Avril Tremayne - Kiss Don’t Tell

‘Not that it matters how we describe him,’ Sarah had added. ‘All that matters is that Adam has all the credentials for the job. You don’t have to look at anyone else, because if he can’t do it, I promise you nobody can. So stop looking. As of now.’

And Lane had stopped looking—well, she hadn’t had time to even start looking, really, because Sarah had rushed the Adam solution at her first thing this morning.

It was too late now to start wondering why she’d never met Adam before given he and Sarah were so close. Too late to start worrying that she didn’t actually know him. Knowing him hadn’t seemed important as long as Sarah vouched for him. Looks were immaterial, too, which was why she’d been happy enough with the grainy, out-of-focus photo of him that Sarah had emailed to her, even though it was basically nothing more than a looming dark shape with a white slash where his teeth were.

But now that she was on the very verge, and she suddenly realized she had no idea what to say to him when he arrived …

Uh-oh, there went her hands, clenching again. For a moment, all she could do was stand there trying not to crumple the checklist in her convulsing fingers. What if she said something stupid? What if he hated her on sight? What if he didn’t hate her on sight but decided he didn’t like her after they signed the contract? Why hadn’t she put those questions on the checklist?

The checklist, focus on the checklist . Okay, deep breath, another, another … Better.

The checklist had everything that was important and nothing that wasn’t. It didn’t include anything about saying something stupid because it didn’t matter if she said something stupid—talking wasn’t required. Liking her wasn’t required either. They probably would like each other, though. Lane liked Sarah; Sarah liked Lane; Sarah liked Adam. Logic suggested there would be a mutuality of liking in there that would encompass Lane and Adam in some way. Especially since she knew Sarah had described her to Adam—looks and personality—and whatever she’d said apparently hadn’t scared him off.

Or had it?

Because he still wasn’t here.

She slid the checklist back into her briefcase, walked to the entrance hallway, and listened carefully at the door for sounds of arrival.

Nothing.

She checked her watch. She’d give him ten more minutes.

She caught sight of her face in the mirror above the glass-topped hall table. Pale—but that was normal. Blue eyes almost too calm—so deceptive. Lips very faintly smiling—nicely controlled. Hair pulled off her face—no stray wisps.

Perhaps the hair was too severe? She tugged a few strands free of the confining band and tried to arrange them around her face. Hmm. Messy. She removed the band completely and retied her hair into a ponytail at her nape. In the absence of her housemate Erica and her miraculous curling wand, Lane’s normal hairstyle would have to do, so she gave up on the mirror and ran her eyes, as best she could, over the rest of her.

She hadn’t had a clue what she should wear tonight and had ended up staying in the square-cut navy suit she’d worn to work. Plain. Businesslike. Possibly … boring?

Ugh. It was just so hard, the clothes thing. Especially in situations like tonight’s. How did you go about styling yourself to look attractive, but not flirtatious? Appealing, but not desperate? Like you weren’t trying too hard, even when you were? Why hadn’t she thought to ask Sarah what he was likely to be wearing? Not a suit, if he was coming from a building site—that seemed certain.

Oh God, didn’t that mean her own suit was a poor choice? He was going to take one look at her and realize she didn’t know how to dress, and he was going to run away before even getting inside the house, which would mean she’d failed before she’d even started.

All right, she officially hated this!

She was calling it off. He was too late. It was too late. The whole thing was too rushed. More planning time was required.

She walked purposefully back to her briefcase and this time she didn’t slide out the checklist, she wrenched it out. The two copies of the contract, too. She was going to get all ‘symbolic’ for once in her life, the way Erica was always telling her to do, and rip every page in half.

And then it came.

The sound.

A car pulling up.

Stay calm. Breathe.

Car door slamming.

Breathe. In — out — in — out. Maybe it’s not him.

Front gate squeaking.

Oh God, he’s here. He’s actually here.

Something was muttered—a curse, definitely a curse—outside the front door.

Oh. Oh, oh, oh.

The knock was loud and short. Two raps.

Lane closed her eyes, just for a moment, gathering her courage. To settle herself, she neatened the edges of the pages that were thankfully un ripped and positioned them precisely on one end of her glass-topped coffee table …

And then she headed for the door. He wouldn’t notice the tremors in her fingers, she told herself, as she reached for the door handle. And next minute, the door was open, and there he was, but Lane found she wasn’t quite ready to look him in the face so she kept her eyes down. His feet were challenging enough —the size of them! In tough-looking work boots, so yes, he probably had been on a building site. Except that he smelled like soap. Clean. Obsessively clean. No disgusting habits. Tick and tick.

She heard him breathe. In—out. And at last she managed to start slowly raising her eyes. Blue jeans … long legs … slim hips … black shirt … broad chest, as in broad , with a tiny peep of dark hair showing where his top two shirt buttons were undone. Strong neck. Chin like granite beneath a five o’clock shadow. Hard mouth. Strong nose. Dark eyes … burning. Ohhhhhhh, God . She was looking up into his eyes—and she was five feet ten!

Her mind went blank. She was staring. She knew she was staring, but she couldn’t seem to stop. She took in his eyebrows now: bold, dark slashes, one bisected by a fine white scar. And his hair, which was black and close-cropped in a style that seemed to say, Don’t mess with me . He looked … he looked … good. Not conventionally handsome, and—yes—rough around the edges, but so good .

The whole package seemed to scream at her that the concept of a quintessential alpha male was real after all, and it was mesmerizing to have it personified and standing on her doorstep.

He waited for her to finish her perusal, unsmiling.

And then, feeling caught out, Lane said a breathless ‘Oh’ and thrust out her hand to shake. ‘You must be—’

‘Yes, I must,’ he said, and took her hand—not to shake it but to hold it. As she blinked up at him, he drew her close. Close enough that the soapy scent of his skin slid right into her nostrils. He smelled wonderful.

He drew her a little closer and she stumbled, catching her heel on the hallway rug. He reached out his other hand to steady her, gripping her arm. Two hands on her now, reeling her in. ‘Careful … Lane,’ he said softly.

Her heart lurched, then started thumping as their eyes locked. His eyes were so dark they looked black. Laugh lines fanned out from the corners. He must laugh all the time, Lane thought. But he wasn’t anywhere close to laughing now. He seemed about to pull her even closer—could she get any closer?—then stopped. Frowned as though he’d lost his train of thought. Released her and stepped inside, then kept walking without a backward glance, through the hallway and into the living room.

Lane rubbed at her arm just above the elbow where his hand had gripped her. He hadn’t hurt her, but she’d felt him right through the dermis and down to the bone.