Kiss Don’t Tell

And after it all, she folded her slender, pale hands together and waited.

Without a word, he tossed his copy of the contract onto the table.

Her hands tightened on each other for a fraction of a second. ‘Any questions?’

How would his sister expect him to respond to that? Actually I’m only here to scare you out of it? Surely Sarah knew that once Lane Davis made up her mind, nothing budged her. He’d only just met her and even he could see it. Just the effort she’d put into the contract told him he was going to have his work cut out for him. He was reluctantly impressed. It was a wonder every law firm in the country wasn’t beating her door down with an employment offer.

What the hell was he supposed to do? Sarah’s plan was failing dismally. Adam thought he’d done a good job of being unpleasantly intimidating, but Lane wasn’t daunted. Intrepid, that’s what she was. Which, in his book, was another word for reckless.

A Plan B would have been nice right about now. Except he didn’t have one.

He could just refuse to sign the contract, he supposed. Let Sarah look after the mess herself.

He opened his mouth to tell Lane the deal was off.

Then he saw her hands tighten again. Ah, so that was it. Right there. The tell. A sign of weakness. He looked up quickly, expecting to enjoy a moment of triumph. But something in her eyes pulled at him. Vulnerability, where he’d expected none. Surely he wasn’t imagining that glimmer of … what was it? Confusion … anxiety … distress …? No, he wasn’t imagining it. She masked it, lightning fast, but a split second too late.

Goddammit to hell!

He tried to tell himself to ignore that look, to tell himself that if he turned her down, she’d give up—but deep down he knew better. There would be no giving up. Lane Davis would do whatever it took to get the job done. Which in this case meant finding someone else. Someone who’d be only too delighted to make love to her for the prescribed two to four nights a week. He wouldn’t put it past her to write her name on the wall in the men’s toilet at the local pub if that was what it took.

A strange sense of protectiveness clawed its way through his normally impervious psyche. He looked at Lane again, trying to reject the feeling. Her lips were dauntingly calm, saying ‘I’m invincible,’ but he’d seen that look in her eyes and he couldn’t unsee it.

‘Why are you doing this?’ Adam asked.

She blinked. He saw her draw in a deep breath, even though he didn’t hear it. And then: ‘The truth?’

‘And nothing but.’

‘All right. It’s been borne in on me that I don’t do … this … well. And I like to do things well.’

‘Borne in on you by …?’ Adam prompted.

He was intrigued to see a blush work its way up from Lane’s neck up to her cheekbones—and the fact that it wasn’t an attractive blush made it all the more powerful, more honest. More … dangerous.

‘It doesn’t matter who. What matters is that he was right about my lack of expertise. That particular experience made me see that I need a teacher. A good teacher. A hired teacher, who can be bound by a confidentiality clause. Confidentiality is very important to me—I can’t stress that enough.’

‘So it all comes down to something one douchebag said. That’s what he is, Lane. A douchebag.’

‘Yes, I know that. Now, at least. But I’m sure he isn’t the only … er … douchebag … out there, so best to be prepared.’

Douchebag. That word didn’t exactly trip off her tongue.

‘What if I can’t perform to your satisfaction?’ he asked.

‘We can terminate the arrangement. It’s all in the contract.’ She looked him over, her eyes assessing. ‘But I don’t think it will come to that. You look like you’d be good at it.’

His eyebrows shot up. What the actual fuck? ‘Thanks for the compliment.’

She was still blushing. He enjoyed that at least. ‘Well,’ she said, and cleared her throat. ‘Well. I— Well.’

Oh, he was certainly enjoying this part. Discomfiting her. Finally, a bit of joy in an otherwise ghastly evening.

Then she snapped out of that momentary incoherence. Back to cool, calm, collected. ‘It’s your alleged experience that makes you so valuable to me. That’s what I’m paying for. I’ve found in the past that the right fee will usually attract the commensurate skill level.’

Alleged? Adam felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise—a sure sign his infamous temper was on the ascent. Good God! The look on her face. Questioning. A little uncertain. Was she wondering if he was going to be worth the outlay? Alleged? Alleged?

He half rose from his seat, longing to haul her uptight backside out of her chair and shake her. The thought that she’d still be giving him that ego-deflating look at the end of it, however, checked him.

He sat back and tried to calm the hell down.

Found that he couldn’t quite manage it.

And made a decision.

Lane Davis was going to get what she was asking for, but on his terms. She wasn’t the only one who knew how to write a list. By God, he was going to draw up a lesson plan that would get her so hot and bothered she’d end up begging for him. His jaw clenched. His nostrils flared. Very caveman, but what the hell—he felt very caveman.

‘When do we start?’ he asked, and could hear the quiet danger in his voice.

He saw an expression—something like fear—cross her face. Good, he thought savagely.

‘You have to sign first.’ Her voice was steady, but her fingers tightened. ‘Both copies.’

He held out his hand and she gave him her copy of the contract with what he considered a fine show of bravado. It had to be bravado; he was scaring himself, for God’s sake. He flipped to the last page, scrawled his heavy black signature without even glancing at it.

He reached for his own copy, and Lane cleared her throat again. ‘You understand about the blood tests, right? That you have to use—’

‘Yes, yes, condoms for two weeks,’ he said, cutting her off before she could even think of backing out. It was too late for that. ‘You’ll have the pill in hand by then, won’t you?’

‘I’ll have the prescription filled in the morning.’

‘Excellent work.’ He smiled—a dangerous, wolfish grin—even though he wasn’t remotely amused. ‘You know you’re blushing, right?’ He shook his head in exaggerated amazement. ‘I’m relieved to know something can get under your skin.’

Lane raised her chin and Adam couldn’t help a flash of admiration. She had a goal and she was going to tackle it. Embarrassed, uncertain, almost certainly nervous—because how could she not be?—but she was forging ahead. Amazing.

‘I’m very conscious of the fact that this is an unusual proposition,’ she said. ‘It’s not going to be easy for either of us, but if we keep things businesslike, I’m sure we’ll get through it.’

‘Ah, businesslike sex. Who wouldn’t want that?’

She raised one eyebrow, as though he wasn’t worth the effort of raising two. ‘I was under the impression you had more women flinging themselves at you than you could handle. Someone with a less desperate approach should be a welcome change. Certainly less exhausting.’

‘Oh, a change, definitely. I can honestly say I’ve never met anyone like you. But less exhausting? I don’t think so, Lane.’

Another clear of her throat. ‘While we’re on the subject of desperate women flinging themselves at you, I should reiterate the importance of the fidelity clause. In the interests of health, you understand.’

His smile widened, but didn’t warm. ‘Reiterate away. Wouldn’t want to catch anything after going to the trouble of a blood test.’

He shot his signature across the second copy of the contract then looked at her. ‘But we’d better get you up to speed pretty quickly.’ No more smile. ‘A stud like me needs it pretty good and pretty regular.’

CHAPTER THREE

Lane stared at the forlorn-looking smoked salmon on the now-stale rounds of rye bread and groaned. Smoked salmon! Thank God she hadn’t ended up putting the bottle of champagne she’d bought for tonight on ice as well. Just thinking about the look on Adam’s face if he’d caught sight of a champagne bottle was enough to make her wince.

Ah, well, the evening may not have been a success exactly, but it wasn’t a total failure, either. Because he’d signed. That was all that was important for now.

She stretched, as much to release tension as to ease the ache in her back after hunching over the paperwork all night, then she threw out the food, wiped down the glass tabletop, and headed for her bedroom.

Normally, preparation for bed involved a rapid undressing, a quick shower and vigorous towel-dry, moisturizer slapped on without looking, a scramble into pyjamas and a dive under the covers.

But tonight she was obsessed with her appearance, so she lingered, looking at herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. At what Adam had seen. A tall, pale, pencil-thin woman. Oval face. Nondescript nose. A mouth that was neither full nor thin. Arctic blue eyes that looked too village-of-the-damned for comfort. No laugh lines. Not one.

Lane untied her hair and ruffled her fingers through it. The hair quality was good—thick and shiny, hanging in a straight curtain past her shoulders. But the colour belonged to someone altogether more fiery than she would ever be! It was like a confidence trick, her hair.

Last year, Lane’s mother had asked her to dye her hair any colour but red, because the memories of her dead husband—who’d shared his daughter’s unrelenting hair shade—became more painful for her to bear with each passing year. ‘Just a small thing to bring me some peace,’ her mother had said, and Lane would have gladly obliged her if Erica—her staunchest defender—hadn’t hit the roof.

Lane could still recall Erica’s scathing words, the fury in her voice, the merciless look on her face. ‘What the fuck will she expect next, Lane? That you cut twelve inches off your legs so you’re not the same height as he was? There’ll be something else; there always is. Well, you tell Jeanne-the-Martyr that you asked me what colour hair would suit you and I said red. Tell her that I’ll be ready to give her a piece of my mind, the nastiest piece, if you change it. So think about that before you reach for the L’Oréal because it won’t be pretty.’

To say Jeanne Davis’s mournful eyes and trembling bottom lip left Erica chronically unimpressed was an understatement, so Lane was pretty sure Erica wasn’t bluffing. So far, Erica hadn’t ‘Jeanne-the-Martyred’ Lane’s mother to her face, but the fear of her doing so was ever-present—and that was enough of an incentive for Lane to keep her hair red for the foreseeable future, even though her mother had taken to looking at Lane’s hair then biting the knuckle of her index finger in a very tragic fashion.

Ah well, Lane thought as she retied her ponytail, her hair colour was a problem for another day. At least she had one consolation prize she could offer Adam: her breasts. Their size was disproportionate to the skinniness of her frame, but guys liked breasts for their own sake, didn’t they? Not that Adam could have figured out she had breasts under her navy suit. She frowned as she remembered that he’d left two buttons of his own shirt undone, which was an incredibly sexy look. That had to be worth a try.

She unbuttoned her top two shirt buttons and checked the result in the mirror. Hmm. Nothing special to see there. She removed her jacket and undid one more button. She caught a hint of cleavage, but it didn’t seem an especially alluring inducement to her. Maybe the way she was frowning was detracting from the overall look.

Easily fixed. She smoothed out her forehead, raised her chin, added a half-pout to her lips, examined herself in the mirror again—and burst out laughing. There was a touch of booby-beanpole-meets-Bride-of-Frankenstein about that look. Maybe no pouting around Adam Quinn, then.

Okay, enough.

She turned her back on the mirror, undressed quickly and got under the shower.

She’d long ago accepted the fact that although she was attractive enough, her coolly patrician features gave her an untouchable air, characterized by a distinct lack of smoulder. All Erica’s determined artistry—and Erica was brilliant with make-up—had failed to put the sex in Lane’s appeal. It would be interesting, academically if nothing else, to see if Adam Quinn had enough skill to tease a hitherto hidden kernel of sensuality out of her despite her lack of obvious assets.

And academics aside, it would be such a relief to have an experience, any experience, to help put to rest the memory of what had happened with her ex-colleague DeWayne Callaghan four months ago. An utter, utter disaster. Clothes half-on, half-off. Inept fumbling. Pain. Bleeding. A rushed two-minute-forty-seconds—she’d counted every unpleasant second in her head—which had ended with DeWayne orgasming with a loud and somehow comical groan and collapsing on top of her; Lane, having gone nowhere near an orgasm, pinned beneath him.

And as if that wasn’t bad enough, DeWayne had then had the insensitivity to post the experience on Facebook. That was when Lane had come face-to-face with the true meaning of the word ‘mortification’, as his friends had obligingly shared it with their friends, and so on, and on until it reached multi-friended Sarah Quinn, who’d not only told Lane what was going on behind Lane’s back but had also gone ballistic at DeWayne, threatening legal action and getting the whole mess taken down.

Sarah had a way with words that was simply masterful and she’d reduced DeWayne to a blubbering mess, but of course there was no putting that kind of evil genie back in the bottle. And so Lane had walked around the office like a semi-smiling automaton, determined to ride out the disaster with her usual coolness. But when sniggers still followed in her wake after two weeks, she could no longer pretend she was handling it and had subsequently changed jobs.

At least there’d been a hint of a silver lining. Leaving the consultancy and joining the bank had not only given her a better job and a much better salary package than DeWayne could ever dream of, but it had also brought her into the orbit of David Bennett, corporate banking executive and hunk extraordinaire, giving Lane a new goal, a new target. A man to try again with.

Lane thought about David as she ran the soap over her skin, which felt super-sensitive tonight. David—blond, blue-eyed, Hollywood handsome, smart, debonair, a little rakish, a lot experienced, divorced, a rising star at work. All the girls at the bank were in love with him, but it seemed to Lane that she was the one who’d caught his eye. Or at least she was the most recent one to catch his eye—a distinction that was fine by her.

David had made a few veiled suggestions that indicated he wouldn’t mind getting Lane into bed, and she’d been thrilled, no matter how many women had come before her, or how many women would come after her. The only problem as far as Lane was concerned was her own ineptitude.

She closed her eyes, remembering the unexpected encounter with David two weeks ago at the launch of one of the bank’s many art sponsorships. When he’d seen her across the room, his eyes had narrowed speculatively. He’d made his way over to her, brushing off the approaches of an assortment of people—mostly women—en route.

‘Are you into etchings?’ he’d asked. ‘Because I have quite a collection.’

Lane, elated at the unexpected attention, had decided to do her best to engage him in conversation. ‘Are you an experienced collector?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he’d said, an encouraging twinkle in his eye. ‘I’ve had years of experience.’

‘And what interests you most? I mean, what do you look for when you’re ready to add to your collection?’

‘Nudes. Most definitely, nudes.’

‘I’d love to see your nudes.’ Lane—absolutely clueless.

David had laughed and leaned closer. ‘My suspicions are correct, then. There’s fire under the ice.’ Then he’d touched her elbow—just her elbow, but it was clear he wanted to touch more.

And with just that touch, Lane had realized what she’d said, what he’d heard, that he’d liked the sexual banter she hadn’t even intended. And she’d known she had a lot—as in a lot—to learn if she was to avoid boring David to death in bed.

Oh God, she was twenty-three! How had she let herself get to such an advanced age with only one sexual experience? She was a freak, an anachronism. She was pathetic.

She turned off the shower and dried herself with no more recourse to the mirror because looking at herself was hardly teaching her anything—and nor was it helping her self-confidence.

As she got ready for bed, she worried that three months might not be long enough to learn everything she needed to learn. Experience was what seemed to make people sexy, but experience as in years, not months. People like David Bennett oozed sex appeal because he had a long track record of sexual encounters. Adam Quinn oozed it, too—same reason. Erica and Sarah both oozed it, having been out and about sexually for a good eight years apiece.

But unfortunately, Lane didn’t have the luxury of time. Even three months seemed an unconscionably long time to expect a man like David Bennett to wait for her, but she was, in effect, stuck between a rock and a hard place. If she jumped in too soon she risked her performance disappointing him; if she waited too long he might forget he was ever interested.

At least Lane knew she was an excellent student, and Adam looked like he’d turn out to be an equally excellent teacher. Seriously, after just one meeting she was ready to swear he could teach her things she’d never even imagined, so given all she really needed was to get the basics down with perhaps a couple of frills as optional extras …? Yes, three months should cover it perfectly! Think positively, Lane!

She slid under the quilt, determinedly bringing David’s face to mind, imagining him looking at her with longing three months from now.

‘Let’s make love,’ she whispered to her make-believe David—then sat bolt upright as butterflies swooped through her stomach. Because David’s face had disappeared, replaced by a different one. A swarthier one, with a scarred eyebrow and a five o’clock shadow and eyes that were dark as night.

It wasn’t blond, perfectly coiffed, pleasantly smiling David Bennett in her head; it was Adam Quinn with his short black hair and ferocious frown.

Lane ran a trembling hand over her belly, where the butterflies were rioting. ‘Stop it,’ she told them.

But they ignored her.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘You what?’ Sarah Quinn demanded, after a full thirty seconds of shocked silence.

‘I signed on,’ Adam repeated, sinking tiredly into his favourite green leather armchair with a freshly poured single malt Scotch—his preferred remedy in a crisis—within easy reach on the table beside him. A nice, warm, antique, wooden table.

Sarah slid into the armchair on the other side of the table and just sat there.

More silence.

At any other time, Adam would have been amused at his garrulous sister’s rare state of speechlessness. But not tonight, when he longed to have his library to himself to brood in peace. A man needed privacy to lick his wounds.

‘One job,’ Sarah said at last. ‘You had one job!’

Adam tossed back the full two fingers of his neat Scotch.

‘Seriously!’ Sarah went on. ‘What was so hard about it? Fifteen minutes, max—in, out, over. You’ve had entire affairs that have lasted longer than that.’

‘Shut up, Sarah.’

‘I wouldn’t have let you anywhere near her if I’d imagined, even for a second, it would turn out like this.’

‘Yeah, well if it was really that easy, why didn’t you talk her out of it yourself?’

Sarah grimaced. ‘I tried. Erica tried. Believe me. No luck.’

Adam poured more whisky into his cut crystal tumbler. ‘And who the hell is Erica?’

‘Lane’s housemate. Erica’s a flight attendant.’

‘Ah, a flight attendant. Now you’re talking. Where’s her contract? I’ll sign that one in a heartbeat.’

‘Dream on. They’ve known each other since they were kids—next-door neighbours, living in each other’s pockets, sleepovers, the works. Erica’s not going to whistle that history down the wind by stealing you out from under Lane’s nose. It’s a girl code thing; there’s no breaking the code.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Language!’

‘There’s no such thing as a girl code.’

‘Maybe not in your fast and loose world, but there most certainly is in ours. And in any case, Erica has a boyfriend, Jeremy, who isn’t insane enough to stand aside for you to have a crack at her. And she certainly doesn’t need to hire anyone for sex. She’s got enough raw material to write a regular blog on the subject.’

‘In your league, then. How many boyfriends are we up to for the year, Sarah? Remind me, will you?’

‘About on par with your excessive number of girlfriends, Casanova Quinn.’

‘They’re not my girlfriends.’

‘No they’re not, are they? Which makes my dating patterns more morally defensible than yours. At least I’m looking for love, not just shagging my way around the city of Sydney a street at a time.’

‘Who says I limit myself to Sydney?’

‘Ugh! You really are shameless. Brazen, blatant, debauched—’

‘Yada, yada, yada. Give the thesaurus a break and just think for a moment about your “morally defensible” crapola in light of the fact that you’re pimping me out to your friend.’

‘You weren’t supposed to sign,’ she said through her teeth.

‘And yet I did, and you set it up, therefore you are my pimp.’

‘Well someone had to step in.’

‘No, Sarah, they didn’t. At least not someone from this family. We’ve got enough problems with divorces and marriages happening like they’re on a spin cycle. We’re the last ones anyone should come to for sex therapy.’

‘Well that just goes to show that you know nothing, Adam Quinn, because it was Mum who suggested you for this job despite where she currently is in the spin cycle.’

He jerked upright. ‘What the—the fuck? You did not—tell me you did not!—talk to Mum about this.’

‘Well of course I did!’

‘I am going to murder you, Sarah.’

She opened her eyes at him. Wide, bright blue. Innocent. Like hell innocent. ‘I had to talk to someone!’

‘What about Erica the flight attendant? If she and Lane are so close, where was she when she was needed?’

‘Well duh! Thirty-five thousand feet in the air, that’s where! She was rostered on a flight to LA this morning, and that’s a four-day trip so she’s beside herself over what might happen while she’s gone. Which is probably why Lane chose last night to divulge her great plan. You know, get it out there and deal with the initial fallout knowing Erica wouldn’t have a lot of time to talk her out of it. So the end result is that I’m catapulted into the hot seat, with Erica begging me to come up with something to keep Lane safe in her absence. Damage control, that’s what Erica calls it. I’ve been nothing short of petrified, because Lane doesn’t see things the way the rest of us see them.’

‘Yeah, I’d say you’ve got that right. Jesus!’

‘Oh and I suppose you know everything about her, do you, after just one meeting? Because you don’t—that I can promise you!’

‘Okay, okay, so tell me: how does she see things?’

‘Straight like a ruler. Got a problem? Her brain tells her to fix it by going direct from A to B in the straightest line possible, no deviation. Whereas my brain goes all convoluted with curlicues and twists, via, F, G, and M, so I usually need someone to help me keep track of things, and when I woke up this morning and it all came flooding back to me and I realized there was nobody to help me and—’