Love Me if You Dare Page 4

  Maybe you should just relax. Enjoy the sun. It did feel good on her face, on her skin. She didn’t often relax and unwind, so maybe she should do what she’d claimed, make this a mini-vacation. During which she would figure out how to get his signature on that contract.

  “Mind if I ask you something?” he inquired.

  She sent a dry, cautious glance in his direction. “Probably, but go ahead.”

  He tilted his head, met her gaze, and made her heart beat a little faster, just from that. “What do you really hope to gain by sticking around here? Because when I tell you I’m not selling, I mean it.”

  “I believe you,” she assured him. And she did—she just intended to change that. “But maybe I just like the peace and quiet. After all, I had the whole pool to myself before you came along and ruined it.”

  But as they exchanged looks, and she accidentally let the tiniest glimpse of a smile sneak out, which he then returned, she realized that they were perhaps beginning to settle into a more peaceful sort of battle. It was that whole thing about having a worthy opponent, respecting your adversary. Yes, she would have preferred if he’d just sign on the dotted line and let her call it a day, but since he hadn’t . . . well, at least she found him interesting, and challenging. There were worse traits.

  But back to business. He’d given her an opening, so she was going to take it—going to start very subtly trying to understand his seemingly unshakable attachment to this place. “And maybe you have me curious about Coral Cove. Maybe I want to learn more about what makes this place tick.”

  “Just so you can tear it down?” Crisp accusation colored his voice.

  She looked back over at him, almost admiring his integrity. But maybe he was still missing the big picture here. And if so, she was willing to spell it out for him. “We don’t want to tear down the whole town. Just this motel. So don’t worry—I’m not trying to make you think I’m going soft on this, or that I can be convinced the Happy Crab should stay. I can’t. It’s my job not to. But that doesn’t mean I’m not interested in learning about the area.”

  He returned a bold look and said slowly, thoughtfully, “Cami, has anybody ever told you that you’re kind of a hard-ass?”

  She flinched—but kept her game face on, despite being taken aback. The word didn’t wound her—she was too tough for that—and yet . . . maybe, for some insane reason, she didn’t like him seeing her that way.

  Though she had no idea why, so she was just going to ignore that odd little feeling. “I don’t believe so,” she replied smoothly. “But I’m going to take it as a compliment—no matter how you meant it.”

  He replied with only a short, almost indulgent nod that left her feeling a bit empty inside. One more useless emotion to push away.

  Back to work. “You seem pretty attached to Coral Cove,” she said, “so if you want to show me around, it would give you maximum opportunity to irritate me. But if you’d rather not, I’m perfectly happy to wander around on my own without anyone annoying me.”

  Next to her, she sensed him thinking it over and then heard him let out a breath. “On the one hand, I’ve lived here my whole life, so I know the place, and if you’re determined to stick around and go investigating, maybe I’d rather do it with you than risk letting you terrorize my iguana and possibly everyone else in town. On the other, this would also give you maximum opportunity to irritate me, too.”

  “And I would take full advantage of that,” she pointed out.

  “I don’t doubt it,” he said. “And you already are.”

  She sensed his amusement at their continuing repartee more than she actually saw it—just before they exchanged looks. She took in the dark brown of his eyes again, and despite herself, even found something about his messy hair appealing now. Though she asked, “Do they not have barbers or hairdressers in Coral Cove?”

  He blinked, clearly confused. “Yeah. Why?”

  “You could just use a trim, that’s all.”

  He let out a laugh. “What a hard-ass.” Then he rolled his eyes and said, “But now that you’re even officially flinging insults, too, I guess I should show you around—even if it’s against my better judgment. Just to keep you in line.”

  She gave a short nod, pleased. But only because it was the next step in her plan to figure out how to get him to sell—not because she actually wanted to spend more time with him. Even if the idea of it made something in her chest feel warm. “That sounds fine,” she informed him. “Though bear in mind you bring out the worst in me.”

  “Likewise,” he said. “And my iguana isn’t too crazy about you, either.”

  AS Camille turned over from her stomach to her back on the lounge chair, she experienced an unusual self-awareness. Maybe it was the idea that he was watching her, taking in her every move, taking in details about her body. Or maybe she was the one taking in details about her body.

  She wore this same bathing suit whenever she traveled or swam, and being in a bikini didn’t typically give her sexual thoughts or feelings. Today, though, she was noticing the curves of her own breasts more, and wondering if he was, too. She found herself hoping they looked perky—and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d harbored that kind of wish. She was a mature woman whose mind usually dwelled elsewhere—on business, on practical matters, even on lofty issues like the state of the world. Her breasts were not a lofty subject, but suddenly she was aware of them.

  Of course, they were making it that way by being more sensitive than usual. And as she resituated in her chair, attempting to subtly tug her bottoms into place, a glance down revealed that her nipples were hard. Did he see? Was he watching? And yikes, it was about eighty-five and sunny—there wasn’t exactly a chill in the air—so if he saw, did he think he was the reason? And was he, for heaven’s sake?

  You’re thinking too hard, worrying too much. Just let this be.

  She reminded herself to relax, that this was simply combining work and a vacation. She supposed she was more accustomed to feeling completely in control of a situation, and Reece Donovan was tampering with that a little. So maybe you should just see this as a new challenge, a new work environment of sorts. She bit her lip, though, thinking: How exactly does working fit in with wondering if he likes how I look in a bikini?

  “Where is it you said you’re from?” he asked, still stretched lazily out alongside her in the next chair.

  She flinched, because they’d both stayed quiet for a while. Then tried to sound like her usual more cool, mature self as she replied, “Atlanta.”

  “Not from there originally, though, right?”

  She glanced over at him, curious. How did he know that? “I grew up in rural Michigan. Why?”

  He tilted his head slightly against the reclined lounge chair. “Not a lot of sun up in Michigan?”

  “Sure there is. Why?” she asked again.

  “Well, I’d just think anyone who’s spent much time in the sun would know you have to wear sunscreen next to the pool. You’re burning, Tinkerbell.”

  She drew back at the name he’d called her. It had been bad enough the first time, in his office yesterday, but . . . “Really?” she snapped. “Cami isn’t bad enough? Now I’m Tinkerbell, too? A weak, delicate little fairy?”

  He shrugged, looking as arrogant as usual. “You and she might have more in common than you realize. I remember her being pretty conniving.” Then he flashed the first full-on smile she’d seen from him today. “And besides, you’d be disappointed if I didn’t irritate you.”

  “Would I?” she challenged him, trying not to feel the added warmth of that sexy grin.

  “Regardless,” he pointed out, “you need sunscreen.”

  And Camille couldn’t help feeling a little stupid—she’d truly forgotten completely about it. She sometimes spent time in the sun when traveling for work, but everything about this little business trip had gotten skewed in ways she hadn’t expected. “I didn’t plan to stay,” she reminded him. “And so I didn’t bring an
y.” She glanced down at herself once more, this time trying to make out any pinkness, but in the bright sunlight, she couldn’t tell exactly what she was seeing. “How bad is it?” She used one fingertip to pull aside part of her top to look—and then—crap, realized she was acting like she knew him well enough to do that in front of him. “Sorry,” she said quickly as she let the top go back into place.

  He didn’t seem the least bit bothered as he said, his voice coming out a bit deeper than usual, “I don’t mind. I like tan lines.”

  The words—or maybe it was the unmistakable heat in them—left her tingling in sensitive places.

  And it made her uncharacteristically nervous. “Even on a hard-ass?” she asked without quite planning to.

  He delivered a sultry smile, eyes half shut. “Even on a hard-ass.”

  She supposed she’d been trying to diffuse the sexiness between them with that question, but it hadn’t worked. Next move: practicality. “Have any sunscreen I could borrow?”

  “Sure,” he said, somehow infusing even that word with a tiny little bit of heat. “Be right back.”

  She watched as he got up and moved around the pool toward the motel office, just as laid-back and comfortable as he’d first struck her. But now he was sexy, too. She took in the tan on his back, a birthmark on his shoulder. One more thing she suffered the slight urge to touch. Well, at least we’ve advanced to something besides hair. And then she bit her lip once more, as if it might somehow quell the warm need now flowing through her body.

  It had been a while since she’d had sex. Tyler, a man she’d dated for two years, had been the last. They’d broken up over a year ago, her choice. And she hadn’t particularly minded not having sex since then. She liked sex, but she wasn’t the kind of woman who really hungered for it or noticed when it was gone. And she’d always been thankful for that. Like most other parts of her adult life, it was a thing that felt easily within her control.

  Except, then, what the hell was this? This strange attraction to a man more unlike her than any she’d ever felt drawn to before. The very idea of it at once repelled her and . . . well, if she was honest with herself, it also lured her. Because it was mysterious. And something in it felt lush, like a thing to be explored. Maybe because something about him so intrigued her.

  Or . . . maybe it was just plain animal magnetism. And maybe that was something she’d never really experienced before. Maybe she’d thought she was above all that, that she just didn’t respond to men that way. Yet try as she might to pretend it wasn’t happening, she was responding to this one.

  But he’s so not like you! And he’s a client, for God’s sake! And a really difficult one, too.

  Part of her thought: Seriously now—you are a seasoned professional; you are a very mature and accomplished thirty-two-year-old woman. You do not let something as minor as sexual attraction make you behave unprofessionally. So maybe you need to just put your business suit back on, hop the next flight back to ATL, and figure out your strategy from a respectable distance.

  But another part of her saw it differently. Go back without that signature and everything changes. You’re no longer invincible. Your record is no longer perfect. Vanderhook’s confidence wavers. So does your own, deep down. And . . . what’s so wrong with playing this as it lies? Maybe one aspect of being a mature, confident woman was deciding it was okay to follow this path, see where it leads, in business . . . and maybe even in pleasure, too?

  She gave her head a short shake, to clear it. That last bit was going too far. She couldn’t quite make that mental leap.

  And she had no more time to mull it over at the moment, because that was when Reece exited the office’s rear door and padded his way back to her across the concrete on bare feet.

  “Isn’t it hot?”

  He raised his eyebrows at her question, not getting what she was asking. She seldom spoke without thinking first, but that was another thing Reece Donovan seemed to inspire in her.

  “Your feet. On the concrete,” she clarified.

  The corners of his mouth quirked into a grin. “I’m tough,” he claimed.

  I’m tougher, she affirmed silently.

  “You changed,” she said then, noticing he’d put on swim trunks while he was gone.

  “You seemed uncomfortable with my shorts. And I figured if I went for a swim in them, you’d get even more uncomfortable.”

  He slanted another arrogant look in her direction—so arrogant, in fact, that she decided to just ignore it altogether. That would teach him. Maybe.

  When he reached her, he handed down a bottle of old-school suntan lotion—she’d been hoping for the more easily applied spray that didn’t have to be rubbed in. But she took it from him with a simple, “Thanks,” and as he sat back down beside her, she squirted some into her hand and began to smooth it onto her legs.

  She felt him watching. Felt self-conscious. But also . . . a little turned on. His attention made her feel . . . sexy. And maybe she’d almost forgotten what sexy felt like. Or maybe she’d never really even felt it this way before. Something in this was raw, a little feral. It was a silent but visceral thing moving between them. And try as she might, she couldn’t quite think like that practical, suit-wearing side of her usually did.

  But you need to. If you’re going to follow this path, you need to be in it fully, with complete self-assurance, and with a plan. And the only plan that fit with this scenario was: Don’t be ashamed to use your feminine wiles to get what you want. She was here for a reason. She wasn’t going home without what she’d come for. So put all of this together and make it work for you.

  And something in that resolve snapped her out of the self-consciousness. She wasn’t that girl in rural Michigan anymore who let herself be consumed by emotions, and lack of control, and the pressure to succeed. She’d left that part of herself far, far behind. This . . . is just another way of doing your job.

  And now as she smoothed the coconut-scented lotion over her thighs, rubbing it in with wide circular sweeps of her hand, nervousness changed to confidence. Because it had just become part of winning, convincing him to sell. And that made it easier, less . . . scary. Nothing about her job scared her, after all. If this was just a means to an end, there was no need to question it, no need to worry, no need to think about how much they didn’t have in common or how drawn to him she was. This was just business now.

  Of course, she still felt it—in her breasts, in her bikini bottoms. As work went, it was . . . well, a little more exciting than usual. His eyes following her hand was exciting. Sensing his silent, growing desire for her was exciting. She wasn’t sure how they’d gotten from sniping at each other to this, but here they were, and it was going to lead to her victory with him.

  That feminine confidence continued to swell inside her as she applied the creamy sunscreen to her arms, and then her tummy. She made sure to be thorough, spreading the lotion right up to the top edge of her bikini bottoms, letting her fingertips ease just barely inside the elastic to make sure she covered every bit of sensitive skin. Though it felt as if somehow it was actually his gaze applying it, caressing her.

  “Your back is the worst spot,” he pointed out from where he lay propped on one elbow in his nearby lounge. “That’s what I first noticed, when you were turning over.”

  “That’s a shame,” she said easily, “since I can’t reach it myself.”

  “I guess you want me to do it for you,” he said, sounding put out. She was almost grateful for his tone—the preceding silence had grown so heavy and sexual to her.

  “Depends,” she replied, shooting him a suspicious glance. “I’m afraid you’ll leave big hand marks or something as a way of getting back at me.”

  He tipped his head back slightly. “That’s an idea. I’ll keep it in mind. But . . .”

  “But . . . ?” She raised her eyebrows, met his eyes with hers.

  “But . . . you can trust me.”

  Camille held the gaze, trying to figure out if h
e was being real or just playing a game. He’d sounded shockingly sincere. Though she didn’t know why, or if she should believe it.

  Yet, finally, she turned her back toward him and passed him the bottle, saying, “If I have big hand marks later . . .”

  “You’ll what?” he challenged her.

  “Scare your iguana,” she answered.

  “Uh oh,” he said. “Them’s fightin’ words, Tinkerbell. I love that iguana.”

  “You’re an intriguing man, Reece Donovan,” she told him as she faced fully away from him, effectively leaving her skin in his hands.

  There can be no denying that it was she

  who first tempted him.

  J. M. Barrie, Peter and Wendy

  Chapter 4

  REECE SEARCHED for a reply as he squeezed lotion into his palm, but he didn’t find one. He’d never been called intriguing before. And he kind of liked it. He kind of liked it from her in particular. She was smart, after all, and worldly. But then, maybe she was playing him, just trying to butter him up.

  Pressing his hand to her upper back, just below her neck, was like touching fire. Her skin felt warm from the sun, but it was more than that. Chemistry. Magnetism. That thing you couldn’t measure but you damn well knew when it was there. The heat seemed to move up through his arms and into his chest, then down through his torso. Hell, he was getting a little hard now. Just from putting sunscreen on her.

  She’d piled her long blond hair up on top of her head in some sort of stylish looking knot that allowed him to study the curve of her slender neck, the silky skin of her shoulders. It was sunburnt, as he’d told her, but not as badly as he’d let on. Still, he said, “Does this hurt?” Skin was sensitive, after all.

  “No,” she said in little more than a whisper. And he began to wonder if this felt as good to her as it did to him.

  But what the hell am I doing here? Am I actually putting the moves on her? Reece was no stranger to making a move on an attractive woman—he wasn’t fond of big, serious relationships, but he liked spending time with women; he liked playfully seducing women who didn’t mind casual fun. Only this was different. Really different.