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Authors: Nancy Warren

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BOOK: Bad Boys Down Under
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Chapter Six
Lise was acting really weird. Almost like she was new at this. Was it possible his party girl didn't party?
Whatever it was, he liked Lise a lot better in some decent walking shoes than those tippy-tappy things that all but hobbled her. Since he'd already had more than a fair glimpse of her upper body, he was pleased that her shorts were on the short side and showed off a pair of nice legs. They were long, and a bit on the slim side, but then so was Lise, and pale as though she either slathered on sunscreen or didn't get out much.
He was beginning to wonder which it might be.
They rode the elevator, and Lise seemed as preoccupied as he was so they didn't talk, but he couldn't help but notice the faint glow on her cheeks or the way her small breasts rose and fell under a T-shirt that interestingly enough didn't sport a single logo. They exited the elevator and strode across the lobby, her stride not so very much shorter than his now she was wearing proper shoes.
“Taxi, Mr. Jackson?”
He glanced at Lise, but she shook her head.
“No thanks, Ralph,” he said.
“You know the doorman?” she asked when they were out of range.
“Well, not intimately. I know his name and he knows mine, though I tell you I wish he'd stop calling me Mister. It gives me a funny feeling. Still, he's a nice bloke. Helps me with directions and places to go.”
“Oh. You've probably already been to the Wharf.”
“Well, yeah. Lots of good spots to eat, though.”
They settled on an unimposing little place that served fantastic hot pot. It was the sort of place she went with a friend on a weeknight for good food and a comfortable atmosphere, but it wasn't the sort of place she'd take a client. Or a date she wanted to impress with her good taste and trendiness.
She was so screwed. Unless he believed that the trendy people of San Francisco wore a lot of tweed and denim, her rep as a trendsetter was done for.
Steve didn't seem to care who else was in the restaurant. He glanced around and nodded, visibly relaxing. “I like this place,” he said. “It's comfortable. I won't spend all night worrying about which fork to use.”
“And the food's great.”
Once they'd ordered and he had a beer and she a glass of red wine, there was a pause.
In his well-washed T-shirt, she was reminded of his incredible torso. His arms were tanned and bulged in a mouth-watering way. Cynically, she knew he probably paid a fortune in personal training, owned his own tanning bed, and had his hair retouched every couple of weeks, but just for the moment she was falling for the fantasy that nature had actually endowed one man with so much. Some of the sun-smooched hair and muscles had to be from surfing. At least she hoped so.
“So, have you been surfing all your life?” she asked him.
“Well, I know how, but no. I'm not a big surfer.”
“Oh.” She tried not to let her disappointment show. She wasn't marrying the guy, she just maybe wanted to have some hot sex with him. What did she care if his hair was done my Monsieur Claude and his bronzed bod came via UV tubes?
Actually, she cared a lot. In her experience—and in her job and her personal life she'd had some—men who spent more time in front of the mirror than she did and paid more to get their hair styled tended to be a little self-absorbed.
The kind of guy who thought clitoris was a new, anti-aging skin serum was probably not going to be a big thrill in bed.
Oh, well, he looked good. She could sit here all evening, watch his incredible face while he talked, inevitably, about himself, and pretend she was watching him on TV and turn the sound down. Then she'd fill in the dialogue with what she wished he'd said.
“Can you surf well enough to fake it for a commercial?”
He shook his head and her heart sank, but he said, “Remember, we're not going to talk business.”
Okay, she was going to assume the head shake was to indicate that he was admonishing her for bringing up work, not that he couldn't surf.
Please, let him know how to surf.
No way she could find a pro to teach him in the short time available.
There was another pause. If they didn't talk about business, there was only one topic left that could possibly interest this man.
Giving in to the inevitable, she said, “Tell me about yourself,” and turned the sound down, ready to watch his lips—those wonderful, half-smiling, excellent kisser lips—while he prepared to indulge in his favorite subject.
She had the sound properly adjusted and her first dubbed statement ready.
In her fantasy, he'd say, “There's really not much to tell. I'm modeling to put myself through medical college. Of course, I'll spend a couple of years with Doctors Without Borders before settling down to my own practice. All that's missing is the right woman to share my life with.”
His lips started to move and the first couple of words shocked her so much she forgot to turn down the sound and listened to every word the man across from her said.
“Not much to tell, really,” he said with an uncomfortable shrug. “I go to work, come home, mess about with me mates.” He paused to think deeply. “Watch a lot of footie.”
She blinked. “You watch people playing footsie?” She thought her own hobbies were on the sad side, but that was pathetic.
He laughed, not in a loud way, but enough to get his chest moving and his eyes dancing. “Not footsie, footie. Football to you, love.”
“Oh.” She'd heard vaguely about some barbaric sport where they banged heads a lot and bloodletting was normal. “Is that Aussie Rules?”
“Yeah, that's right.”
“I hear it's brutal and that there are no rules.”
“We-ell.” He appeared to give the matter some thought. “It's not as formal as your American football, but there are rules.”
And he could explain every game and every rule within that game if he looked at her with those amazing eyes and called her “love.” Sure, she knew it was a casual endearment, but she didn't care.
“Do you like modeling?”
He looked at her and stopped mid-chew as though something he'd eaten didn't agree with him.
“I'm not a model!”
Right. Of course not. They all called themselves actors these days. He had three lines in a commercial, and he was an actor.
She helped herself to more of the hot pot, surprised at how her stomach was behaving itself. “How did you get into the business?”
“What? You mean Crane?”
She nodded. She meant modeling/acting, but at this point she wasn't going to argue definitions.
“Didn't Jennifer Talbot tell you about me?”
“Tell me what?” Jen had been beside herself with excitement over her find and sent him over. That was about all she knew. Oh, great. He'd probably won some Australian version of the Academy Awards and she'd just brutally insulted him by never having “seen his work.” Damn it, when she'd found nothing about him on the Internet, she should have looked harder. Made Jen send her a bio to go along with his pictures.
“I was after a job in the shipping department at Crane. Jennifer spotted me standing at the reception desk and talked me into doing this.”
Lise swallowed too fast and an entire fiery pepper went down the wrong way. She grabbed her water glass and gulped, blinking tears out of her eyes. She coughed and spluttered, feeling an unfamiliar burn, but even having her whole esophagus on fire couldn't prevent her squeaking, “You're a shipper?”
“Naah. I'm a steelworker, but there's not much work about at the moment. I'm on a temporary layoff.”
“A steelworker?” she echoed faintly, her voice emerging kind of breathy and raspy. Her windpipe felt like a fire-breathing dragon that's breathed its last.
He seemed to be enjoying her shock. “That's right.”
“Do you model on the side?”
He shook his head.
“Done any acting at all?”
Even before he shook his head his face twisted in a grimace, and she had her answer.
“I don't think I can act,” he said. “That's why I needed you there today. I could say those words and pretend they were about me wanting to kiss you, and then it was all right.”
“I wonder what you'll have to fantasize about before you can pretend to surf for the camera,” she snapped, reverting to her suspicion that Jen had completely lost it.
His eyes darkened and her insides went hot in a way that had nothing to do with the misdirected pepper. “That's easy,” he said in a tone that made her wish for silk lingerie and a queen-sized bed.
“So you're a steelworker,” she said primly, not sure how to answer his obvious innuendo.
“That's right.”
“What do you build?”
“Lots of things. Buildings, ships. I worked on a bridge for the better part of a year.” He grimaced. “Hot work. Outside all the time, but I like being part of something permanent. You know? People will drive or walk or bicycle over that bridge for generations, and I helped build it.”
She nodded, but really she couldn't relate. Her business was the opposite, style not substance, the advertisement not the product.
Wait a minute. If he'd worked outside—“Did the sun do that to your hair?”
He stuck a hand through his hair as though he'd forgotten he had any on his head. “Made it a bit lighter, I suppose.”
“You'd pay a few hundred to get that look in a top salon.”
He snorted.
“You
might.”
And she didn't even have to ask about the tanning bed. She bet he had tan lines at mid-thigh, if he wore shorts to work, and at the sock mark because he'd wear work boots on the job.
Her heart began to pound so hard she felt dizzy.
It was real. It was all real. The muscles weren't gym-designed but literally forged by steel. The hair, the tan—they were natural.
He was real.
She was so used to dealing with people who, while they may have been given a very nice package in which to hold their bones and blood, liked to help nature along a little. But this guy was the real thing, in a world where even the phrase
the real thing
was an advertising slogan.
“That's me. Nothing very exciting. What about you then?”
“Me?” She almost fell off her chair as she received her second powerful shock of the evening. When was the last time a man she was out with had asked about her?
When had she been out with a man on a real honest-to-goodness date, come to that? It had to have been six months ago at least, and so forgettable she hadn't repeated the experience until now. She'd been so immersed in work she'd forgotten—or maybe, a small voice whispered, she'd been using work to avoid the whole messy man/woman thing.
“I work too much,” she admitted. And the pitiful truth was that work was becoming her life. Since she didn't seem to have anything more pressing to take its place, her job was growing like some science fiction blob, oozing into more and more of her waking hours and taking over.
“So you're a workaholic?”
She grimaced, hating the sound of that word and everything it implied, but feeling the need to be honest. “Yes.”
He nodded and seemed to ponder something. How he was going to get out of here gracefully—and fast, perhaps. Then she saw his lips curve ever so slightly as though he were enjoying a private joke.
Great. Just great.
No wonder she rarely dated. Provoking barely contained laughter in an attractive man wasn't a big inducement to get back out there.
“Tell me something,” he said, his mouth serious again but amusement lurking deep in his eyes. “Have you got stomach trouble?”
She rubbed her middle, which was surprisingly calm considering she was out on a date and eating spicy food. “I get stress stomach now and again.”
He nodded and the single dimple creased. It would be devastatingly attractive if she didn't suspect it was caused by him laughing at how pathetic she was.
“Headaches?”
She blinked so hard it hurt. “What, are you a steelworker by day and a doctor by night?”
“There were headache tablets and some sort of antacid hanging out of your bag the first time I saw you.”
“That's not all that was hanging out,” she replied as the whole humiliating incident rose before her like Marley's ghost clinking and clanging, an endless round of mortification.
“Right.” He didn't laugh. The dimple didn't even deepen, but she could tell it was an effort. “I thought you were a bit of a party girl.”
BOOK: Bad Boys Down Under
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