Читать книгу Her Not-So-Secret Diary - Anne Oliver, Anne Oliver - Страница 7

OH … THE things the man could do … He was the most creative lover she’d ever had. She’d enjoyed a few but this one was the flame on her Flaming Sambuca. Slithering lower, Sophie Buchanan licked the lingering flavour of blackberries and cream from her lips. As sweet as it was, she was done with dessert.

The silk sheets slid cool and smooth against her skin, the perfect foil for his hard, hot weight as she arched her body beneath him. Wanting more. Wanting everything. And she told him what that was. Every glorious detail.

Then she sighed as he set about fulfilling those requests, starting at her ear lobe and working his way down.

His mouth was warm, wet and wicked, suckling at her neck, laving her collarbone and sending goose bumps from the roots of her hair right down to the tips of her toes and every throbbing place in between. His thumbs, lightly calloused, chafed her sensitised flesh as he tweaked her nipples until … oh … bliss … she was in heaven.

‘There’s more,’ his gravel and whisky voice promised.

She hummed her approval, absorbing the scent and texture of his skin against hers while his hands continued their erotic journey.

Wanting to absorb the feel of his flesh through her fingertips, she slid her fingers slowly down his spine, touching every vertebra in turn, pressing her thumbs into the hard muscle on either side. She was rewarded with a harsh groan that tickled her ear and told her he was enjoying it as much as she.

Then he touched her some more. Everywhere. Everywhere at once. His fingers sought, found and satisfied all her secret places. Ripples of pleasure flowed through her veins like liquid gold—his expertise knew no bounds and it seemed his only desire was to bring her pleasure.

And he did, in every way. Jared … The name rippled through her mind like silken ribbons in a tropical breeze.

He smiled, traced her mouth with a finger then with his tongue, and she smiled too, before indulging in the most sumptuous of kisses. He tasted rich and dark, like the blackberries and cream they’d shared, and ever-so-slightly dangerous, which was okay, since she knew she was perfectly safe with him.

Yes … Perfection.

He kneed her thighs apart then slid inside her with agonisingly exquisite slowness. It was as if the world forgot to turn. As if it were coming to a stop. And perhaps it was. Perhaps it had ceased to exist, because it seemed it was only the two of them in a sparkling cocoon of everlasting velvet night.

And then.

She heard a moan, as if her voice came from somewhere else, and her eyes slid open, the darkness alive and glowing with wonder, the tidal wave of her climax still crashing around her. She lay a moment listening to the sound of her elevated breathing while her body slowly floated back to earth.

And reality.

She touched her still tingling lips, realised she was still smiling. And why wouldn’t she be? Oh … my … goodness.

As her eyes adjusted to night’s soft glow through her living-room window, she saw the Gold Coast’s languid summer’s evening had sprinkled the indigo sky with silver dust.

A dream. And the best sex she’d never had.

Yet even though his image remained tanta-lisingly vague, she could still taste him on her tongue. Which was as fanciful as it was true, she knew, but that didn’t make it any less sumptuous. As dream lovers went he was a five-star keeper. Which, all things considered, was a shame because why weren’t there any men out there in the real world to compare?

She shook her head against the cushion. It didn’t matter if there were a zillion comparable men beating a path to her door, she wasn’t interested. She didn’t need—or want—a real man in her life ever again. Not after Glen. He’d destroyed what they had and left her feeling less than a woman. Her dream lovers suited her just fine. Dream lovers were all about you and your wants and they didn’t let you down.

Best of all, they were safe.

Her laptop lay on the coffee table, its tiny power light winking in the dimness. Rousing herself, she switched on the reading lamp. Every luscious detail, before the glory fades.

Even though she no longer attended counselling sessions, the dream journal she still kept was on her night-stand, so she dragged the computer onto her lap, created a dream folder, flexed her fingers.

His name was Jared, and this dream hottie could scorch her sheets any time he wanted … The words flowed onto the screen, tantalising her all over again. She reread the document, flushing hot as she did so. Whew, it was like reading one of those steamy romance novels. What would her counsellor have made of it?

Then her fingers stalled above the keyboard. Jared? Her heart thumped once and a jolt of heat arrowed through her body. She didn’t know anyone by that name … Unless she counted Jared Sanderson—and it couldn’t be him. How could you have the hots for a guy you’d never met, let alone seen up close? Pam’s boss. And since her friend was off work sick and Sophie was temping for her, that made him her boss for the next day or so.

A shivery sensation shot through her body, making the tiny hairs on the back of her neck and down her arms stand up. A glimpse of dark cropped hair and a snowy white shirt stretched tight over impossibly broad shoulders when she’d arrived at the office of J Sanderson Property Investments and Refurbishments this morning.

She shook the image away. Big boss Jared had been too busy or simply too rude to bother introducing himself to his lowly temporary PA before heading out for the rest of the day.

It wasn’t him, she told herself firmly. The name had stuck in her mind, that was all. Not to mention that stunning physique. And tall and dark had always been her thing.

No. If he had hit her sweet spot on some subconscious level and it had manifested in her dreams, it didn’t matter since he’d never know.

So it wasn’t a problem. Not a problem at all. Nor was she going to allow this particular dream lover to erode the competent professional image she’d worked so hard for. She’d come to Surfers to bury past hurts, to begin a new life.

Professional. It reminded her that she’d not yet emailed the file Pam had asked her to edit before forwarding to the office. Switching to email, she entered the address Pam had supplied and began a brief accompanying note. Dear Jared …

She paused. Typing those words redefined the image and rekindled the smouldering heat in her lower body to life again. She fanned a hand in front of her face, a smile tugging at her mouth despite herself. Where the heck was that professionalism?

She deleted the words, then shook her fingers in front of her for a few seconds, pursed her lips and began again. Mr Sanderson … Much better. Please find the Lygon and Partners report attached for your approval. Regards, Sophie Buchanan for Pam Albright.

She attached Pam’s revised document, pressed Send, then closed her computer and the lamp and headed to her bedroom through the shadows. She settled back against the pillows with a sigh. Maybe she’d get lucky some more.

She’d barely closed her eyes when something sharp and hot and possibly terminal lodged dead centre in her chest, and they snapped wide open again. She couldn’t have … She Could Not.

Jackknifing up, she stumbled back to the living room and her laptop and stabbed the On button. Her fingers twitched with impatience while the little computer took its sweet time powering up. For heaven’s sake, could it load any slower?

When her email screen appeared she scrolled to her Sent Items folder and … her breath stopped. Her heart stopped. Everything stopped. Oh. My. God.

Her dream file was this very minute awaiting Jared Sanderson’s approval.

Her heart restarted and hysterical laughter bubbled up her throat as she quickly attached the correct document and resent. Did the man have a sense of humour? According to Pam, no, he didn’t, and her mouth twisted as she blew out a breath.

Even if he did see the humour in the situation, what she’d written was so shockingly. well, shocking. The worst, the very worst of it, was his name was in there. Only his first name, but that was more than enough … She was never ever going to put her sexy dreams in writing again.

The swipe card they’d given her didn’t operate the building’s front door so there was no point going to the office now to try and delete it. Which meant she’d have to wait till someone opened up in the morning to get into the office. Seven o’clock at the earliest.

With a groan, she let her head fall back and gazed at the ceiling. But she didn’t see it. All she saw was the look on the man’s face when he opened her email.

She was so dead.

He was an uncle. Jared strolled into his living room just after 10:00 p.m. with two glasses and a bottle of the best Aussie Chardonnay. A niece. Arabella Fleur. Cute as a cupcake, with a mop of dark hair, big eyes and a rosebud mouth. Fingers and toes all accounted for. The grin he’d been wearing since Crystal had delivered her firstborn this afternoon seemed to be permanently carved into his cheeks.

His youngest sister Melissa was home already; he could hear the shower running. Setting the bottle and glasses on the coffee table, he sat on the sofa and checked his phone for messages and the day’s office emails. He gave most only a cursory glance. Pam would have phoned with anything urgent.

Sophie Buchanan. The unfamiliar name popped up with a reference to the Lygon report. Ah … now he remembered Pam had gone home sick yesterday. Crystal’s nine-fifteen call this morning informing him she was in labour ten days early and that Ian’s flight wasn’t due in from Sydney for another hour had pushed everything and everyone out of his mind. Sophie must be the temp Pam had organised.

‘Hey, Liss?’ he called when he heard movement in the hallway. ‘Get your butt in here. We’ve got some celebrating to do.’ He popped the cork and filled the glasses as Melissa appeared in the doorway, wrapped in her robe, her red hair damp about her face.

‘Ooh, lovely.’ She wasted no time padding across the room and taking the proffered glass.

‘Special occasion, Auntie Melissa.’

She grinned, clinked her glass to his but remained standing. ‘Welcome to the world, Arabella Fleur.’ She sipped then said, ‘She’s got your ears. Nice and flat.’

He tasted the wine, then grinned back, chuffed with the idea that some tiny part of him at least was immortal. ‘You think?’

‘I do. This is nice.’ Another sip, followed by a long, slow swallow. Her brows arched over her aquamarine eyes as she glanced at the label. ‘But I still prefer the French variety.’

The bubbles fizzed on his tongue as he studied her. Their father’s death had left the three of them orphans. He’d been eighteen, Crystal thirteen, Melissa just six. She’d never known their mother, who’d died when she was two weeks old. When had that little girl become this sophisticated young woman? Too sophisticated. ‘You’re not supposed to be experienced enough to know the difference.’

‘Oh, pul-lease, I’m nearly eighteen.’ She swung away. ‘You sound like a father.’

Her accusation took the shine off. Twelve years ago Jared had taken on the role and responsibilities of both parents. And he didn’t regret it for a minute. But sometimes.

‘Maybe,’ he acknowledged. ‘But I won’t apologise for it. I love you, Lissa, and that’s never going to change.’

‘I know.’ Her voice softened and she shook her head. ‘But sometimes …’

Yeah. Raising Lissa had been the most challenging experience of his life. And he had a feeling the hardest part wasn’t done yet. The letting-go part.

‘Speaking of fathers … and babies and all …’ Twirling her glass, she pinned him with the same intense gaze. ‘When are you going to find some poor girl who’s willing to put up with your conservative ways and start a family of your own?’ And let me get on with my life, her eyes said.

To avoid her familiar rant, he picked up his phone again, flicked through his messages once more. ‘No hurry. I still have you to look out for.’

She made a noise at the back of her throat. ‘You were my age when Dad died. When are you going to get it into your head that I’m an adult, w—’

‘Not for another three weeks, you’re not.’

‘And another thing,’ she steamrolled ahead. ‘I’ve been …’

What the … ? He blinked, refocused, Melissa’s protests fading into the background somewhere. His name was Jared, and this dream hottie could scorch her sheets any time he wanted—

‘Something wrong?’

‘What?’ He tore his eyes away momentarily to glimpse Melissa staring at him. He shook his head, whether in denial or to clear it, he didn’t know. ‘It’s nothing.’ Nothing he wanted to share, least of all with his baby sister who’d just accused him of being conservative. My snakeskin-print G-string melted away beneath the heat of his hand and my thighs fell apart as he—Whoa.

He threw back a mouthful of the bubbly but the liquid did little to soothe his suddenly very dry, very tight throat. He set the glass down with a clunk.

‘Bad news?’

‘Not exactly …’ Though what exactly this was, he didn’t know. Yet. But he intended finding out.

‘So, as I was saying, I’ve been giving it some thought, and—’

‘Sorry, Liss, I’m going to have to deal with this,’ he said, rising. He caught the frustration in her eyes but he couldn’t give her his full attention until he’d resolved the hot little matter currently burning a hole in his palm. ‘We’ll talk later, okay?’

He headed straight for his study and booted up his computer. Drummed his fingers on the desk. The attachment was titled with today’s date. No reference to Lygon.

He swiped his palms over day-old stubble, clicked the file open. The text flashed onto the screen. It was pink. Wild, colourful and erotic. Despite himself, he felt a smile tug the corner of his mouth. The more he read, the hotter it became.

The hotter he became.

He shifted on his chair to ease a growing pressure beneath the front of his trousers. The scene was so vivid he could almost feel the silky smoothness of her inner thighs, the budded nipple against his palm, her sultry heat as he plunged inside her.

When he’d finished, most of his blood had pooled in his lap. He leaned back, rolled tensed shoulders and shook his head to clear the images. He’d had no idea words alone could turn a man rock hard in less than a minute.

Man, he really needed to get laid.

Sophie Buchanan. Had he met her? He didn’t recognise the name, but then he didn’t always remember the names of women he’d slept with a few months after the fact. And it had been that long. His business and family made sure of that.

Snakeskin print. He grinned to himself. He’d definitely remember snakeskin. And he was pretty sure he’d have remembered that kinky position. Was it even anatomically possible? He was damn well willing to give it his best shot—given the opportunity …

So … Sophie Buchanan must have attached the wrong document to her email. Didn’t stop him sending it to his printer. Should he ignore it tomorrow? Mention it to her? Tempting to watch her reaction, but, professionally speaking, in his place of business? Probably not.

She’d sent it thirty minutes ago, he noted. Had she been in bed? In her snakeskin G-string, perhaps. Lust hazed his vision, sweat slicked his palms, his brow, the back of his neck.

Steady, he ordered himself. Then another thought occurred to him. Was this some kind of set-up? Perhaps it was her intention to get him hot and bothered. What if she’d deliberately set out to seduce him? Looking for a more permanent position in his company via his bed. Disgust left a nasty taste in his mouth. Equally distasteful was the thought that she was attracted to his wealth and prepared to do anything to savour some of it.

The printer shot out the first page. That was when he noticed the minuscule print in the footer: dreamdiary.

A dream. Scanning the page, he nodded slowly and his smile returned. Okay, that made sense. Some woman’s dream fantasy … and he’d been the star attraction. His smile widened to an all-out grin.

What did this woman look like? Masses of unruly wheat-blonde hair. A wickedly clever mouth. Overinflated breasts with large pink nipples. Sexy, supple and spontaneous. Sophie.

Still grinning, he folded the two steaming pages, tucked them in his pocket.

He was looking forward to tomorrow morning.

From her car parked nearby, Sophie stared through the windscreen of her Mazda hatch. The tall building’s glass façade seemed to glint with power and authority in the early morning sunshine. The offices of J Sanderson Property Investments and Refurbishments occupied the top two floors.

Just the thought of what she had to do had her heart pounding into her throat, her fingers white-knuckled on the steering wheel. He won’t be there. Please don’t let him be there. She’d set his agenda yesterday and knew he had a breakfast meeting in Coolangatta, a thirty-minute drive away. He wasn’t due at the office until 10:00 a.m.

Which didn’t mean squat. In Sophie’s experience bosses never did the expected.

She drew in a deep fortifying breath. Get this over with. Gripping her bag, she climbed out into the already balmy, salt-scented air, smoothed her fade-into-the-background beige knee-length skirt and headed for the building.

A few people were out on their morning jog along the wide stretch of beach, a soft aqua sea foamed along its edge. Not a suit or briefcase in sight. She checked her watch. Two minutes to seven. She’d not slept a wink, worrying about Jared Sanderson’s reaction if he saw her email before she could delete it. If he hadn’t already checked his emails from home, that was.

Don’t even think about it.

Pam had complained the man never knew when to stop. Sophie’s stomach dipped suddenly as if weighted down with a bag of that wet sand beyond, and she quickened her steps.

At the entrance, she fiddled with the collar of her white blouse, ensuring all but the top button was secure. She’d scrunched her thick long hair into a clasp at the back of her head.

She smiled a good morning to the security guy unlocking the door as she withdrew her swipe card from the pocket in the side of her bag and kept moving—not too fast so as to draw attention to herself—to the elevators.

A moment later she stepped out into the hushed Sanderson offices. Quickly skirting the main reception area, she crossed the oblique sun-striped carpet to Pam’s desk, then slipped her handbag into the desk drawer.

The room was empty, still and so quiet she could hear the ocean’s eternal shoosh beyond the thick glass windows. And the guilty echo of her pulse.

The swipe card gave her access to the Inner Sanctum but she’d not had a reason to enter yesterday. Today, however … Pushing the door open, she registered nothing beyond the scent of leather and electronics as she swooped on the only thing that mattered right now. His desk was L-shaped and the computer was positioned against the wall, which meant if he turned up she’d see him to her left.

She switched the machine on. Waited on a knife’s edge. Because her legs were shaky, she barely hesitated before she sat down on his wide leather chair and rolled it forward. The faint fragrance of sandalwood met her nostrils, a heart-stopping reminder that this was a gross invasion of his privacy. She tapped in the password Pam had given her. The email icon appeared, she clicked on it, waiting, barely breathing while the messages rolled down the screen. There. Her email. Flagged as unread.

A noise, part sob, part laugh, mostly relief, escaped her as with two swift clicks she deleted the email permanently. Done. Simple.

She leaned back, blew out a long slow breath while her heart continued to thump like crazy against her ribs. I.T. security never audited executive email. Did they?

She would not think about that now. She hit the keyboard and brought his day’s agenda up on screen. All she had to do was slip back to her desk and no one would—

‘Good morning.’ The deep masculine voice steamrolled over her senses like steel wrapped in black velvet.

She couldn’t have leapt out of the chair quicker if she’d been shot at. Her mind scrambled for words—any words—but to her mortification all that came out was the sound of air rushing past her tonsils.

She got an impression of height, power and stunning sexuality while a pair of enigmatic olive-green eyes studied her. And her stomach dropped to her professional, low-heeled, sling-back shoes.

‘Ms Buchanan, I presume?’