Avril Tremayne - Kiss Don’t Tell

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.’