Kiss Don’t Tell. Avril Tremayne
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inwardly. Why? Because he was a sucker when it came to his sister and since she damn well knew it, she took shameless advantage of him. And because it had been sold to him as a fifteen-minute job. Walk in and unsettle her fast. Be unpleasantly intimidating. Not cruel, not disparaging, not nasty to innocent, awkward Lane—just intimidating enough to scare her out of her insane scheme. Enough that she’d be ripping up her contract and showing him the door.
Innocent? Awkward?
Did Sarah even know this woman who was supposed to be one of her best friends?
Sex lessons! Who in their right mind would contract a total stranger to teach them about sex? To actually show them how to do it, all gory details included? For all Lane knew, he could be some depraved murderer. A pervert. A weirdo.
Which of course explained Sarah’s plea to him, because God alone only knew what Lane would have ended up with if she’d done what she’d intended and got some stranger off a dating app. Any other man would have had her stripped and under him by now, skip the formalities.
Because hell, she may not radiate raw sex appeal, but the untouchable, unruffled calmness she exuded was somehow more seductive. An almost irresistible challenge, like a citadel daring you to breach its walls. And she was pretty enough, in a clear-cut, haughty way that would make any man want to mess her up a little. Yep, any other man in his place right now would—
No, he wasn’t going to think about it. For his own sanity, he was going to put it out of his mind.
He watched, narrow-eyed, as Lane placed her briefcase on the floor and the papers in her hand on the dining table. Surprise, surprise—the table was glass. Hall table, coffee table, and now the dining table—all glass.
He hated glass furniture. Was her bed made of glass too? It wouldn’t surprise him. Lane looked inscrutably cool enough to have a glass bed. Cool as a refrigerated cucumber. No, cooler. Three months, God help him! If he agreed to do this, they’d be able to cut up his body for ice cubes at the end of it.
Not that he was going to agree. Nope. No way.
She gestured with one hand to the opposite side of the table. She had to be annoyed with him after his graceless entry, but not by one dip of her auburn eyelashes did she show it. Everything was tightly controlled, even the precision of her next hand movement, which said: ‘Sit—and do it now.’
Adam sat.
Dammit, he thought immediately, he was obeying her, like a dutiful puppy. It was a foreign feeling, to be obeying someone—and he didn’t like it one bit.
Keeping Sarah’s firm instructions in mind, he tried out a glower. People had been known to run full pelt from one of his scowls—the eyebrow, courtesy of stepmother #1’s belt buckle, added a certain fierceness—so he figured it should at least give Lane a few second thoughts about what she was getting herself into.
‘Can’t find a man to provide the service free of charge?’ he asked, with his best attempt at surly belligerence.
‘I’m sure I could have, if all I wanted was a fun night out. But this is not about fun. It’s about knowledge and technique.’ Lane smoothed out her papers. ‘And I’ve been assured you’re highly skilled.’
What the—? Take a damn breath. ‘I’ve never had any complaints.’
‘Good. Then let’s get started.’
Adam felt his teeth grinding. ‘Let’s,’ he said, not knowing where the hell this was going to end up.
His teeth were still grinding half an hour later when Lane had painstakingly, without a blush, gone through the ins and outs of an exhaustive list of terms and conditions. It was an effort to match her detachment as she calmly discussed confidentiality, payment by direct deposit into an account of his choice (form included, to be filled out at his leisure), the minimum two/maximum four nights-per-week schedule, the fact that the lessons would be taught at her house, blood tests, contraception, the unlikely event of pregnancy, and so on and so forth and forth and forth.
And after it all, she folded her slender, pale hands together and waited.
Without a word, he tossed his copy of the contract onto the table.
Her hands tightened on each other for a fraction of a second. ‘Any questions?’
How would his sister expect him to respond to that? Actually I’m only here to scare you out of it? Surely Sarah knew that once Lane Davis made up her mind, nothing budged her. He’d only just met her and even he could see it. Just the effort she’d put into the contract told him he was going to have his work cut out for him. He was reluctantly impressed. It was a wonder every law firm in the country wasn’t beating her door down with an employment offer.
What the hell was he supposed to do? Sarah’s plan was failing dismally. Adam thought he’d done a good job of being unpleasantly intimidating, but Lane wasn’t daunted. Intrepid, that’s what she was. Which, in his book, was another word for reckless.
A Plan B would have been nice right about now. Except he didn’t have one.
He could just refuse to sign the contract, he supposed. Let Sarah look after the mess herself.
He opened his mouth to tell Lane the deal was off.
Then he saw her hands tighten again. Ah, so that was it. Right there. The tell. A sign of weakness. He looked up quickly, expecting to enjoy a moment of triumph. But something in her eyes pulled at him. Vulnerability, where he’d expected none. Surely he wasn’t imagining that glimmer of … what was it? Confusion … anxiety … distress …? No, he wasn’t imagining it. She masked it, lightning fast, but a split second too late.
Goddammit to hell!
He tried to tell himself to ignore that look, to tell himself that if he turned her down, she’d give up—but deep down he knew better. There would be no giving up. Lane Davis would do whatever it took to get the job done. Which in this case meant finding someone else. Someone who’d be only too delighted to make love to her for the prescribed two to four nights a week. He wouldn’t put it past her to write her name on the wall in the men’s toilet at the local pub if that was what it took.
A strange sense of protectiveness clawed its way through his normally impervious psyche. He looked at Lane again, trying to reject the feeling. Her lips were dauntingly calm, saying ‘I’m invincible,’ but he’d seen that look in her eyes and he couldn’t unsee it.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Adam asked.
She blinked. He saw her draw in a deep breath, even though he didn’t hear it. And then: ‘The truth?’
‘And nothing but.’
‘All right. It’s been borne in on me that I don’t do … this … well. And I like to do things well.’
‘Borne in on you by …?’ Adam prompted.
He was intrigued to see a blush work its way up from Lane’s neck up to her cheekbones—and the fact that it wasn’t an attractive blush made it all the more powerful, more honest. More … dangerous.
‘It doesn’t matter who. What matters is that he was right about my lack of expertise. That particular experience made me see that I need a teacher. A good teacher. A hired teacher, who can be bound by a confidentiality clause. Confidentiality is very important to me—I can’t stress that enough.’
‘So it all comes down to something one douchebag said. That’s what he is, Lane. A douchebag.’
‘Yes, I know that. Now, at least. But I’m sure he isn’t the only … er … douchebag … out there, so best to be prepared.’
Douchebag. That word didn’t exactly trip off her tongue.
‘What if I can’t perform to your satisfaction?’ he asked.
‘We can terminate the arrangement. It’s