Brief Encounters. Suzanne Forster

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      What had she done? Swan had no idea what the correct etiquette was in a situation such as this. Should she go back and pull his pants up for him? Should she beg his forgiveness? Luckily, the repairman wasn’t concerned about manners. He bent down, grabbed his jeans and shimmied back into them. As he retrieved his tool belt, a flood of apologies began pouring forth from Swan’s mouth. She wondered if she and Lynne could be sued for something like this! That was all she needed. A sexual harassment charge.

      “Could I give you some underwear?” she offered. “A lifetime supply?” Now she was bribing him. Were there laws against that?

      “What fun would that be?” he replied in a tone that was wickedly soft.

      She searched his handsome face, looking for signs of mercy and compassion. “Fun? Oh, right! That wouldn’t be any fun at all.”

      Was that a flicker of amusement in his cool blue eyes? She couldn’t tell. She was momentarily distracted by the striking contrast of the dark hair falling onto his forehead and his faintly arched brows. She would have given anything to know if he was attracted to her. His body seemed to like her well enough, but maybe that was an aberration. She didn’t usually have that effect on men.

      He picked up his tool belt and draped it over his shoulder. “Maybe you should point me to your office,” he said, “and I’ll make myself useful. Someone reported a phone problem.”

      Swan wasn’t aware of any such problem, but Lynne or Gerard could have called it in. “Through that door and down the hall to your right,” she said. “You can’t miss it. There’s a life-size poster of a local lifeguard in Brief Encounters. We wanted Vin Diesel, but—”

      He was already heading for the door. “I am so sorry,” she called after him. “I thought you were one of the models. Really, I did! Sir?”

      He hesitated, and she immediately thought better of the question that had been in her head since she’d been on the floor in front of him. Is that normal for you? I mean, in a resting state, is that normal?

      “Never mind,” she said, waving him on. “I just, uh, well—I’m sorry about that twitching problem. I have a nervous condition myself.”

      He turned around with a glint in his eye that was positively demonic. “Nerves don’t make me twitch,” he said. “Women do—and you should be sorry.”

      His voice was dangerously low and husky, and she had the feeling he didn’t often give women the once-over quite so boldly. His hot gaze brushed her body, lingering here and there—especially there, as if he were imagining her with her pants down and him on his knees. Her belly clutched deeply. Her skin had begun to flush and tingle, and by the time his eyes returned to hers she was actually trembling inside. It was a sensation she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

      Swiftly another sensation came upon her. She had to pee! She crossed her ankles and smiled as best she could under the circumstances.

      He must have noticed because he snorted low laughter. “Maybe we had both better get back to work?” he suggested. And with that he was gone.

      Swan groaned and headed for the bathroom, which was just off the music room, fortunately. Her face was still ablaze with embarrassment, but at least she would get a moment alone to collect herself.

      From behind she heard Gerard call out, “Oh, Swaaan…”

      She stopped dead in her tracks, whirled around and pointed her finger at him. “Not a word, Gerard. Not one word from you.”

      “Whatever you say,” he murmured.

      Swan thought she heard a reference to “Deep Throat” as she dashed into her sanctuary and shut the door. She didn’t have to see her beastly assistant to know that he was grinning from ear to ear.

      ROB GAINES should not have been smiling. He had work to do. He shouldn’t have been thinking about her, either, but short of a drug-induced coma, he didn’t see that happening. How often did an incredibly hot redhead sidle up to a man, pull down his pants and drop to her knees in front of him? At a moment like that there wasn’t a whole lot else to think about except what she was planning to do next, with her breath so steamy hot and her gorgeous mouth just inches from his—

      The twinge of near pain in his groin brought him back to his senses.

      Gaines, stop smiling or you’re going to permanently injure yourself.

      He pulled a pair of needle-nose pliers and went to work. But as he played with the phone, his thoughts veered back to her. Too bad he couldn’t sign up for dance lessons. She could teach him how to dip and he could teach her what happens when curious little girls play games with big boys.

      He could imagine reaching around to undo all that wild redness she kept piled on top of her head and letting it fall loose around her shoulders. He could also imagine kissing her gorgeous lips until they were wet with desire.

      He could imagine a few other things, too, but his jeans were getting crowded again—and he had work to do. A mission to accomplish. Quickly. Before anyone had a chance to walk in and interrupt him.

      2

      SWAN HAD ALL OF NINETY seconds to herself in the bathroom before her cell phone rang. She considered ignoring it but remembered Lynne had promised to call, and she needed to talk to her partner. If it turned out to be someone else, they would just have to listen to her tinkle.

      Swan hit the talk button, but didn’t even get to say hello.

      “Can you spell yacht?” Lynne Carmichael sang out. “I’m on his yacht, Swan! Gvon Marcello’s yacht! We’re heading out to sea in a matter of minutes.”

      “I can’t even spell Gvon,” Swan admitted. “What are you doing on his yacht? I need you here!”

      And that was an understatement. She and Lynne weren’t just business partners, they’d been all but inseparable since childhood, sharing everything, especially their problems. They’d gone to the same schools right up until they graduated high school, when Swan had received a scholarship to study design at Brooks College, and Lynne had pursued a business degree at U.S.C.

      “Swan, this is big. Big. I showed Gvon our stuff, and he loves it. He’s dropping hints that he might give us our own label. We’d design for him, but it would be our name on the clothes. And he doesn’t want just underwear. He wants loungewear, too, and maybe eventually, sportswear, men’s and women’s. Think about it, Swan. This is a dream come true.”

      Swan had thought their tour was a dream come true, but she could hear Lynne’s excitement. “How did you meet him and why are you on his yacht?”

      “It was that fund-raiser fashion show I told you about. One of the models introduced me to Gvon, and I had my suitcase of samples with me. Now he wants to talk business, and he said we could do that on his boat—I mean, yacht, excuse me!”

      Swan’s sense of urgency grew and it wasn’t just physical. “Lynne, is this what we want to do? Team up with someone else?” They’d worked so hard for this chance to have their own line and they’d always seemed equally driven to succeed. Lynne came from money and Swan didn’t, but that had never mattered to either of them. Swan sometimes СКАЧАТЬ