Two Weeks in the Magnate's Bed. Nicola Marsh

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СКАЧАТЬ him the money, picked up her luggage and headed for the escalators.

      What would he know about luck? She’d worked hard for what she had—damn hard: five years as curator at Melbourne Museum, and three years as head curator at Sydney Museum had been amazing, stimulating and stressful.

      Sure, she had a stellar reputation in the industry, and a gorgeous apartment in the beachside suburb of Coogee, but that was about it.

      She didn’t have a life.

      No time out, no socialising, no fun.

      Over the next two weeks she planned to change all that.

      Though luck had played a part in this trip; if she hadn’t won the cruise she wouldn’t have taken a holiday, sad workaholic that she was.

      As thoughts of work crowded her head, namely how she’d recently missed out on the opportunity of a lifetime courtesy of her crippling shyness, she stumbled at the top of the escalator and pitched forward, silently cursing the three-inch heels her shoe-crazy cousin Beth had loaned her for the trip.

      So much for the hope that the illusion of height would give her extra poise. It would be difficult to feign elegance when she landed on her butt.

      Grabbing wildly at anything more stable than air, she exhaled on a relieved sigh as a strong pair of arms shot out, holding her in a vice-like grip.

      ‘Whoa. These things are lethal if you don’t concentrate. Too busy daydreaming about the Love Boat, huh?’ The smooth voice, with more than a hint of amusement in its husky depths, sent an unexpected shiver down her spine as she looked up into her rescuer’s face.

      Wow.

      Seeing good-looking guys on a daily basis was a perk of her job. The museum was a haven for sexily scruffy archaeological students, attractive teachers, even the odd university professor with a distinguished Sean Connery thing going on.

      Yet this guy who now pinned her with arms displaying a great set of biceps was so much more than that. Striking was more appropriate. Even sex-on-legs, as brazen Beth would say.

      Hypnotic eyes, a deep, cobalt blue, were fringed with long dark lashes any woman would have envied, and those baby blues were pinned on her, a teasing glint in their rich depths.

      She inhaled sharply, unprepared for an intoxicating fresh citrus scent that left her head spinning—and not just from her near-fall.

      As for his lips, curving with the hint of a smile, for the first time in her reclusive life she understood the label ‘kissable’.

      All too aware she was staring—gawking, more like it—she dropped her gaze. Only to be confronted by an equally intriguing sight: a broad expanse of tanned chest where the two top buttons of his shirt were undone.

      Hotter than Indiana Jones, leapt to mind.

      She had a major thing for Indiana—always had—and, lucky her, Indiana’s double was holding on to her as if his life depended on it.

      She’d wanted to gain confidence, step outside her comfort zone, experience new things on this cruise. To broaden her outlook to the extent she was never passed over for a work opportunity again. She had been thinking along the lines of dance lessons, lectures on exotic destinations, shore excursions, that sort of thing.

      However, being held by this guy had her mind sailing down channels she’d never usually contemplate. Not a bad thing entirely, if taking this holiday had already affected her mindset. Maybe shy, geeky Lana—as she’d once overheard some colleagues call her—was already slipping into vacation mode.

      Her heart thumping, whether in fear of her strangely errant thoughts or excitement at what they might urge her to do, she eased out of his grip.

      He grinned and, typically, he had a sexy smile to match the rest of him. ‘So, do I pass inspection?’

      Great. He knew she’d been checking him out. Her skill at covert observation was on a par with her wardrobe: shabby at best.

      ‘What makes you think I was inspecting anything? You were holding me so tight I had nowhere to move, let alone look.’

      ‘Feisty. I like that.’ His eyes gleamed, and the corners of his too-tempting-for-comfort mouth twitched in amusement.

      Heat suffused her cheeks as she struggled to come up with a comeback. She hated how she always thought of a great retort ten minutes too late.

      How was it she could answer any student’s query in a second, but right now her brain—a whiz at cataloguing priceless artefacts, leading tour groups and calculating storage data—was totally befuddled?

      ‘Thanks for breaking my fall.’

      As replies went, it was pretty lame. Pathetic, in fact; it looked as if her comeback skills had sunk to the same level as her flirting expertise: below average bordering on non-existent.

      More embarrassed than she cared to admit, she managed a tight smile, picked up her luggage and turned away, striding towards the ship though her knees wobbled like just-set jelly.

      ‘Watch your step!’ he called after her, his voice shaking with laughter.

      She stiffened, but didn’t break stride, determined not to look back, refusing to give him the satisfaction. Besides, she could feel his stare boring holes into her back.

      Her skin prickled at the recollection of those incredibly blue eyes twinkling at her, laughing at her, and she shook her head in disgust. She was such a novice at this.

      ‘Live a little, cuz. Let your hair down. Go crazy,’ Beth had encouraged her. ‘You’ve got two weeks to cut loose, to be someone you wouldn’t dream of being on land. Make the most of it.’

      Great advice, and it had sounded easy coming from her bubbly, confident cousin, who bounced through life with a perpetual smile on her face. And Beth sure knew what she was talking about, considering her positive attitude had landed her Aidan Voss, the dreamiest husband on the planet.

      As for Beth’s other advice—‘dust off the cobwebs, get laid’—Lana blushed just thinking about it.

      It was precisely three years, two months and five days since she’d last had sex. Not that she was counting or anything. Besides, she’d have to date to have sex—would have to get emotionally involved with the guy to contemplate it—and she didn’t trust her emotions any more; not after what Jax the Jackass had done.

      She tucked her old holdall under her arm tighter and headed for the gangway. Beth was right. While her professional life shone, her social life sucked. She had no confidence, no social skills, and no hope of being chosen for the museum’s next overseas jaunt unless she learned to be more assertive, more outgoing, more everything.

      Maybe this cruise would be just what a conservative curator needed?

      Zac watched the petite brunette cut a path through the crowd, confused and intrigued.

      Most of the holidaymakers he met were dressed to kill, and wearing enough make-up to sink a ship—no pun intended—yet she wore a simple navy suit bordering on severe, and barely a slick of lipgloss. And yet she had managed to capture his attention СКАЧАТЬ