Chapter Two
At least he has hired help, Jen thought, relaxing marginally when a leather-skinned woman who obviously hadn't heard the word sunscreen appeared with a tray holding a bottle of sparkling water, the bottle covered with condensation, which she hoped meant it had been refrigerated since the accompanying glass held no ice. There was also a can of beer.
“You must be Jennifer.” It came out as
Jinnifer,
and Jen was momentarily startled to be addressed so casually. “I'm Marg. Cam said you'd be arriving today. If you need anything, give me a hoy.”
Whatever a
hoy
was, Jen doubted she'd be giving it to anyone. “Thank you, but I don't think I'll be stayingâ”
“I know.” The woman threw up one hand and nearly knocked the can of beer over. “That's what I told Cam. She'll want to stay in a hotel, I told him. Not stuck out here with the likes of you. She doesn't need the aggro. But he never listens. You might as well know that straightaway. Cam always does exactly as he pleases.”
Jen blinked slowly, feeling not so much jet-lagged as time-warped. If she didn't know from her dossier that Cameron Crane was single, she might have thought this woman was his wife, even though she was clearly much older. Could she be his mother? Since reticence didn't seem to be part of this woman's makeup, she felt safe asking. “Are you a relative of Mr. Crane's?”
The woman emitted a hoot of laughter that caused an unknown bird to squawk in the dark rustle of leafy green trees Jen couldn't yet identify. “Not bloody likely. I only stay because he pays me.”
“If I double your salary, will you keep your mouth shut?” asked the man who paid her salary from his private spa, where he'd sunk back in the water, his arms outstretched and gripping the sides of the Jacuzzi in a casual way that annoyed Jen. She'd come a long way to do a job. She didn't appreciate being toyed with.
Marg's laugh came again, but good-natured, as though she and her employer acted like this all the time. She walked around the pool with an unhurried, flat-footed gait and plonked the fresh can down beside Crane, who winked at her and said, “Cheers.”
Rising and turning back to Jen, she asked, “Are you hungry?”
“No. Just thirsty.” Jen sipped from her drink. “And tired.” Beyond tired.
“Did you sleep on the plane?”
“I never sleep on planes.” It was a curse. Other travelers snoozed and snored. She could fly around the world and not manage a doze. Mostly, she worked.
In the eighteen or so hours it had taken her to fly from San Francisco, California, to Sydney, New South Wales, she'd re-read her material on Crane Surf and Boogie Boards and reviewed the report she'd prepared on the already tight California market. Of course, California was just a start. Mr. Crane, she'd realized as she read up on him, was an ambitious man.
He'd made his first million a decade ago, by the time he was twenty-four. He'd had no family leg up in the business world. His father was a sheep farmer and his mother a homemaker. Cameron had left the sheep station at a young age, it seemed, because the next anyone had heard of him, he was making a name for himself as a surfie, as they called them here. He'd won some competitions, started designing and building his own boards, and soon he'd made a small fortune.
He'd parlayed that into a business empire in the next decade of his life, going from self-made man to self-made mogul.
She'd been prepared to find this man admirable, driven, aggressiveâshe knew the type well. But to find herself manipulated into sharing his home, met with nakedness and sultry challenges, was more than she'd bargained for.
If she'd been the client, she'd be hailing herself another taxi in a heartbeat and speeding out of here. But
he
was the client, and, within reason, it was her job to give him what he wanted. But, if the naked man in the hot tub thought she was part of the package, he was going to find he'd mistaken his woman.
As a marketer, she knew all about stereotypes, played with them or against them in advertising campaigns, and used them to help place product in the marketplace. However, because she knew how misleading they could be, she always made a conscious effort not to fall into the trap of judging people by stereotypes.
But Cameron Crane was the quintessential Aussie bloke. Right now, she was just tired enough to snap unwisely at a lucrative client she'd come halfway around the world to work with; antagonizing him because she was dead-tired and he was a chauvinistic, beer-swilling, naked womanizer, was not going to start them off on the path to a harmonious working relationship.
Having downed most of the water, she rose from the blissfully comfy lounger and said, “I'll go to bed now, if you don't mind. I'll want to be fresh and ready to work tomorrow morning.”
“It's still early. A quick dip in here'll set you right up,” he promised.
She sent him a smile so frigid it should have put a layer of ice over his spa. And his libido. “I doubt it. Good night.”
“Oh, stop it, Cam. You can see the girl's dead on her feet. Come on then. I'll show you your room,” Marg said.
Jen took a step and remembered her heavy suitcase. She hadn't been certain what the weather would be like in Sydney in Septemberâit was their spring, which meant what exactly? The Internet weather guides weren't much help. It seemed anything could happen in the spring: summer heat or cold, damp days. So she'd packed for both, and her case was heavy.
“Oh.” She turned and gestured vaguely at the beast.
“Don't worry about your bag. I'll see to it,” said Crane.
He didn't jump right out to help, though, did he? He must know her night things were in there, but he shook his beer can and clearly hearing it slosh in his ear, settled back and sipped.
“Don't trouble yourself,” she snapped.
His eyes gleamed wickedly through the steam. “I won't. I'll have Roger do it. He's my gardener and odd-job man.”
Too irritated to speak, and too fuzzy-headed to think of anything annihilating enough anyway, she picked up her briefcase and followed Marg, who said as soon as they entered the house, “Don't bother yourself about Cam. He acts like an arse, but it's only an act.”
“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.”
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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 Craneâjust 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 wallâone of tropical flowers and one of a sailboat floating over blue-green waterâtypical 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 mostâand at three in the morning wouldn't have believed possibleâhappened.
“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 roomâexcept 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.”