Bedroom Eyes. Sandra Chastain
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her here. And that focus could get her through the next two days. They’d better get started.
But she didn’t know how to begin. Her body seemed intent on interfering with her thoughts. Even her thighs tingled. It was the sun, she decided. She glanced down and realized she’d planned a cover for everything but her legs, and they were receiving the full force of the late-morning sun. Twisting her bottom, she tugged her shorts as far down as she could.
The heat only intensified.
“You okay?” Mitchell asked, as if he could read her mind and knew that he was as much the cause of her fidgeting as the elements.
“I’m fine. I’m just a bit sensitive to the sun.” She glanced at him with a frown.
Mitchell only grinned. “I could take off my shirt and cover your legs,” he said, reaching to pull it over his head.
“No! I’ll be fine.”
Mitchell silently agreed. She was right about that. She was fine—an intriguing tangle of a woman who played the role of executive instead of being the woman she hid beneath. And she was a woman. Everything about her said that. From the slight blush that colored her cheeks to the way she licked her lips. She wanted to say something but his nearness seemed to paralyze her. Okay, he’d wait.
Finally, they left the city traffic behind. A strand of dark hair defied her cap and got caught up in the hammering wind. She pushed it back and straightened her shoulders as if she were about to give directions to her assistant.
“My office believes that we met in Hawaii when I was on vacation,” she said crisply.
“Hawaii?” He hadn’t expected that. His instincts about Anne Harris had been right. Bettina knew how he felt about islands. Whether the arrangement was really for Anne’s benefit or some kind of setup to connect the two of them was still to be decided, but his sister had chosen well.
“I told them we sailed to a hidden cove where you proposed on the same beach where I took your picture at twilight,” Anne went on.
“That would be the one Bettina sent you?”
“Yes. When it came, I pretended I was the photographer.”
The scenario was heartbreaking. “And they believed you?” Mitchell didn’t know why he’d asked. Of course her associates believed her. She was the kind of woman people didn’t question.
“Certainly. I took several photography classes so I could talk about it. I always try to be prepared. You should know, I’m very thorough,” Anne said, turning her eyes back to the road. “That’s why I’m good at my job—why I’m going to be the first woman vice president of Bundles of Joy Baby Products. I expect the same attention to detail from you.”
He’d guessed right about her attention to detail. He might have rattled her, but she was back in control. Mitchell gave her a mock salute. “Aye, aye, captain. I always do good work, Annie.”
“Don’t call me Annie,” she snapped. “This is serious.”
“Love is always serious, my ’ano’i pua.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s Hawaiian for sweetheart.”
“How’d you learn to speak Hawaiian?”
“Someone taught me. But I only know the more intimate words.” He touched her arm, drawing her attention, then added, “It’s okay. I promise you’ll get your money’s worth.”
Mitchell unfastened his seat belt, reached over, caught that errant strand of hair and tucked it behind her ear. “Don’t worry, Anne. I really am a photographer. And if we work at it, it ought not to be that hard to convince your employer you’re engaged. We can do it. Trust me. If you really need this job to look after your mother, I’ll help you. I know about the burden of responsibility.”
Anne felt his fingertips move up her arm to her cheek. She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t even speak. He had no idea that his touch was searing her vocal cords and turning her mind into pudding. As for trusting him, if her luck ran the way it usually did with men, the car would blow a tire and they’d end up in the ditch.
“Please don’t distract me while I’m driving, Mitchell.”
“Sorry. I don’t normally like riding with women who speed, but you’re a good driver.”
“I took a class at Road Atlanta. I actually drove a race car. Speed, that’s one of my little secret passions. I like the wind against my face. It blows the cobwebs from my mind.”
“Race car driver, huh? Here I am trying to envision us as a married couple and find out my future wife is Mario Andretti.”
“Wife?”
“And another thing. I wouldn’t sit so far from my wife. She wouldn’t want me to.”
“But I’m not your wife.”
“No,” he said loudly, “but I’ve read that actors trying out for a role research their characters by living their real lives for months before they go before the camera.”
“I don’t think I’m interested in being that good an actor,” Anne said.
“Sure you are.” From the expression on her face, Mitchell decided that, though she was hiding it well, she was unnerved. She didn’t understand yet that whatever was happening between them had affected both of them. “Hey,” he said, “I have an idea. Let’s pretend we’re making a movie. We’ll cast our roles. Who would you want to play Mitchell Dane?”
“That’s easy. Richard Gere.”
“Richard Gere? I don’t think so. I wouldn’t settle for anyone but Arnold Schwarzenegger. Want to see my muscles?”
This was another side to Mitchell Dane, a playful side that was disturbingly compelling, but less so than his fingertips grazing the sensitive skin of her thigh. “So, Arnold, who would you cast in the role of Anne Harris?”
“Well, there’s Melanie Griffith, but she’s too girly. Arnold would want a stronger woman like… I know, Sharon Stone. Nah, too old. What about Sandra Bullock?”
Stop touching me, she wanted to say. Instead, she lifted his hand and returned it to his own knee. Even his palm was hot to the touch.
“Which?” he prompted, turning in his seat so that he faced her fully.
“At least Arnold has your coloring. I could never be a blonde so I suppose I’ll have to be Sandra Bullock, won’t I?”
That would have been his choice. Dark dreamy eyes framed by even darker hair and lashes and a spray of orchids behind her ear. “Yes. And you’d be barefoot and wearing a red sarong.”
Her foot faltered on the gas pedal and the car coasted for a moment. “Sarong? How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“The rehearsal party is a luau.”
Not only was Bettina plotting against him, the island gods were on his trail. “I didn’t know,” he admitted. “I could just see you that way.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve never worn one. I’m not the sarong type and my skin is very sensitive to the sun.”
“Now that doesn’t surprise me. Your skin never sees the sun. Sandra Bullock would never cover herself up like you do.”
A car horn blew and Anne jerked her wheel, correcting the momentary drift of her car that had occurred as she visualized herself in a red sarong. She’d best keep them surrounded by trucks so the road noise would be too loud for them to talk. Any more of this kind of conversation and they’d never get to the islands.
“Mr. Dane,” she shouted, “I want to remind you. I make the rules! This is a business deal. We’re not going for an Academy Award.