Cruise Control Read online

  “Sorry,” she said, her tone implying she was anything but.

  He ended his call, and she studied his face briefly before accelerating away from the intersection. Not by the flicker of an eyelid did he look remotely guilty or uncomfortable about what he’d just done.

  The initial desire she’d felt when she looked at him curdled into disdain now that she saw him for the arrogant business bully he was. So what if he had broad shoulders and bedroom eyes? He had no soul, and he was happy to suck the joy out of other people’s lives. Her world had once been filled with people like him. But not anymore.

  Her hands firmed on the steering wheel. The sooner this trip was over, the better, list or no list. For a few crazy moments there she’d let herself get swept up in Mr. Arrogant’s superficial charm, but now she saw him for what he was. Once he was gone, she would wind down the windows and clear his woody aftershave from her car, and just as easily flush away her body’s aberrant reaction to him.

  Relief washed through her, and she told herself it was because she’d soon be rid of a man she’d swiftly decided she didn’t like. But then her innate self-honesty kicked in and she admitted to herself that maybe some of her relief was because she didn’t have to push herself out of her sexual comfort zone and acknowledge the zing of attraction between the two of them. It was all so much easier and more manageable now she knew he was a jerk.

  She should probably be disappointed in herself, she knew. But he’d taken the pressure off with his boorish behavior. Another day, with another man, she’d be braver, bolder, she promised herself.

  For now, she just wanted to get the slave driver out of her car. Her lips pressed into a determined line, she eased her foot down on the accelerator.

  IN THE BACK OF THE CAR, Marc stared absently at the blur of traffic and buildings rushing by outside, wishing he could dismiss his niece’s phone call from his mind as easily as he’d extracted himself from the call itself. Sally was just eighteen, and supposedly keen to find a place in his business and start her working life, rather than slog her way through three years of university doing a commerce degree. He wasn’t opposed to her ambition—in fact, he admired it—but he expected her to earn her place on his team. He’d built his computer solutions business up from nothing, and he’d never let anyone take a free ride. The truth was, he was disappointed that Sally thought she could skip out early from work to go skiing for the weekend just because she was related to the boss. She was a good kid, but they were in for a bumpy ride if this was a sign of things to come.

  Without him consciously willing it, his gaze wandered back to the front of the car. More specifically, to the legs of the woman behind the wheel. Clearly, despite the fact that he’d already told himself he wasn’t interested, subconsciously he was hoping for another glimpse of the expanse of lace and leg that had been so abruptly withdrawn from display. He frowned, wrenching his eyes away. Tara’s betrayal had burned him badly, and the last thing he needed or wanted was to be attracted to someone.

  Ten years of marriage, flushed away. He couldn’t think about it without feeling a surge of bitterness. He’d been so determined to make his marriage work. He’d dedicated his life to building the security they needed before they started a family. And just when everything had come to fruition, he’d walked in on Tara and John…. More fool him for catching an early flight home to spend more time with his wife.

  But despite his best intentions, despite having every reason in the world not to, his gaze kept creeping toward the front of the car.

  She was focused on the road, and he studied her face in profile. Her hair was hidden beneath a traditional chauffeur’s hat, but she had a small, straight nose, sloping cheekbones and a full, hot pink mouth that promised almost as much as those legs. Her driver ID was displayed on the dashboard, and he saw her name was Anna Jackson.

  I wonder if you’re as hot as that look you gave me, Anna?

  Then he remembered the way she’d pulled her skirt down, and how her eyes had reprimanded him for looking in the first place.

  He wasn’t in the mood to play games. If she hoped to intrigue him or excite him with a pretense at being coy, she could think again—he wasn’t in the market.

  Registering the tightness in his trousers, he corrected himself—okay, maybe he was in the market, but not for the sort of cat-and-mouse courtship Anna-the-chauffeur seemed to be offering with her come-hither eyes and her stay-away skirt tweak. Now, if she was to offer him one hot night, no holds barred, no strings attached…That was about his speed right now.

  “Marc, have you been listening to a word I’ve said?” Gary said beside him, and Marc realized that the background drone he’d been tuning out had been his friend debriefing after their recent meeting.

  “I’m with you,” he said, tearing his eyes away from her.

  “So are we still going ahead with the offer?” Gary asked.

  “Yep,” Marc said.

  Gary looked baffled. “Even after all the stuff they just revealed about their expected losses for this financial year?”

  Marc smiled, his razor-sharp mind winging back to that meeting. The executives of Sum Systems had given every appearance of being frank and earnest when they revealed the perilous state of the company’s finances. Apparently their little routine had even been good enough to convince Gary.

  “Have you ever walked into a business and been granted full access to the books like that?” Marc asked, idly smoothing a hand over the car’s supple leather upholstery.

  Gary opened his mouth to speak, paused, then suddenly broke into a smile.

  “Right. I see.” He nodded. “They’re trying to put us off.”

  “Oh, yeah. Just a little,” Marc agreed.

  “But we’re not going to be put off,” Gary said.

  “Correct,” Marc confirmed.

  Gary nodded again, then fell into silence. Marc used the opportunity to glance at the driver. Despite himself, he was intrigued. She kept her gaze firmly pinned on the road, but he could tell she was aware of him. A sudden urge gripped him, and he leaned forward in his seat.

  “It’s okay, I’m not going to take you up on your offer,” he said in her ear.

  He watched in the rearview mirror as her toffee brown eyes widened with shock.

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked, her tone chilly.

  “You heard me. You’re off the hook,” he said, enjoying the flush of color that ran up her cheeks.

  Her eyes flashed, and he was aware of Gary staring at him, mouth agape.

  Her mouth firmed, and he saw a muscle pulse in her jaw. Then she flicked the indicator on, and pulled the car over. For a second he thought she was about to kick him out of the car—then he saw that they’d arrived at his company headquarters. He checked his watch, impressed. She’d gotten him from downtown George Street, across the Sydney Harbour Bridge and into the north shore in under ten minutes.

  “Nice timing,” he said drily.

  “I thought so,” she said before opening her door and sliding out of the car.

  Gary shifted uncomfortably beside him. “Do you know her?” he whispered furtively.

  Marc didn’t bother responding; his attention was all on the woman who was even now moving to open Gary’s door. She was dressed in a charcoal gray pinstripe skirt, slim-line, with a matching fitted jacket. The fabric clung to her curves as she walked, and he saw that the rest of her body more than lived up to the promise made by that flash of thigh earlier. She was a very sexy woman. Full-breasted, if he was any judge, with real curves, not all ribs and hips like the half-starved women in his social circle.

  Feeling his body tightening once more, Marc realized that he was fixating on Anna Jackson again. Hadn’t he just decided he wasn’t in the market for anything? It disturbed him that in the space of a ten-minute car ride, their driver had managed to almost completely dominate his thoughts.

  This is not going to happen, he decided abruptly. He didn’t need this kind of complication in his life, no m
atter how hot the package it came wrapped in. Wanting someone, desiring them, was dangerously close to needing them. Depending on them. And he’d learned the hard way that there was no such thing as loyalty, trust or honor between men and women. He wasn’t prepared to make the same mistake twice. There were plenty of other women out there who could scratch a physical itch, all of them much safer bets than a woman who, for whatever reason, seemed to hold some fascination for him.

  Fascination he did not need. His life, his world, was all about control. And he wasn’t about to change it for a luscious mouth and sexy thighs.

  Despite the fact that she was circling around to open his door, he beat her to it, pushing it open and surging out of the car. Not bothering to look at her—proving to himself that he didn’t need to, or even want to—Marc strode toward the entrance of his company headquarters.

  And that, he thought to himself, is the end of that.

  IT WAS ALMOST FOUR O’CLOCK before Anna found the wallet. Many of her passengers brought newspapers or magazines with them, along with takeaway coffees, and the odds were good that they would leave their castoffs behind when they exited at the end of their trip. In the five weeks she’d been in business, Anna had formed the habit of checking on the rear of the car after each client to ensure it was at its best for her next passengers. But the wallet had wedged itself between the door and the seat cushion, which explained why she hadn’t spotted it earlier.

  Made from the softest black leather, the wallet was slim and very expensive looking. Just holding it in her hand gave her an odd feeling of prescience, and when she opened it to check for ID she wasn’t really surprised to learn that it belonged to Marc Lewis, he of the slave-driving ethos and burning bedroom eyes.

  “Wouldn’t you know it,” she muttered to herself, studying his driver’s license photo. She looked like a surprised frog in hers; he, of course, looked sleek and sexy. Typical.

  Sighing, Anna checked her job sheet for contact details, and pulled out her mobile phone. A feminine voice answered on the second ring.

  “Lewis Technologies.”

  “This is Anna Jackson calling from the car service that Mr. Lewis booked this afternoon. I’m ringing to let you know he left his wallet in my car,” Anna said briskly.

  She opened her mouth to explain that she would drop it off when she was scheduled to be on the north shore again on her next job, but after a second she became aware that she was talking to thin air. She was about to redial when a male voice sounded in her ear.

  “I understand you have my wallet.”

  It was him. The deep husk of his voice made her shiver. What was it about this man that got to her so badly? She cleared her throat.

  “Yes, that’s right. I’ll be on the north shore again this afternoon—” she said, but he cut her off impatiently.

  “No good. I’m heading out to Manly now,” he said, naming a suburb way across town.

  “Well, I’ll just leave it at reception in your building for you,” she said tartly, her hackles rising all over again at his high-handed attitude.

  “I need it this evening, I’ve got an important dinner at the opera house,” he said. He was clearly annoyed. Which made two of them.

  “Don’t you have a lackey who can run your wallet to you, Mr. Lewis? I really don’t have the time to be chasing you across town,” she said coolly. Ten years of practicing law had given her a killer business voice, and she used it to full effect.

  “My lackeys, as you call them, are all busy doing their jobs. Your job, I understand, is to drive people places. What would it take for you to bring my wallet to me at the opera house at seven this evening?”

  Her first impulse was to name a ridiculous sum to penalize him for his unending egotism. But then she remembered that she was the owner of a fledgling small business.

  Sighing, she slid her cap off and ran her hand through her hair.

  “What’s on at the opera?” she asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Are they still performing Carmen?”

  There was long silence, then she heard him talking to someone else. “Carmen’s still running,” he finally confirmed.

  “I’ll meet you on the steps at seven,” she said crisply, making a snap decision.

  Carmen was one of her favorite operas, and part of her promise to herself in her new life was to be more spontaneous.

  “Bill the company for your time,” he said dismissively.

  “Steps at seven,” she repeated, then ended the call before she was tempted to tell him she’d thrown his wallet in the harbor.

  Why did he annoy her so much? He was just a typical, run-of-the-mill successful businessman—used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted it. She bet he was rude to waitresses, and that he treated his staff like disposable machines.

  But you still think he’s sexy, the honest little voice in her head chimed in. She shied away from the thought, not wanting to go there.

  Determined to distract herself, she spent the time before she had to pick up her last client indulging in some window-shopping. As soon as she saw the dress she knew she had to have it. It was in the window of an upscale boutique in the heart of the city, and she knew without checking that it would be insanely expensive. Old habits of thrift and self-control held her frozen in front of the window for a heartbeat, but then Anna reminded herself that life was now. And she had a mandate to be more impulsive. She’d spent her last thirty-two years planning for some ineffable, unknowable time in the future when she could sit back and enjoy herself. But she’d learned the hard way that life could be snatched from her hands in the blink of an eye.

  Within three minutes she was shimmying into the fitted black washed silk dress. The halter neck draped low over her breasts; the waist cinched in tight, accentuating her hips and bust; and the skirt kicked out again at knee length. It was impossible to wear with a bra, and she slid hers off with a definite feeling of decadence. It was the sexiest dress she’d ever seen, let alone worn, and it looked great with the high stilettos the saleswoman recommended. Suppressing the stern voice in the back of her head telling her she couldn’t possibly go out in public without a bra, Anna smoothed a hand down the suedelike softness of the skirt. She wanted this dress. She wanted to be the sort of woman who owned a dress like this. She’d overhauled her entire wardrobe since she’d left the law firm, but if she was honest with herself, she’d admit that she’d still played it pretty safe in her choices. A suit was still a suit, even it was more fitted or made from a sexier fabric. But this dress…this dress was a commitment to the new her. Biting her lip, she reached for her credit card.

  She was back in her car with the shoes and dress in a bag beside her in under ten minutes. A pleasant expectation warmed her as she dropped off her last client for the day. She was going to the opera to see Carmen, and she had a sexy new dress.

  Suddenly she realized that there was only one thing missing to make it a perfect evening of impulse and pleasure.

  Slotting her phone into the hands-free cradle, Anna turned the Mercedes toward the city. She hit the speed-dial for her brother’s mobile phone as she tossed a coin into the toll-booth basket on the way across the Harbour Bridge.

  “Danny speaking,” her brother said, his voice bright.

  “Hey, it’s me—what are you up to tonight?” she asked.

  “Anna Banana. Is this a trick question?”

  “Just answer it,” she said, laughing at her brother’s mock suspicion.

  “I’m as free as a bird,” he said instantly.

  “Great. Meet me at the opera house. We’re going to Carmen, my treat,” she said.

  “Whoa! The lady’s going crazy!”

  “Dress nice, and get your skates on—the show starts at seven-thirty,” she warned him, ending the call before her brother could make any more cracks about her unusual behavior.

  Traffic was slow funneling toward the harbor, and she pulled into the underground parking garage at the opera house with j
ust five minutes to spare until her appointment to return Marc Lewis’s wallet. Staring at her watch, she reluctantly abandoned her original idea of changing in the ladies’ room, then returning her work clothes to the car. Instead, she found a corner parking space and reversed her car into it. Sliding out of the car, she glanced around the deserted, dimly lit garage. There was no one here, and in this dark corner she was virtually assured of privacy. Twenty seconds, thirty seconds maximum, she’d be changed and ready for a glamorous night out. She reached for the buttons on her work shirt, but her fingers staunchly refused to go to work.

  Oh, yeah, she was such a changed woman.

  She gritted her teeth. As much as she wanted to be a wild and crazy femme fatale, she had years of being a good girl to overcome. Crawling into the backseat of her car, she hunched behind the driver’s seat and began unbuttoning her blouse. Her elbow connected with the side window as she slid one arm free, then she knocked her head on the roof as she tried to give herself more room. When her watch got caught on the cuff of her shirt, she sighed with frustration and closed her eyes.

  Okay, so this wasn’t going so well. Untangling her shirt from her watch, she checked the time. She’d chewed up three minutes being Little Miss Prim in the backseat of her car.

  “You’re such a pussy,” she goaded herself. “Who cares if anybody sees? At the end of the day, what does it matter?”

  For a moment she had a memory flash of those long hours in hospital, the endless bouts of nausea and the hushed sympathy of her friends and family.

  “To hell with it,” she muttered under her breath as she stepped out of the car. “What’s the worst thing that can happen?”

  MARC SLID HIS CAR into a parking space and pulled on the hand brake. Turning off the ignition on his Jaguar convertible, he hit the button to bring the roof up and unfolded himself from the deep bucket seat. He had a few minutes until he was supposed to meet the chauffeur to get his wallet back, and he calmly pulled his suit jacket on. He kept aftershave in the glove compartment for work-to-evening gigs like this, and he sprayed himself perfunctorily before locking the car up and heading for the exit. The underground parking lot smelled of damp and concrete, and he frowned at the dim lighting—it was a thief’s wet dream down here.