Their ad campaigns tended to be straight up. The people in those photographs were defying waves, cresting breakers that made herâa born-and-bred Californianâshudder. As far as she could tell, the photos weren't studio-shot or airbrushed to perfection; they were as raw as the powerful waves, and they packed quite a punch.
These were surf products for honest-to-God surfers. But if she was going to help them launch in the U.S., they were going to need a different approach.
She turned back to the group eyeing her with expressions from curious, blank-eyed, and possibly hungover, to the man at the end of the table whose expression read
come to bed.
She did her best to telegraph back,
forget it,
and then tried to ignore his presence.
“Crane Enterprises has saturated the Australian and New Zealand markets. Am I right?”
Nods all around the table.
“So, you think, they surf in California, they surf in Hawaii, we'll take over those markets.”
More nodding.
“How are we going to do that?”
They gazed at her collectively as if to say,
What do you think we hired you for?
“The vast majority of foreign products that try to sell into the American market fail. Not because they aren't good, but because people don't buy them.”
There was more nodding, but some frown lines appeared in those unlined faces.
“Now I know the California market, where we'll begin. But you guys know the product. So tell me, why should a kid in California, who's never heard the word Crane, except at a construction site, buy one of your boards?”
“Best-made boards in the world,” a young male voice piped up.
“Can you back up that claim?” She'd read all the bumph that the Crane people had sent her, but she wanted to know how the people making the products felt.
“Too right. I'm the chief engineer, I should know. We design and build for speed, planing, maneuverability, and sensitivity. I was a surfboard glasser when I met Cam, and he was the shaper. We're best known for our longboards, but we build a full range of long and short boards, knee boards, and learner boards. They're tops.”
The kid didn't look old enough to shave and he was the chief engineer, and had obviously worked with Cam for quite a while. She'd read up enough to know that a shaper actually shaped the surfboards, sometimes to the specific requirements of a particular surfer, and a glasser applied the covering and finish.
“How do you know your boards are the best in the world?” she challenged him.
The kid gave her a smile so broad she wanted to laugh. “ 'Cause I've tried 'em all.”
She blinked. “You have personally surfed on every surfboard in the world?”
“Yeah, I reckon. Every competitor's, anyway. Their top-of-the-line boards, and usually a few others. After I test them, I let the others 'round the office have a go.”
There was more nodding. “We're all surfers.”
Of course they were. Well, it was an unorthodox way to choose staff, but who was she to argue with success?
“Okay, so you've got a quality product. Give me another reason for your success.”
“We've got great colors,” said a twenty-something woman with long dirty-blond hair who ought to be modeling. She reminded Jen of a young Elle MacPherson.
“Would you come off it with the colors?” the chief engineer scoffed.
“Color is important, especially for girls,” the Elle clone informed him. Her name was Bronwyn Spencer, Jen remembered from the introductions.
“She likes her surfboards to match her nail polish.” There was general laughter, but the young woman merely tossed her cascade of wavy hair over her shoulder.
“Not just surfboards, but wet suits, board bags, even wax and sunscreens. Sure, we only sell the best, but why shouldn't the best have some decent color to it?”
“She's my little sister. I have to give her something to do,” Cam teased.
The girl didn't get huffy, merely tossed that mane of sun-licked hair once more and reminded him that without her, there would be no clothing line and hadn't Crane Casuals boosted their profits by eighteen percent last year?
Jen assumed Bronwyn was used to the teasing and full enough of self-esteem that it didn't bother her. She couldn't imagine a woman that gorgeous not oozing self-esteem. So she was Cameron Crane's younger sister. They had the same hair color, she saw, and a similar arrogant sexuality.
Pulling herself back to the discussion at hand, she nodded. “Great. We've got quality, designer colors, what else?”
“We can go in at a competitive price point, especially with the Australian dollar so weak against the greenback,” said another young man with a goatee and sun- or wind- reddened cheeks.
By the end of an hour, she had a great deal of information, but better, a sense of who these people were and how they operated. Cam himself hadn't contributed a lot, but he'd listened and he'd watched. Mostly, he'd watched her. She tried not to let her gaze get caught up with hisâeven across a packed boardroom table, the impact was too much of a jolt.
“Good,” she said when things wound down. “I think you've hit our strengths very well. It's not going to be easy. It's going to be a real challenge, but I think we can have a lot of fun, especially based on the energy and commitment in this room.”
She smiled. “I've got a temporary office here, so please drop in any time if you have any ideas. We're going to design a marketing strategy, an advertising campaign, and some targets. I'm hoping we can take over five to ten percent of the California surf and boogie board market within twelve months from the launch.”
“I'm after market domination,” Cameron Crane said.
Like that was a surprise. He struck her as a guy who wanted to dominate everything and everyone. And, of course, that was why he'd wanted to show up with her this morning. She knew the American market, which gave her the edge. But he'd wanted his staff to see that she was still under him. In bed and in business.
The man was as obvious as that shirt. Still, she'd been hustled by smoother operators than he and never succumbed. She didn't think she was in much danger from Cameron Crane and his caveman tactics, although she had to give him credit for a certain animal magnetism.
She'd enjoy watching him try to get her into bed and failing spectacularly. She wondered if he thought for one second he was being subtle.
Chapter Four
“I see you're not one to waste time,” Cam said, walking out with her after the meeting and accompanying her to her temporary office.
“I'm only here for three weeks. We have a lot to accomplish.”
“I think a person can accomplish anything they set their mind to,” he told her in a tone that had nothing to do with target markets and surfboards.
She wished this hairy, loud-dressing, barely civilized man didn't . . . affect her, but she was too honest not to admit that he did. He was sexy in an earthy way, completely opposite to the type of man she went for, so it surprised her to find that her erogenous zones seemed to perk up when he was around. She must have worse jet lag than she'd thought.
“My phone works, I've got a desk, supplies, and an assistant. Thank you.”
“No worries. You're going to have to get to see a bit of Oz and get to know a few Sydney-siders while you're here.”
“Yes. I know.”
“Start by getting to know me. Have dinner with me tonight.”
She smiled. So he was back to trying on the charm, was he? “By dinnertime I'll be sound asleep.” Still, they had to work together and she was determined to get them on a friendly professional footing. And two could play at power games. “Why don't
you
have lunch with
me?”
Lunch was much safer and she did want to get to know one particular Sydney-sider better. His own dynamic personality and boundless energy had a lot to do with his success, but she needed to know if he could bring that same level of intensity to a U.S. expansion. She also needed to know if there were any skeletons hiding in his closet.
She slapped a hand to her mouth too late to stifle a yawn.
“All right,” he said, grinning at her in a very unsettling way. “I'll take you down the street to the touristy part of the Rocks. It's noisy enough there to keep anybody awake.”
The Rocks was the oldest part of Sydney, a place of refurbished warehouses, museums, and quaint shops. They sat outside in one of a string of restaurants, and she was charmed to find the arch of the Harbour Bridge on one side of her and the famous white sails of the Sydney Opera House on the other.
“On the weekend there's a great market here if you want to pick up some things to take home,” he informed her. “Over there is the oldest pub in Sydney, serves a very nice home brew.”
Since he'd acted perfectly normal since they'd left the office, offering her a running commentary on the city as they'd walked here, she let herself relax.
The restaurant was abustle with tourists, business people, and regular people, she supposed, having a meal out. She opened her menu and noted that Cameron Crane didn't bother to open his. He must eat here a lot.
“Do you like seafood?”
“Sure.”
“You must try Moreton Bay Bugs.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“Trust me.”
“I'm not that stupid.”
He gave a diabolical chuckle, then ordered them anyway. She ordered a chef's salad.
When the bugs arrived, they turned out to resemble tiny lobsters.
“Come on,” he said, “try one.” He forked up some of the white meat, dipped it in butter, and offered her the dripping morsel.
Of course she could say no and push it back at him, but she could see that's what he expected of her. Somehow she didn't feel like giving him the satisfaction of being predictable, so she opened her mouth and let him feed her in a gesture she pretended she found neither tantalizing or intimate.
Then her taste buds started getting blissed out and she almost moaned. “This is fantastic.”
“You see? It's good to try new things.” He leaned closer, and his eyes crinkled at her. “You can discover all kinds of pleasures you didn't know existed.” Her heart banged against her ribs and for a second she couldn't pull her gaze away from his.
“Everything all right?” asked their waiter, and she had a moment to pull herself back together.
While Cam answered, she turned to look at the harbor. When the waiter had moved on, he slipped back into casual mode. “This is where they used to let the convicts off.”
“Is that how your family came to Australia?” she asked in her blandest tone.
He grinned at her. “No. The law-breaking in my family is more recent.”
And that was something personal she
did
want to discuss. “If your temper is an issue in any way, I need to know it ahead of time.”
“What? You want to know if I'm a drunken lout?”
“I wouldn't have put it in quite those terms, but you did clock that photographer. If you come to the States I need to knowâ”
“That I won't get pissed, trash my hotel room, and drop my dacks in public?”
She nodded. “Pretty much.”
“Well, I won't.”
She toyed with her sparkling water. “Since we're on the subject, there are some holes in your resume. I wonderâ”
“Christ, I thought this was a date, not a bloody job interview.”
“It's a working lunch,” she said, holding on to her even tone with difficulty. “As I believe I mentioned, I'm engaged to be married.”
“When's the wedding?” he asked so abruptly she blinked.
“We haven't set a date yet, butâ”
He snorted. “If you were mine, I wouldn't let you traipse off halfway 'round the world without even having a date set to tie the knot.”
“I can't believe you're the kind of man who chases married women.”
“I'm not. You're single, darl. Fair game.”
“As flattered as I am,” she said glaring at him to make it clear she was anything but, “I am not game to be hunted. I'm here to do a job.” She slipped a notebook and her solid gold Mont Blanc pen from her bag. She hadn't intended to conduct business so blatantly but he needed constant reminders, and, besides, Mark had given her the pen. She twiddled it to be certain the Aussie game hunter could see the engraved script.
“Nice pen,” he said as though cued.
“Thanks. It was a gift.”
“From a grateful client?”
“No. From my fiancé, Mark. For my birthday.” Instead of backing off as she'd expected when faced with this proof of her fiancé's thoughtfulness, he threw his head back and laughed, white hunter's teeth gleaming in the sunshine.
She put down the pen, picked up her fork, and stabbed a piece of lettuce viciously, but couldn't restrain herself from asking him, “What is so funny?”
“Darl, a man who buys his woman a pen is looking for a business merger, not a wife.”
He was trying to rile her. She knew it, so why did she want to use her pen to stab him somewhere soft and full of nerve endings? She drew a breath. “Mark is practical. It's one of the traits we have in common.”
“A man doesn't buy practical gifts for the woman he's bedding. He buys jewelry, champagne, black sexy things you put on in order to tear them off.” His gaze moved to hers and there was a sexual intensity that had her forcing herself not to lick her lips.
She didn't have the same control over her heart, which pounded as though she were some kind of game animal staring into a loaded rifle.
“As I was saying . . .” What the hell had she been saying?
Oh, yes.
“There are some holes in your resumé.”
“What holes?” he said, his gaze still fixed on her with clearly carnal intent. He could probably sell those damn surfboards on sex appeal alone. “Your eyes are the most amazing color. Like the water up in Queensland when you get near the reef. It's not green, or blue, but something that's both.” He touched her fingers with his. “Your eyes were the first thing I noticed about you.”
She felt the sun, warm against her face, heard the sounds of people at other tables, muted traffic sounds from somewhere, the bustle of the harbor. She felt the curious buzz of sensation as his fingers toyed with hers, then reality hit her like a slap.
“There are places in the world where your behavior could be construed as sexual harassment,” she informed him, pulling her fingers away.
“This is Australia, mate.”
“And what would you call what you're doingâin Australian?”
His eyes both laughed at her and undressed her. “Your lucky day.”
“I suppose you subjugate women, too,” she muttered half to herself.
The look he sent her was potent sexuality. “Ah, now that depends on the woman.”
With such arrogance, what could she do?
She rolled her gaze and gave an annoyed
tsk.
“Holes,” she said, “in your resumé, such as your education. I can't find any mention of your schooling in any of the biographical material about you.”
“Do you think a bloody surfie cares whether I did the
HSC?”
“HSC?”
“Higher School Certificate.” When he saw her raised brows he said, “Whether I finished school.”
She blinked, unable to hide her shock. “Didn't you finish high school?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged his shoulders, then stared into his beer as though thinking. “I was bored. I had to, I don't know, see the world. Make my own mark.”
He was still doing that, she realized, merely extending the reach of his marker. She wondered when he'd feel he'd made enough of himself, or if he ever would. She walked him through his business from when he'd moved to Sydney to work in a surfboard shop at the world famous Bondi Beach, become a surfer and instructor and then, with the overconfidence she'd already discovered was a big part of his nature, decided he could design a better board.
“That's right. I won enough surfing competitions to get some money together, plus saved my pittance from working in a surfing shop, got a good mate to help me build my boardâhe's now the chief engineer at Crane; you met him.”
She nodded, amazed that he'd come so far so fast.
“Then we strapped the board on my old bomb of a car and drove it 'round to all the shops and the shows. I also surfed on it and won more competitions with the new board. People started to take notice.” He shrugged as if to say
and the rest is history.
She nodded again, knowing the rest of his story probably as well as he did himself. From that early success, he'd branched out. Bought a lot of real estate, a sizable interest in two television stations and a newspaper. He even owned a small commercial airline. Now, he was so diversified she doubted anyone knew his exact wealth, including himself. But the surfboard company was where he kept his office, and obviously the business he most loved.
“You're also the spokesman for Crane products here in Australia. Do you intend to do the same in the States?”
He shook his head. “I was thinking you'd find a Hollywood star or one of those California surfie chicks in a string bikini to sell the things.”
She rolled her eyes. “I see you've given this a lot of thought.”
“I hired you to think for me.”
“Then you'll agree to be guided by my advice as regards the California market?”
He sipped his beer, which sparkled gold in the sun. “I promise to listen to you. I make all the decisions.”
Control freak. A solid gold, no excuses, no exceptions, control freak.
It wasn't a big surprise to have her suspicions confirmed, right down to the fact he was trying to seduce her in order to control her.
“You were smart enough to hire me. Be smart enough to take my advice.”
“Let's hear what it is first.”
She tapped her birthday-present pen against her notebook, then frowned and dropped it. Had Mark ever bought her the kind of sexy lingerie that was meant to be torn off? Of course he hadn't. She bought her own underwear. Some of it was quite sexy, thank you very much. She didn't need a man to choose her underthings for her.
“My initial idea is not to hide the fact that we're Australian, but to promote the hell out of it.”
He held up a hand. “No koalas or kangaroos, or I'll lose my lunch.”
“No,” she agreed with a grin. “No cute animals. Well, a cute guy.”
“Guy?” His glass hit the tabletop with a thunk. “What about my string bikini?”
“No string bikini,” she said with a small, smug smile. “I'm thinking a handsome young sun god. He has to be Australian. A model with some verbal ability or an actor with model looks. We put him into your clothes, on your boards. I'm thinking about giving the boards Australian surf beach names: Bondi, Byron, Surfer's Paradise. We'll even put a tiny Australian flag on each one.”