Kiss Don’t Tell. Avril Tremayne

for the compliment.’

      She was still blushing. He enjoyed that at least. ‘Well,’ she said, and cleared her throat. ‘Well. I— Well.’

      Oh, he was certainly enjoying this part. Discomfiting her. Finally, a bit of joy in an otherwise ghastly evening.

      Then she snapped out of that momentary incoherence. Back to cool, calm, collected. ‘It’s your alleged experience that makes you so valuable to me. That’s what I’m paying for. I’ve found in the past that the right fee will usually attract the commensurate skill level.’

      Alleged? Adam felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise—a sure sign his infamous temper was on the ascent. Good God! The look on her face. Questioning. A little uncertain. Was she wondering if he was going to be worth the outlay? Alleged? Alleged?

      He half rose from his seat, longing to haul her uptight backside out of her chair and shake her. The thought that she’d still be giving him that ego-deflating look at the end of it, however, checked him.

      He sat back and tried to calm the hell down.

      Found that he couldn’t quite manage it.

      And made a decision.

      Lane Davis was going to get what she was asking for, but on his terms. She wasn’t the only one who knew how to write a list. By God, he was going to draw up a lesson plan that would get her so hot and bothered she’d end up begging for him. His jaw clenched. His nostrils flared. Very caveman, but what the hell—he felt very caveman.

      ‘When do we start?’ he asked, and could hear the quiet danger in his voice.

      He saw an expression—something like fear—cross her face. Good, he thought savagely.

      ‘You have to sign first.’ Her voice was steady, but her fingers tightened. ‘Both copies.’

      He held out his hand and she gave him her copy of the contract with what he considered a fine show of bravado. It had to be bravado; he was scaring himself, for God’s sake. He flipped to the last page, scrawled his heavy black signature without even glancing at it.

      He reached for his own copy, and Lane cleared her throat again. ‘You understand about the blood tests, right? That you have to use—’

      ‘Yes, yes, condoms for two weeks,’ he said, cutting her off before she could even think of backing out. It was too late for that. ‘You’ll have the pill in hand by then, won’t you?’

      ‘I’ll have the prescription filled in the morning.’

      ‘Excellent work.’ He smiled—a dangerous, wolfish grin—even though he wasn’t remotely amused. ‘You know you’re blushing, right?’ He shook his head in exaggerated amazement. ‘I’m relieved to know something can get under your skin.’

      Lane raised her chin and Adam couldn’t help a flash of admiration. She had a goal and she was going to tackle it. Embarrassed, uncertain, almost certainly nervous—because how could she not be?—but she was forging ahead. Amazing.

      ‘I’m very conscious of the fact that this is an unusual proposition,’ she said. ‘It’s not going to be easy for either of us, but if we keep things businesslike, I’m sure we’ll get through it.’

      ‘Ah, businesslike sex. Who wouldn’t want that?’

      She raised one eyebrow, as though he wasn’t worth the effort of raising two. ‘I was under the impression you had more women flinging themselves at you than you could handle. Someone with a less desperate approach should be a welcome change. Certainly less exhausting.’

      ‘Oh, a change, definitely. I can honestly say I’ve never met anyone like you. But less exhausting? I don’t think so, Lane.’

      Another clear of her throat. ‘While we’re on the subject of desperate women flinging themselves at you, I should reiterate the importance of the fidelity clause. In the interests of health, you understand.’

      His smile widened, but didn’t warm. ‘Reiterate away. Wouldn’t want to catch anything after going to the trouble of a blood test.’

      He shot his signature across the second copy of the contract then looked at her. ‘But we’d better get you up to speed pretty quickly.’ No more smile. ‘A stud like me needs it pretty good and pretty regular.’

CHAPTER THREE

      Lane stared at the forlorn-looking smoked salmon on the now-stale rounds of rye bread and groaned. Smoked salmon! Thank God she hadn’t ended up putting the bottle of champagne she’d bought for tonight on ice as well. Just thinking about the look on Adam’s face if he’d caught sight of a champagne bottle was enough to make her wince.

      Ah, well, the evening may not have been a success exactly, but it wasn’t a total failure, either. Because he’d signed. That was all that was important for now.

      She stretched, as much to release tension as to ease the ache in her back after hunching over the paperwork all night, then she threw out the food, wiped down the glass tabletop, and headed for her bedroom.

      Normally, preparation for bed involved a rapid undressing, a quick shower and vigorous towel-dry, moisturizer slapped on without looking, a scramble into pyjamas and a dive under the covers.

      But tonight she was obsessed with her appearance, so she lingered, looking at herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. At what Adam had seen. A tall, pale, pencil-thin woman. Oval face. Nondescript nose. A mouth that was neither full nor thin. Arctic blue eyes that looked too village-of-the-damned for comfort. No laugh lines. Not one.

      Lane untied her hair and ruffled her fingers through it. The hair quality was good—thick and shiny, hanging in a straight curtain past her shoulders. But the colour belonged to someone altogether more fiery than she would ever be! It was like a confidence trick, her hair.

      Last year, Lane’s mother had asked her to dye her hair any colour but red, because the memories of her dead husband—who’d shared his daughter’s unrelenting hair shade—became more painful for her to bear with each passing year. ‘Just a small thing to bring me some peace,’ her mother had said, and Lane would have gladly obliged her if Erica—her staunchest defender—hadn’t hit the roof.

      Lane could still recall Erica’s scathing words, the fury in her voice, the merciless look on her face. ‘What the fuck will she expect next, Lane? That you cut twelve inches off your legs so you’re not the same height as he was? There’ll be something else; there always is. Well, you tell Jeanne-the-Martyr that you asked me what colour hair would suit you and I said red. Tell her that I’ll be ready to give her a piece of my mind, the nastiest piece, if you change it. So think about that before you reach for the L’Oréal because it won’t be pretty.’

      To say Jeanne Davis’s mournful eyes and trembling bottom lip left Erica chronically unimpressed was an understatement, so Lane was pretty sure Erica wasn’t bluffing. So far, Erica hadn’t ‘Jeanne-the-Martyred’ Lane’s mother to her face, but the fear of her doing so was ever-present—and that was enough of an incentive for Lane to keep her hair red for the foreseeable future, even though her mother had taken to looking at Lane’s hair then biting the knuckle of her index finger in a very tragic fashion.

      Ah well, Lane thought as she retied her ponytail, her hair colour was a problem for another day. At least she had one consolation prize she could offer Adam: her breasts. Their size was disproportionate to the skinniness of her frame, but guys liked breasts for their own sake, didn’t they? Not that Adam could have figured out she had breasts under her navy suit. She frowned as she remembered that he’d left two buttons of his own shirt undone, which was an incredibly sexy look. That had to be worth a try.

      She unbuttoned her top two shirt buttons and checked the result in the mirror. Hmm. Nothing special to see there. She removed her jacket