Kiss Don’t Tell. Avril Tremayne

look.

      Easily fixed. She smoothed out her forehead, raised her chin, added a half-pout to her lips, examined herself in the mirror again—and burst out laughing. There was a touch of booby-beanpole-meets-Bride-of-Frankenstein about that look. Maybe no pouting around Adam Quinn, then.

      Okay, enough.

      She turned her back on the mirror, undressed quickly and got under the shower.

      She’d long ago accepted the fact that although she was attractive enough, her coolly patrician features gave her an untouchable air, characterized by a distinct lack of smoulder. All Erica’s determined artistry—and Erica was brilliant with make-up—had failed to put the sex in Lane’s appeal. It would be interesting, academically if nothing else, to see if Adam Quinn had enough skill to tease a hitherto hidden kernel of sensuality out of her despite her lack of obvious assets.

      And academics aside, it would be such a relief to have an experience, any experience, to help put to rest the memory of what had happened with her ex-colleague DeWayne Callaghan four months ago. An utter, utter disaster. Clothes half-on, half-off. Inept fumbling. Pain. Bleeding. A rushed two-minute-forty-seconds—she’d counted every unpleasant second in her head—which had ended with DeWayne orgasming with a loud and somehow comical groan and collapsing on top of her; Lane, having gone nowhere near an orgasm, pinned beneath him.

      And as if that wasn’t bad enough, DeWayne had then had the insensitivity to post the experience on Facebook. That was when Lane had come face-to-face with the true meaning of the word ‘mortification’, as his friends had obligingly shared it with their friends, and so on, and on until it reached multi-friended Sarah Quinn, who’d not only told Lane what was going on behind Lane’s back but had also gone ballistic at DeWayne, threatening legal action and getting the whole mess taken down.

      Sarah had a way with words that was simply masterful and she’d reduced DeWayne to a blubbering mess, but of course there was no putting that kind of evil genie back in the bottle. And so Lane had walked around the office like a semi-smiling automaton, determined to ride out the disaster with her usual coolness. But when sniggers still followed in her wake after two weeks, she could no longer pretend she was handling it and had subsequently changed jobs.

      At least there’d been a hint of a silver lining. Leaving the consultancy and joining the bank had not only given her a better job and a much better salary package than DeWayne could ever dream of, but it had also brought her into the orbit of David Bennett, corporate banking executive and hunk extraordinaire, giving Lane a new goal, a new target. A man to try again with.

      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!’