Читать книгу Bedroom Eyes - Sandra Chastain - Страница 11

ANNE PUNCHED IN a number on her cell phone and listened, then shook her head. “We might as well leave. Mother knows it’s me and she’s not going to answer,” Anne explained. “Sorry, Mitchell, unless I can head her off, she’ll be at the wedding, invited or not. You’ll find out soon enough that she’s a bit…undisciplined. She does her own thing.”

Undisciplined? Mitchell assumed that the mother was meddlesome, but undisciplined was kinder. He swallowed a smile. Bettina called him undisciplined—often. Not in relation to his work. It was his private life that was totally unstructured—by design. His father had married a woman who demanded more than he could provide. It wasn’t her fault. She’d simply wanted her children to have better lives. But Mitchell had watched his father give up his dream of seeing the world and mire himself in a dull little accounting job until the weight of his responsibilities made a bad heart give up.

And suddenly, Mitchell found himself the man of the house who inherited the responsibility of a mother who expected to be cared for and a family almost as old as he was. He accepted the obligation but promised himself that someday he’d be free, never again to be tied down to anything that remotely sounded like nine-to-five. He hadn’t counted on Melia. Everything had changed when he met her and then she was gone and he’d begun to wander.

Does her own thing. “Your mother sounds like my kind of woman,” he finally said, their gazes locking.

“Oh, yes, Mother would say you’re perfect.”

“What do you say?”

Her lips parted slightly as her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. The ever-present tension hung between them, hot and heavy. He wondered if she felt it, then watched her push that strand of hair behind her ear once more and decided she did as she let out a breathless sigh. “I want you to know that I would never deliberately deceive anyone. I know what can happen. But this time I have no choice.”

“Because of your mother? Why?”

Anne grimaced. “If this is going to work, I guess I’d better tell you. My mother—her name is Faylene—had two husbands. My father was her second. The first one was less than successful. My father…well, she thought my father hung the moon. So did I.”

“And he didn’t?” Mitchell asked.

“Let’s say he tried too hard. He was a college professor who opened a bookstore. It was doing very well, so he bought another. They were wonderful stores, with wonderful books that not everyone loved as much as he. Then a superstore opened between the two stores and the rest is history. Most of my mother’s inheritance went to pay off the debts.”

“I take it Faylene doesn’t know.”

“She knew about the debts, just not the extent.”

“Maybe Faylene knows more than you think. Maybe she’s looking for another husband,” he said.

“I hope she finds one. She likes being married. I’m just worried that she might have her eye on Mr. Jacobs. Now I have to worry about you and her this weekend. It could be a disaster. Pulling this engagement off is not going to be easy. Alvin Jacobs may look like a harmless old grandfather, but he’s a smart man. I just can’t figure out how all this happened.”

“So you don’t think this was Bettina’s idea?” he asked casually.

She gave him a puzzled look. “Bettina’s idea? I don’t know how it could be. She doesn’t even know. I wouldn’t have said anything except I want to make sure you’re taking this seriously.”

Obviously Anne was a private person, willing to expose her past to a stranger—not for herself but for her mother. Her father’s action sent her in one direction; his father’s sent him in another. “I assure you, I’m taking this very seriously,” he said.

She didn’t seem convinced. “I’ve gathered the information you’ll need and put it together in the form of a job description. We’ll have this afternoon to go over it. You can flip through it as we drive, if you like.” She held out a thin leather portfolio.

“Never did like research,” he said. “I’d rather you tell me.”

She nodded. “All right. The carport is under the house. We have to get to it from the outside.” She stuck the folder under her arm, grabbed her purse, reached for her keys and sunglasses, then dropped them and the cell phone inside and swung the bag over her shoulder. “Let’s get going.”

Mitchell followed her, locked the front door behind them and backed out into the sweltering heat. Anne wasn’t wearing a hat or a scarf. Mitchell guessed that she drove the kind of car where the windows stayed up and the air-conditioning went on. Probably a smart move. Air-conditioning seemed like a good idea right now.

He was wrong. Her automobile was a white Chrysler convertible. The top was down.

Mitch pitched his duffel bag into the back seat. Anne Harris was an enigma. If she was to be believed, she was an ambitious businesswoman intent enough on her objective to provide a written job description. She claimed she was uncomfortable with the deception, but she would produce a fiancé to protect someone she cared about. And she wasn’t all business; she drove a convertible.

“Is there something wrong, Mitchell?” In the small shaded carport, the essence of her sensuality came at him in waves.

“Good question.” He moved around the car, closing the space between them. He was probably making a mistake, but if he were going to help her accomplish her goal, he had to know. “Suppose we don’t match—as a couple. I’m pretty much an undisciplined guy and you’re more controlled. We could have a hard time if your yin is incompatible with my yang.”

Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

He took a step closer. “Ms. Harris, even I know that success is based on good research, not just a game plan. And if we’re to pull this off, we need the kind of information I’ll bet you haven’t even considered.”

She took a step back. “I don’t understand.”

“You haven’t even asked if I’m married. I’m not.”

“Married? No, I haven’t. You’re just being hired for a job—like an actor. Your personal life doesn’t matter,” she insisted. But it did. The thought of her imaginary fiancé belonging to another woman was disturbing and that bothered her.

“Maybe not,” he agreed, “but we’re supposed to be engaged. Engaged people are usually in love. If we’re going to make this work, I’m going to have to kiss you, Anne. Nothing earth-shattering, just as a test. You don’t even have to participate. In fact, it will probably work better if you don’t.”

When she opened her mouth to say no—and he was certain that was the word that would have come out—he brushed her lips lightly, as if he were testing the flavor of her lipstick. Satisfied that he had her attention, he moved over her mouth more slowly.

That was his mistake. The kiss took on a life of its own and so did his arms as he folded her into them, driving her back against the car. She resisted for a moment, then he felt her tremble and melt against him. She had amazing lips, soft and full, lips that tasted of fruit, sweet but with a hint of some tart flavor he didn’t recognize. As the kiss went on, he closed out every rational thought until he realized that he’d lost control of his own body. Desperately, he tried to stop the erection that sprang to life. Too late.

Finally, he pulled back, drew a ragged breath, and looked down at her. She looked as stunned as he felt. Somewhere beneath his absurd need to shake her up and his logical reason for the kiss, he’d lied, not only to her, but to himself. The kiss was not business and it was no act; it was pure pleasure. He wanted to kiss her again. If this was a matter of compatible yin and yang, he’d better have a little talk with his yang.

She continued to look startled for a moment, then shook her head and said hoarsely, “All right. You’ve gotten that out of your system. But understand, any future contact will only take place as part of our charade—in public.”

Mitchell grinned. He couldn’t stop himself. If the weekend wasn’t already a joke, that statement was. She’d been as caught up in the moment as he. Now she was hiding it behind a reprimand. Whatever her plan was, underneath that all-business exterior was a red-hot woman waiting to be set free. She might not know it yet, but he did. If this was on the level—and he was beginning to think it was—he’d have to be careful. He might just have bitten off more than he could chew. He had two choices; get out of Dodge or enjoy the fantasy.

For now, he’d just let fate determine how things developed.

“I’m a quick learner, Anne. Once we make love a couple of times, everyone at this wedding will look at us and wish they were us. You want a fantasy weekend, I’m going to earn my fee.”

“We are not going to make love, Mitchell Dane. This is not real.”

He grinned. “Not yet, but we’ll work on it. In the meantime, as we drive you can tell me how we fell in love.”

STILL REELING from Mitchell’s kiss, Anne donned her sunglasses and started the car’s engine. She pulled a baseball cap from beneath the seat and pulled it on, pushing her hair through the hole in the back. Then she pulled out of the driveway and headed north. She badly needed the open spaces to clear her head and regain control.

Threading her way through the traffic, she reached I-85 North and gave the car its head. There was no music, no conversation for a very long time. She didn’t look at her imaginary fiancé. She didn’t have to. Just having him sitting beside her was unsettling enough. Whatever his reasons for helping her, Mitchell Dane was every woman’s fantasy. But fantasies were unsettling. And she’d spent the past five years of her life learning to face reality.

She didn’t understand his attitude. In the beginning, he seemed to think this was some kind of joke. Now he seemed to be a man with a plan. She just wasn’t certain that it was her plan he was following. Still, he seemed determined to fulfill her requirements—maybe a little too determined. He would be easier to deal with if he weren’t so…so male, and if she hadn’t dreamed about him for weeks. Everything about him spelled danger. The way he moved—casually, yet totally in control. The way he tilted his head slightly, waiting for her reaction. What kind of man hired himself out as one of Bettina’s bachelors?

The kiss had been unexpected, though if he was truly going to take his role seriously, it made sense. Mr. Jacobs was smart. If they weren’t convincing, her employer would see right through her charade, and he wouldn’t appreciate what she’d done. She didn’t even like what she’d done. But it had been necessary.

She should explain to Mitchell that she’d actually planned for physical contact by making up a chart that called for a scheduled number of touchy-feely moves and pretend affection. If he understood that, he’d cooperate. The good news was, if they were convincing, she’d get her promotion. The bad news was, if they were convincing, she’d be a basket case. Controlling him was the key—as long as she could control herself.

For now, he was getting ahead of her plans. She had to keep reminding herself that she’d been distracted by a man once before and that had ended in disaster. She couldn’t let herself dwell on kisses or being lovers. For now she had to focus, not on bedroom eyes but on the future. Focus on what she did best—business. Focus was what had gotten her here. And that focus could get her through the next two days. They’d better get started.

But she didn’t know how to begin. Her body seemed intent on interfering with her thoughts. Even her thighs tingled. It was the sun, she decided. She glanced down and realized she’d planned a cover for everything but her legs, and they were receiving the full force of the late-morning sun. Twisting her bottom, she tugged her shorts as far down as she could.

The heat only intensified.

“You okay?” Mitchell asked, as if he could read her mind and knew that he was as much the cause of her fidgeting as the elements.

“I’m fine. I’m just a bit sensitive to the sun.” She glanced at him with a frown.

Mitchell only grinned. “I could take off my shirt and cover your legs,” he said, reaching to pull it over his head.

“No! I’ll be fine.”

Mitchell silently agreed. She was right about that. She was fine—an intriguing tangle of a woman who played the role of executive instead of being the woman she hid beneath. And she was a woman. Everything about her said that. From the slight blush that colored her cheeks to the way she licked her lips. She wanted to say something but his nearness seemed to paralyze her. Okay, he’d wait.

Finally, they left the city traffic behind. A strand of dark hair defied her cap and got caught up in the hammering wind. She pushed it back and straightened her shoulders as if she were about to give directions to her assistant.

“My office believes that we met in Hawaii when I was on vacation,” she said crisply.

“Hawaii?” He hadn’t expected that. His instincts about Anne Harris had been right. Bettina knew how he felt about islands. Whether the arrangement was really for Anne’s benefit or some kind of setup to connect the two of them was still to be decided, but his sister had chosen well.

“I told them we sailed to a hidden cove where you proposed on the same beach where I took your picture at twilight,” Anne went on.

“That would be the one Bettina sent you?”

“Yes. When it came, I pretended I was the photographer.”

The scenario was heartbreaking. “And they believed you?” Mitchell didn’t know why he’d asked. Of course her associates believed her. She was the kind of woman people didn’t question.

“Certainly. I took several photography classes so I could talk about it. I always try to be prepared. You should know, I’m very thorough,” Anne said, turning her eyes back to the road. “That’s why I’m good at my job—why I’m going to be the first woman vice president of Bundles of Joy Baby Products. I expect the same attention to detail from you.”

He’d guessed right about her attention to detail. He might have rattled her, but she was back in control. Mitchell gave her a mock salute. “Aye, aye, captain. I always do good work, Annie.”

“Don’t call me Annie,” she snapped. “This is serious.”

“Love is always serious, my ’ano’i pua.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s Hawaiian for sweetheart.”

“How’d you learn to speak Hawaiian?”

“Someone taught me. But I only know the more intimate words.” He touched her arm, drawing her attention, then added, “It’s okay. I promise you’ll get your money’s worth.”

Mitchell unfastened his seat belt, reached over, caught that errant strand of hair and tucked it behind her ear. “Don’t worry, Anne. I really am a photographer. And if we work at it, it ought not to be that hard to convince your employer you’re engaged. We can do it. Trust me. If you really need this job to look after your mother, I’ll help you. I know about the burden of responsibility.”

Anne felt his fingertips move up her arm to her cheek. She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t even speak. He had no idea that his touch was searing her vocal cords and turning her mind into pudding. As for trusting him, if her luck ran the way it usually did with men, the car would blow a tire and they’d end up in the ditch.

“Please don’t distract me while I’m driving, Mitchell.”

“Sorry. I don’t normally like riding with women who speed, but you’re a good driver.”

“I took a class at Road Atlanta. I actually drove a race car. Speed, that’s one of my little secret passions. I like the wind against my face. It blows the cobwebs from my mind.”

“Race car driver, huh? Here I am trying to envision us as a married couple and find out my future wife is Mario Andretti.”

“Wife?”

“And another thing. I wouldn’t sit so far from my wife. She wouldn’t want me to.”

“But I’m not your wife.”

“No,” he said loudly, “but I’ve read that actors trying out for a role research their characters by living their real lives for months before they go before the camera.”

“I don’t think I’m interested in being that good an actor,” Anne said.

“Sure you are.” From the expression on her face, Mitchell decided that, though she was hiding it well, she was unnerved. She didn’t understand yet that whatever was happening between them had affected both of them. “Hey,” he said, “I have an idea. Let’s pretend we’re making a movie. We’ll cast our roles. Who would you want to play Mitchell Dane?”

“That’s easy. Richard Gere.”

“Richard Gere? I don’t think so. I wouldn’t settle for anyone but Arnold Schwarzenegger. Want to see my muscles?”

This was another side to Mitchell Dane, a playful side that was disturbingly compelling, but less so than his fingertips grazing the sensitive skin of her thigh. “So, Arnold, who would you cast in the role of Anne Harris?”

“Well, there’s Melanie Griffith, but she’s too girly. Arnold would want a stronger woman like… I know, Sharon Stone. Nah, too old. What about Sandra Bullock?”

Stop touching me, she wanted to say. Instead, she lifted his hand and returned it to his own knee. Even his palm was hot to the touch.

“Which?” he prompted, turning in his seat so that he faced her fully.

“At least Arnold has your coloring. I could never be a blonde so I suppose I’ll have to be Sandra Bullock, won’t I?”

That would have been his choice. Dark dreamy eyes framed by even darker hair and lashes and a spray of orchids behind her ear. “Yes. And you’d be barefoot and wearing a red sarong.”

Her foot faltered on the gas pedal and the car coasted for a moment. “Sarong? How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“The rehearsal party is a luau.”

Not only was Bettina plotting against him, the island gods were on his trail. “I didn’t know,” he admitted. “I could just see you that way.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve never worn one. I’m not the sarong type and my skin is very sensitive to the sun.”

“Now that doesn’t surprise me. Your skin never sees the sun. Sandra Bullock would never cover herself up like you do.”

A car horn blew and Anne jerked her wheel, correcting the momentary drift of her car that had occurred as she visualized herself in a red sarong. She’d best keep them surrounded by trucks so the road noise would be too loud for them to talk. Any more of this kind of conversation and they’d never get to the islands.

“Mr. Dane,” she shouted, “I want to remind you. I make the rules! This is a business deal. We’re not going for an Academy Award. All you have to do is help me convince my employer that you’re my fiancé. Once he believes that—” they moved alongside a small truck “—we’ll quietly break our engagement and you can hit the road.”

“I’d think about that, buddy,” the man in the truck yelled out his window. “She’s a babe!”

Mitchell laughed, gave the driver a thumbs-up, and watched him move past. “I’m thinking he’s right, Annie,” he said, getting into the role. “Even a stranger knows we’re a match.” It surprised him to know how much fun he was having. And the thought of her in a sarong was an idea so appealing that he could almost feel his toes in the hot sand. She looked too calm. He’d just shake her up a bit. “Why wait six months? Let’s elope right now.”

“Ohhhh!” The man was impossible. Deliberately, she tapped the brakes and threw Mitchell forward. “Now fasten your safety belt and pay attention.”

“Okay. Okay.” He moved over and clamped the belt into place. “We wait until I’ve completed my assignment and then run off to the South Seas. I’ll take you to a real luau and take your photograph on the beach at sundown.”

“You really are a photographer?”

“I am.”

“Then why are you modeling for Bettina?”

He could tell her the truth, but he was enjoying the fantasy. “As a favor. She’s a very convincing woman. I could never refuse her anything.”

“I know,” Anne agreed. “When I went to her office I was all set to turn around and leave, but she wouldn’t let me. Tell me about your work. What kind of pictures do you take?”

“Anything from calendar art to the rain forest,” he said. “Whatever strikes my fancy. Did you like Hawaii, Anne?”

“No. It was beautiful…but it was too expensive. I’m afraid I spent most of my time in the hotel.”

He laughed. “Figures. Any other woman going to Hawaii would wear her skimpiest bikini and hit the beaches or the pool where she could soak up the sun and attract men.”

“I told you, I have sensitive skin, and I wasn’t interested in attracting men.” What she couldn’t tell him was that she had expected Phillip to accompany her. It was to have been their honeymoon. She lost Phillip and her job, then found out their trip was nonrefundable. Hawaii was the loneliest place she’d ever been.

“Annie, you don’t really expect me to believe that a gorgeous woman like you was in her room counting her money. I can see right now I’m going to have to teach you how lovers act. I’ll bet you didn’t even buy a sarong.”