Something to Prove. Cathryn Parry

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СКАЧАТЬ She stood outside the conference room and wished there was a window she could see through, but since there wasn’t, she pasted what she hoped was a vacant smile on her face and swung open the door like someone who meant business. Plan A and plan B, in combination. Once she met Brody, she would choose her final course.

       Immediately, she needed to shield her eyes from the blinding afternoon sun slanting through the window. For a moment, she couldn’t see.

       “Um, are you Amanda? From Paradigm magazine?”

       She blinked to see a short man in a rumpled suit standing behind a conference table, his hand extended. He must be Harrison Rice, the agent. And next to him…

       Amanda swallowed. Like a warrior prepared for battle, she thought.

       Jeannie had showed her a photo of Brody Jones, downloaded from her phone’s internet connection. In it, he was dressed in a black helmet and tight racer’s uniform, his body bent so he was impossibly close to the slope, his powerful thighs straining while his biceps bulged, gripping a ski pole as he surged past a giant slalom gate.

       Amanda hadn’t been able to see his face, but she’d seen his power and his sex appeal. She’d understood his charisma.

       And now here he was in the flesh. Six feet one, two hundred pounds—she could recite his stats in her head. He was built. Hard. Powerful. And recklessly daring.

       But he wasn’t behaving recklessly now. Like her, he wore body armor—in his case, a hat with a brim so low she couldn’t see his eyes clearly. Several days of stubble obscured his facial expression. He wore a tight black T-shirt that showed off his powerful neck, and over that, a team sweat jacket that read Italia—great. Did he know about her connection with her sister?

      Stop that. You’re psyching yourself out before you’ve even started.

       She gripped the agent’s fleshy paw, giving him both a friendly wink and a hardnosed MacArthur Jensen squeeze. “Hello there, I’m Amanda Jensen. I’m pleased to meet you, Harrison.”

       She still hadn’t decided yet which plan to choose, A or B, and so was fluctuating wildly between them. While Harrison winced, clutching his hand, she switched her gaze to Brody. What should she say to him? How would he react?

       Before she could decide, his chair slid leisurely back. As he moved, preparing to rise, his head slowly came up. The visor of the sponsor’s ball cap came off. And the most amazing pair of baby-blue eyes stared at her, sizing her up.

       Amanda felt the shock zing up and down her anatomy. This guy had It. The physical key to setting her hormones on fire.

       Because, oh, God, there was something about his eyes. They were probing eyes. Intelligent eyes.

       Eyes that sucked her in.

       He braced his hands on the table and fixed that quiet stare on her. He didn’t feel like a skier to her, not like any skier she’d ever known, anyway. Nothing Jeannie had told her could have prepared her for this. Without a trace of a smile on lips that were tense, yet still so full she could easily picture herself leaning over the table and kissing him, he said to her, “Amanda Jensen. Are you related to MacArthur Jensen?”

       Oh, she was definitely going for plan A. Hard wouldn’t work with him. Best to play soft and dumb with this powerful, guarded man.

       “Who’s MacArthur Jensen?” she asked.

       SHE WAS LYING. BRODY KNEW IT, but what he really wanted to know was why she was bothering.

       He shifted in his seat, purposely tuning out the words she was saying and concentrating on her actions. Her essence.

       She smelled amazing, like pine trees and winter. And…cooking? Rosemary, yeah, that was the herb he was catching. But that couldn’t be right. Her presence brought to mind good food and companionship. A hearty meal in the company of true friends. Wine and humor.

       He glanced at her mouth and watched her lips move as she spoke. He could easily kiss that mouth. She had the clearest porcelain skin he’d ever seen, and long, dark hair like Snow White. He imagined running his hands through it, feeling it drag across his chest. Every cell, every nerve in his body was straining toward her, and that wasn’t good.

       He pushed back his chair and jammed on his ball cap again. Pulled the visor down low. Crossed his arms against her.

       That was better. She stiffened, the Miss Airhead persona falling away. For a split second her gaze narrowed. She was a helluva lot sharper than she wanted him to see.

       “Brody, what do you think about Amanda’s question?” Harrison grinned madly and dug him in the arm. What do you know, he was completely snowed by Amanda’s phony routine.

       “What do I think about what?” Brody said.

       “Amanda has been asking about your record. Remember what we talked about?” Harrison coughed into his hand. Pull out the cards with the phony quotes, he was hinting. But Brody shook his head because he had already tossed the cards out.

       Instead he pinned his gaze on the reporter, which was a bad idea because his heart had already softened toward her. Trust her, his intuition said.

       His intuition had failed him before.

       “You said you’re no relation to MacArthur Jensen?” he asked.

       On the table, the voice recorder flashed its red light. She followed his glance and then looked back at him.

       “Yes,” she said calmly, “I have no relationship with that Jensen.”

       “What about Jeannie Jensen? Aren’t you here for the wedding?”

       “The wedding…” Amanda licked her lips. Beside him, Harrison inhaled sharply. Brody could relate. She was stunning. So stunning, he literally ached.

       She gave a small smile and stared full at him. Her eyes were the most amazing hazel-green. Playful, and yet as somber as he’d seen.

       She smiled again, sadly this time. “I have to admit, Jeannie and I go way back. We went to boarding school together. We were assigned to the same dorm room, probably because of our last names. We had a hard…”

       She faltered, and there it was, that accent. Her As were distinctive, from the north country. It came out when she was caught off guard, when she wasn’t concentrating on fooling him.

       “You’re from northern New England, aren’t you?” he asked.

       She looked up, genuine pleasure in her eyes for the first time. “You’re talking to me, I like that.”

       “Where did you grow up?”

       Her gaze never left his. “New Hampshire.”

       His pulse picked up. Few people knew it, but he’d lived there as a kid for a while. It was where he’d first tried skiing, where he’d first found his escape. “Where in New Hampshire?”

       She nibbled the inside of her lip, as if debating whether to tell him. “Deanfield,” she finally said. “It’s a really beautiful place in the mountains.”

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