this rather hairy man. Contrasts like that intrigued her, and she didn’t want to be intrigued by Cameron Crane—just paid well.

  Thinking the next few weeks were going to be quite the challenge, she fell into bed and wondered if cool, crisp sheets had ever felt so good.

  Jen awoke with a start, momentarily disoriented. She blinked a few times in the darkness, feeling tired, wide-awake, and starving hungry all at once. As memory returned about where she was and why, she scowled and rolled over, searching out the clock by her bedside. Three A.M. The green fluorescent dots broadcast the time as though it were good news. She groaned, rolled over, and squeezed her eyes shut, but who could sleep with the racket coming from her stomach?

  It was hopeless. She flipped on the bedside light, illuminating walls of a pale Wedgewood blue, a couple of paintings on the wall—one of tropical flowers and one of a sailboat floating over blue-green water—typical guest-room fare except that when she’d examined them last night she’d discovered they were originals. Good ones, too, although she’d never heard of the artists. Australian probably.

  The blue and green batik bedspread and the rattan furniture in the room continued the tropical theme. She got out of bed and thought she’d prefer amateur prints on the walls and the floral polyester bedspreads of a hotel. At least if she were in a hotel she could raid the mini bar. In a private home she was going to have to put up and shut up until it was morning.

  Since she was wide awake, she pulled out her laptop. Might as well do something useful, she decided.

  But in the next heartbeat, stomach pangs attacked her again. She wondered why she should be polite about being a guest in Cameron Crane’s home when she was an unwilling guest. Her stomach rumbled again. She was so hungry she was starting to feel nauseous.

  She snapped the laptop closed.

  If there was food on these premises, she was going to find it. She shrugged into her robe and the terry slippers she never traveled without and pushed her hair out of her face. Quietly, she eased open the door and stepped into the hall. The house slept soundly, so she padded down the stairs then through a hallway that led to the back of the house where the kitchen must be.

  She found it without trouble. There were dim nightlights in all the hallways, which struck her as useful for the jet-lagged, but odd otherwise.

  The kitchen matched the dimensions of the rest of the house and was predictably huge: restaurant-sized, sleek, and industrial. She flipped on the light and was nearly blinded by the gleam of stainless steel appliances and black counters. It looked like he’d taken his decorating palate from a carving knife. Everything was sharp and cold.

  She shivered as she made her way to the refrigerator, where she found orange juice and yogurt. A little more snooping in the cupboards uncovered muesli, which looked like plain old granola to her. She was happily chowing down until the thing she dreaded most—and at three in the morning wouldn’t have believed possible—happened.

  “You’re up early,” said the twangy voice with its subtle teasing note she’d hoped to avoid until the sun rose.

  “Jet lag,” she said, not bothering to turn around.

  She sipped her orange juice, wondering if she could pretend to being already full and dash back to her room—except she wasn’t full. She was still hungry.

  He padded past her and leaned against a counter, pausing to look her up and down. God, did the man have a single good manner?

  She wore a robe, but Crane had a way of gazing at her that reminded her she wore no underwear. She was two not very sturdy garments shy of naked.

  At least her host was still fully dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, though his feet were bare.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you?” she asked politely.

  “No. I was working in my study.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “In the middle of the night?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t need much sleep.” He glanced at her shrewdly. “I’d say you’re done sleeping for the night, darl. Come on back when you’ve finished your brekkie. I’ve got some reading material for you.”

  “I’m sure I’ll go straight back to sleep,” she lied, thinking endless games of solitaire on her laptop were preferable to a meeting with Crane’s CEO in the wee hours.

  “Take it up with you anyway. It’ll bore you to sleep.”

  What could she say? “All right.”

  He walked to the sink with an easy grace that forced her to remember how he’d looked with nothing covering him but a little steam and a few bubbles.

  He grabbed a glass of water. “I’ll leave you to it, then. My study’s back there.” He pointed through a doorway at the opposite end of the kitchen, and then he was gone.

  She finished her food but, as Crane had smugly prophesied, she wasn’t remotely sleepy. She’d deliberately set her watch to Sydney time, but that didn’t prevent her from calculating that it was only nine in the morning yesterday in San Francisco.

  After tidying up and putting everything away, she ran back upstairs. Cameron Crane might be able to dictate her actions, but no way in hell was she going into his study to talk business in her nightclothes.

  Besides, her calculations reminded her that her fiancé, Mark Forsythe, would be wide awake and dying to hear that she’d arrived safely. He was such a sweetheart—steady, reliable, good-hearted, and he worried about her.

  She called and he answered on the first ring, as though he’d been sitting by the phone waiting. Sure enough, his first words were, “I’m so glad you called. I was wondering if you made it okay. How was the flight?”

  “Long and boring.”

  “Don’t forget to drink lots of water. Jet lag can be a killer.”

  “I know. It’s three in the morning and I just ate breakfast.”

  He chuckled. “Give me your hotel and
room number before I forget.”

  She hesitated. She loved Mark and sometime in the next year or so was going to marry him, but he could be a little old-fashioned. He’d blow a gasket if he knew where she was currently staying. She hadn’t finished blowing her own gasket so she didn’t need any extra aggravation.

  “My schedule’s going to be so hectic, it’s probably easier if I call you. I’ve got my cell. I’ll keep it with me at all times.”

  “Okay.” He was so trusting and so dear. She called up his face: good-looking in a clean-cut, all-American way, with his clear blue eyes and crisp black hair. So different from Cameron Crane with his dirty-blond hair, eyes so shifty they couldn’t decide between gray, brown, and green and had settled on a murky hazel. Mark was always clean-shaven. Crane looked as though he had five o’-clock shadow twenty-four, seven.

  As though divining her thoughts, Mark asked, “Have you seen the client yet?”

  “Yes. Briefly.” And all of him there was to see, but she kept that information to herself.

  “First impressions?” Since Mark was not only her fiancé, but a tax accountant who often did work for her marketing firm, they tended to talk business a lot. It helped her to bounce ideas off him, for he was as logical as she was creative. That’s what made them such a great team. So, she sighed and said, “I’d say dynamic, driven, mercurial. . . and domineering.” Great bod.

  “You don’t like him.”

  She laughed. “You know me too well. Not unless my first impression changes drastically. He’s the client. I’ll hide my feelings, naturally. But no, I don’t like Cameron Crane.”

  Chapter Three

  She hates my guts, Cam thought to himself, perfectly aware that Jennifer Talbot wasn’t still in the kitchen eating. He’d expected her to come and see him when she was done, but it looked as though she’d bolted—not that he entirely blamed her. He had been a pig.

  He rolled his chair back from the computer and contemplated why. Since he planned to get her into bed as soon as possible, alienating the woman was stupid. But there was something about the coolness in those big blue eyes and the carefully sleek blond hair that made him want to mess her up a little.

  Stupid, since he’d just made the task of seducing her tougher. Still, he hadn’t made an outrageous success of himself by avoiding challenge. Quite the opposite. And when the challenge looked like the cover of a glossy dollie magazine, smelled like peaches, and gazed at him as though she saw right through him, he had no choice but to seduce her.

  Ah, who was he kidding? If she was anyone at all and he’d met her anywhere, she’d have drawn him. She was everything he wasn’t but secretly admired: tidy, cool, careful, and well-educated.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall, and he was delighted that his first assessment had been right. Jennifer Talbot didn’t avoid challenges any more than he did. She had the look in her china-doll blue eyes of a fighter. He recognized that look. It stared back at him every morning in the mirror.

  When she knocked on his open door and entered, he stifled an appreciative grin. Oh, yeah. She was a fighter all right. She was fully dressed right down to shoes. She hadn’t come to him in a bathrobe, nor had she slipped into jeans and a shirt, like him. No. She was wearing navy slacks with a crease you could cut yourself on, a silky white top that covered her but still tantalized with a hint of her shape, and dressy looking white sandals. Her hair gleamed smooth and blond and, based on the sheen to her lips, she wore makeup. In case he was in any doubt that her visit to him in the wee hours was strictly business, she carried a slim corporate-woman briefcase in one hand.

  It was three-forty in the morning, and she looked as though she were ready for his company’s annual meeting.

  He liked her better in her nightie and mussed hair, and he bet she knew it.

  “I’m glad to have this opportunity to talk to you,” she said in that accent even he could recognize as quintessentially Californian. Soft, a little breathy, and full of sunshine and bottled water. “I think it would be better for both of us if I moved to a hotel.”

  He was a little surprised she was charging into battle only hours after she’d arrived—and on precious little sleep. He admired her for it. He leaned forward a little and motioned her into a chair. “I work at home a lot of the time. This is more efficient. You seem like a woman who appreciates not wasting time.”

  “Certainly, but—”

  “As you’ll find, I’ve a lot of demands on my time during the day. You’ll hardly see me. Here, you’ve got full access.” And how. Not only could she do business with him at any hour, but she was welcome to jump all over him. He almost laughed at her pinched expression. Yeah, that was going to happen.

  Oh, but it was, he decided. His love life had been too much of the same recently. He dated women who were young, fun, and looked good on his arm. Maybe he was getting on a bit, but sometimes he yearned for more. Jennifer Talbot was definitely in the “more” category. She wasn’t as young as his usual fare, and while she looked good—fantastic, really—it was a different kind of gorgeous. He usually dated chicks who were pictured in the gossip columns. Jennifer Talbot’s picture was usually in the business section.

  And fun? Did she know how to have fun? Probably, but it looked as though she were on the road to forgetting how. Damn it. Seducing this one was going to be more exciting than surfing Bells Beach on his newest board.

  “I appreciate your position, Mr. Crane, however, my fiancé is rather old-fashioned. It would make him uncomfortable to know I was staying in your home.”

  So she had some bloke on the string, did she? That didn’t surprise him, and now that he bothered to look, there was a flash of diamond on her engagement finger.

  “I’m not the village pervert, darl. If you sleep with me it will be because you can’t help yourself.” He held back a chuckle as she visibly fought down a hasty response.

  “No. Don’t do that. Don’t stifle whatever you were going to say. I always say what’s on my mind, and I appreciate it in people I’m close to.”

  “Work with,” she snapped. “We’re not close.”

  “You see? Don’t you feel better for saying that?” he asked approvingly.

  “All right. Since you asked. In my background research, I’ve discovered you have a reputation for wild behavior.”

  He knew his reputation perfectly well and did everything he could to enhance it. He was convinced his rep helped sell his products. “Right. You mean drinking, hell-raising, and womanizing?”

  She nodded. “And brawling.”

  “I hit a pushy cameraman who got in my face once too often. Highly exaggerated,” he assured her, noticing how fine her skin was and that the blue irises had tiny flecks of black.

  “And the drinking, carousing, and womanizing?”

  “Those are my hobbies,” he explained.

  “Well, I’m not so worried about the first two, but . . .” She cleared her throat. “If I were to stay here, would I have your promise that you wouldn’t . . . that there’d be no . . .”

  Once more her words petered to silence. Once more he helped her out. “That I won’t try to seduce you?”

  Her color was up, but she nodded. This was going to be more fun than he’d imagined.

  “Darl, you have my promise that I will seduce you.”

  Challenge flashed back at him as clear and blue as a wall of water building behind him and his surfboard, daring him to try it. He might end up flipped on his arse, but he’d have a ride to remember.

  “You can try,” she said crisply.

  “I play fair. I’m telling you in advance. You’re beautiful, interesting, and smart, and I’m a red-blooded bloke who likes women. But it will be up to you, you know. If you’re so in love with your man at home, you’re in no danger of falling for me, now are you?”

  Her eyes snapped to his and he read everything in them he needed to know. She was feeling the sexual sizzle between them just as he was. She was confused. And she wasn’t in love with
her bloke at home.

  He wondered how long it was going to take her to work that out for herself.

  “I’ve pulled together the latest report on our sales figures in Australia and New Zealand and the budget we’ve tentatively allocated to the California expansion.” He held it out. “Some light reading.”

  She received the report with her fingertips, keeping as much of the eight-by-eleven inches of paper between them as she could. She slipped it into the silver metal briefcase, snapped the lid, then rose and headed for the door.

  “Oh, Jennifer?”

  She turned back, brows raised.

  “Pleasant dreams.”

  She rolled her gaze at him as though he were a chippie on a construction site who’d whistled at her, and left.

  Crane Enterprises was located in a restored Victorian warehouse in an area down by the harbor known as the Rocks. Jen had expected something in the Central Business District, or CBD to the Australians who seemed to her to have a mania for shortening or abreviating everything. But no, Crane was located in the most historic part of Sydney. The faded and smudged red brick actually looked hip with the light wood and glass that were the main building materials for Crane’s front offices.

  The woman at reception was young and buxom, with one extra button open at her throat than Jen thought was necessary. And she didn’t look older than twenty.

  Still, she knew who Jen was and immediately led her to an empty office.

  “Cam said you were to have this one. The phone works, there are some supplies in the drawers, and I’m to act as your assistant if you need anything.” She grinned, her face at once sexy and impish, and Jen had the idea that Cameron Crane hired his support staff based on bra size not typing speed. “I’m Fiona,” the girl said.

  “Thanks, Fiona. Can you see if all the people on this list would be available for a meeting today at,” she glanced at her watch, “shall we say eleven o’-clock?”

  “Sure.”