Billionaire Bosses Collection. Кэрол Мортимер
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interior.
A pungent blend of new fibreglass, rubber and coconut-scented wax tickled her nose, but through all that she could smell the potent male beside her: sunshine and sea air and pure Archer.
He was right, of course. Knowing what learning to surf entailed would give her more credibility when she manned the surf school online forums, so technically this classified as work.
But the part where he sized up her body, his glance as intimate as a lover’s caress, went beyond work. Way beyond.
Her skin grew clammy as he flicked through the suits on a rack before unhooking a black wetsuit with a fuchsia zig-zag and handing it to her.
‘Here—this should fit.’
A little tremor of excitement shot through her as her fingertips brushed the rubber. How long since she’d done something spontaneous and fun and just for her? Too long. And as he handed her a practical navy one-piece, she suddenly couldn’t wait to get out there.
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Changing rooms back there. But first let’s get you set up with a board.’
‘Whatever you choose will be fine.’
He folded his arms, making his biceps bulge beneath the trendily frayed ends of his designer teal T-shirt. ‘Don’t you want to get a feel for the board in here before we head out?’
Feeling one hundred percent novice, she wrinkled her nose. ‘Um, I’m guessing I’m supposed to say yes?’
‘Yeah. You need to connect with your board.’
‘Oh, brother,’ she muttered, rolling her eyes as they moved across to the other side of the shed, where boards stood vertically in racks. ‘Next you’ll be making that hand sign and telling me to hang loose.’
He smirked. ‘The shaka sign is part of surf culture.’
She extended her thumb and little finger while keeping the middle fingers curled. ‘So does this make me cool?’
‘Nah. You have to stay on a board longer than thirty seconds for that.’
She laughed, watching him run his hands over the boards, sliding down the smooth surfaces, his rapt expression almost making her jealous.
He’d once looked at her like that.
Before he bolted without a backward glance.
She’d do well to remember that rather than wishing she were a surfboard right about now.
‘This one.’ He slid a monstrous cream board etched in ochre swirls from the rack. ‘This is your board.’
‘Did the fibreglass speak to you?’
His eyes narrowed in indignation. ‘Are you mocking me?’
‘A little.’
‘Let’s see who mocks who when you’re face-planting the waves,’ he said, beckoning her closer. ‘Here, you hold it.’
The thing weighed a tonne, but she managed to hold it upright—just. ‘Feels like this thing’s made of stone.’
‘The best epoxy resin, actually, which makes it stronger and lighter than traditional boards.’ He took hold of her hand and ran it down the board. ‘This is called the deck.’
He edged her hand towards the side of the board in a long, slow sweep that made her bite her lip to stop groaning out loud.
There was something so sensual about having him stand close, his body radiating heat, warming her back, his arms outstretched and inadvertently wrapping around her, his large fingers splayed across hers as they’d once splayed across her belly.
She swallowed and prayed he didn’t expect an answer, for there wasn’t a hope she could speak with her throat constricted.
Her heart pounded like a jackhammer, the blood coursed through her body like liquid wildfire.
The heat suffocated her, making breathing difficult, making thinking impossible, making her crave the insane...him shoving the board aside, ripping off her clothes, and taking her right here, right now, on the sandy floor.
‘The back is the tail, the forward tip is the nose, and the side edges are the rails.’ He guided her hand back to the middle and she swayed a little. ‘The concave surface from nose to tail is the rocker.’
He moved the board side to side and she almost whimpered.
She must have made some giveaway sound, because he wrapped his arms around her from behind, making holding the board steady impossible.
She could feel his heat, feel how much he wanted her pressed up against her, and she’d never felt the urge to forget sanity as much as she did at that moment.
Correction. She’d experienced the same insanity the first night they’d met—the night he’d romanced her and charmed her and convinced her that tumbling into bed in the early hours of the morning, with the Capri moonlight spilling over them and accentuating the beautiful craziness of the night, was the only possible thing she wanted.
Which begged the question...what did she want now?
While her mind tussled with the dilemma, her body gave a resounding response by leaning back into him.
She heard his sharp intake of breath, felt his arms stiffen.
She had no idea how long they stayed like that, suspended for an incredibly tension-fraught moment in time, and if it hadn’t for the beep of her darn phone indicating she had a message she had a fair idea of what might have happened.
‘Better get that in case it’s about Mum,’ she said, instantly missing his warmth as he released her and stepped away, managing to hold the board upright and disentangle herself from her simultaneously.
‘I’ll meet you outside when you’re done,’ he said, his voice husky and laced with the same passion pumping through her veins as he picked up the boards as if they weighed nothing and marched outside.
With a sigh of regret she shook her head to clear it, fished her phone out of her pocket and checked it. The message from a client could have waited.
This all-consuming yearning, making her want to run after Archer and drag him back to the sanctity of this shed to finish what they’d started, was not so patient.
Torn between wanting to indulge her newly awakened cravings and wanting to slap herself upside the head, she marched over to the change rooms.
The sooner she got back behind the safety of her computer screen and away from sexy surfer, the better.
* * *
Archer jammed the surfboards into the sand and took off for the ocean at a run.
He needed the clarity only the sea could bring. And the chill to ease his inexorable desire.
He’d had a close call back there. So close to giving in to the relentless drive to possess Callie again, to see if the resurfacing memories were half as good as he remembered.
Who was he trying to kid? Those hazy memories were becoming sharper by the day. Even the most trivial things, like watching Callie snag her hair into a ponytail or jot down notes, would resurrect memories of how she’d done the same thing years ago, and he’d be catapulted back to a time when they’d had no responsibilities, no pressures, and were free to indulge their passion.
A time he’d deliberately screwed up to avoid feeling the same way he had when he’d discovered his family had withheld the truth about his dad: as if he wasn’t good enough.
He’d trusted his family and they’d let him down, seriously interfering with his ability to trust anyone.
If he couldn’t trust them, who could he trust?
Walking away from Callie back then had been inevitable. Early days in a burgeoning career taking him straight to the top. So when she’d