Kiss Don't Tell Page 11

  She watched as one of Adam’s hands came up to scrawl impatiently through his hair. The sight did something strange to her skin and she just didn’t know how. How could he make her flesh quiver without even touching her? Well, it was pointless trying to figure out such fine detail when she was separated from him by a plate-glass window! Since she patently couldn’t text him that excuse she’d been contemplating now that she’d seen him inside waiting for her, she might as well get up close and personal.

  Hopefully in her new pink dress she’d engender some reverse flesh quivering that would make him want to have sex with her after dinner—the thought of which set off a full-blown shiver of equal fear and anticipation.

  She checked her watch: 7:32 p.m. It was time to make her entrance.

  She ran a double-checking hand over her ponytail, took a deep breath, then opened the door and walked into the cheery warmth of the restaurant with her usual cool smile in place. And miraculously, her cool smile stayed in place when four steps in, she tripped on Erica’s high heels at precisely the moment Adam chose to look in her direction.

  Thankfully it was a stumble, not a face plant—and thankfully, Adam didn’t make a spectacle of her by rushing over to save her as she half-feared he might do in some misguided alpha male quixotic moment. But the knowing look in his eyes as he took in what dress she was wearing made her want to take off one of the pesky shoes and throw it at him. How she regretted not treating him to the blue suit again! But that would have been childish. That would have been her consciously not learning Lesson Three: clothing should not be boring.

  As she reached the table, Adam rose to pull out Lane’s chair for her, and her heart kicked and skipped a beat. Instantly, she forgot about her dress and her shoes. There was no room inside her for anything other than awe at how good he looked and how wonderful the smell of soap on a man could be.

  He was wearing black pants and a shirt so white it dazzled the eyes, and when he smiled at her as he returned to his seat, her heart skipped another helpless beat. It wasn’t one of his deliberate, cold smiles, or one of his hanging-on-by-a-thread smiles. It was a relaxed smile, the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling, the way they’d done when he’d laughed with the waiter before she came in. It was as though he didn’t even know he was smiling. He really was quite gorgeous when he smiled like that, rough edges and all.

  Without having uttered one word, Lane took a breadstick from the cane basket in the middle of the table, nervously snapped it in two, and then laid both pieces aside untasted.

  She cleared her throat. ‘So, we’re having dinner.’ And what an intelligent way to start a conversation that was.

  ‘That we are,’ he said, and his smile widened. ‘Conversing over dinner is a good way to get to know someone.’

  ‘But why do we need to get to know each other?’

  And just like that, his smile slipped. He examined her as though she were an exotic insect beneath glass. ‘Lane, it’s not a good idea to keep your man locked in the bedroom. Any decent man will want to come out of there eventually. And you want to end up with a decent man, not a douchebag, right?’

  She was very conscious of Adam watching her. A waiting kind of watching. But what was he waiting for? She reached for a second breadstick, ignoring the two perfect halves of her first one. ‘But you and I,’ she said slowly, ‘we’re only together for three months. Well, minus a week, now.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean we have to stay an assortment of body parts to each other. And three months is a long time.’

  ‘For you, yes. Sarah said.’

  ‘Oh she did, did she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What else did she say about me?’

  ‘That you weren’t interested in commitment. That’s what made you perfect for my purpose.’

  ‘I’m not interested in commitment. Just the thought of it makes me break out in a cold sweat. But I don’t consider getting to know someone a commitment, Lane.’

  ‘It’s a commitment of sorts,’ she said. ‘Of time if nothing else. And time is valuable.’

  ‘Then you must be valuable, since I’m spending my time with you.’

  The second breadstick snapped. Lane picked up her glass of water and took a sip. She didn’t know what to say. How to protect herself from comments like that, from taking them more seriously than he meant. That’s why dinner and conversation were such a bad idea. Sex, just sex, would be so much easier.

  Unless the girls were right about setting a thief to catch a thief …? Maybe practising conversation with Adam would make her less likely to be blarneyed by David Bennett. Because that stuff David had said today about helping her let off steam, he couldn’t have really meant; it was just easy, meaningless flirting. He hadn’t cared that she couldn’t see him tonight. She’d bet he hadn’t given her another thought for the whole day. He was probably having dinner with some other female. She tested that thought in her head: David with someone else right that second, when she could have been with him herself. Did it bother her? Just like the whole Anthea scenario at the office today, the answer was no! Which meant … what? She had no idea!

  God, she was so stupid about this stuff. Stupid about all of it. And Adam was clearly waiting for her to say something, but she had no idea what to say so she just sat there looking at him. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  He made a funny sort of sound—halfway between a laugh and a sigh. ‘I surrender the point. So come on, keep it coming, what else has my sister said about me?’

  ‘Well … nothing really.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nothing much. Just that you’re … you know … very experienced.’

  He grimaced. ‘That girl is way too familiar with my sex life. I’m definitely going to have to take back her key.’

  ‘Oh, she has a key to your house? That’s … nice. That you’re so close.’

  ‘It has its disadvantages, I promise you.’

  Silence, because Lane had no idea what to say. She couldn’t see any disadvantages.

  ‘And you didn’t ask her any other questions about me?’ Adam asked.

  ‘She told me the basics—you know, your age, where you work, things like that. But I didn’t think I needed to know anything else. It all happened so fast.’

  ‘Okaaay, are you interested, maybe, in why I’m not interested in commitment?’

  Yes! ‘No,’ she said, and took another sip of water.

  ‘Now that’s a lie,’ Adam said. ‘Your eyes do a little flick to the left when you tell a lie.’

  Choke. Cough. How had he worked that out so fast?

  He held up his hands, palms out. ‘But hey, that’s fine. If you want to pretend you’re not interested that’s your call. But we can’t sit here all night in silence staring at the tablecloth and snapping breadsticks in half. I assure you, there’ll be no sex afterwards if we do because I’ll be asleep. So I’ll tell you instead about … let’s see … about the development my firm’s tendering for. It’s to turn an old hostel in Darlinghurst into a heritage-style, boutique hotel. I love Darlinghurst. It’s so hipster cool but hasn’t completely lost its seedy edge. I love the skinny laneways and the small bars and the artiness, and its shady past as a red-light district is the cherry on top.’

  ‘I don’t really know it.’

  ‘So I’ll take you there one day. I think the hotel is going to be the coolest place to stay in the whole of Sydney if it’s done right. AQHP’s plans include a retro-style black and white lobby and a re-created conservatory using the plans of the original gardens. I’m a sucker for an unusual garden—just ask Sarah about what we did to get hers right.’

  ‘Oh, you helped with that? I love her garden.’

  ‘Ode to a Grecian urn is what she wanted—because she’s a pain the arse and can’t choose something easy to save her life—and it was a challenge in that tiny space, let me tell you. But the hotel’s garden is an even bigger challenge because of its size and s
ituation.’

  Talking about the project carried them through a first course of classic minestrone and crostini. The idea of transforming a run-down 1890s mansion from a cheap backpacker tumbledown to its former grandeur sounded like magic to Lane. She’d always admired creativity—probably because the only creative bone in her body was tied to what she could do with an Excel spreadsheet! All she had to do was compare Sarah’s colour-burst of a flat with her own drably furnished house to understand her artistic limitations.

  ‘So what specific part of the work is yours, Adam?’ Lane asked, as the conversation wound down with the clearing away of their soup bowls.

  ‘I don’t—?’ He stopped, looking puzzled. ‘What do you mean, what part?’

  ‘Well, I know you’re a builder. So are you … like … doing the frame, the brickwork, the tiling, what …? Or is it the garden? But that would be a landscaper’s job, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Um … it’s my firm doing the whole thing, Lane.’

  ‘Yes, I understand that, but what’s your specialty at AQHP?’

  ‘Er … AQHP stands for Adam Quinn Heritage Projects. And I’m the boss. I’m an architect, Lane. Surely Sarah told you that much at least.’

  She stared at him. ‘But … I was sure she said you were a builder.’

  ‘Well … yeah … in a way, I guess. AQHP manages the whole thing from design to completion. I generally direct the building, but I like getting stuck into the physical work, too, whenever I can.’ He held up his hands. ‘You’ve felt these. Rough and ruined.’

  Oh yes, she’d felt them. Wonderful, strong, capable hands. But she just couldn’t quite compute what he was saying. ‘But you’re so young. To have your own firm, I mean.’

  He leaned over the table as though about to whisper a secret, but all he said was, ‘I promise I’ve done the degree, got the qualifications, the insurance, and a great team. Nothing’s fallen down yet.’ And then he leaned back and laughed. ‘And twenty-nine doesn’t feel so young after a day on a building site.’

  ‘I just … thought …’

  Insect-under-glass look. ‘You thought I was a construction worker who needed a bit of extra cash, and that’s why I was so eager to sign on your dotted line, didn’t you?’

  ‘Well … I thought … at least … I didn’t really think at all, I guess.’ She paused, shrugged, uncomfortable. ‘Which isn’t like me, but as I said it all happened so fast.’

  ‘Before you even had a chance to look me up on Google, huh?’

  ‘Well … yes.’

  ‘Let me short-circuit that. My father’s an architect, Lane—a very fine one.’

  ‘Yes, I know that much at least. Sarah talks about him all the time.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s daddy’s girl. And mummy’s too. Spoilt brat.’

  ‘And you’re not?’

  ‘Nah, I am too. Our parents are what you might call permissive. They let us do pretty much whatever we want and think everything we do is wonderful. And it’s because of Dad that I’ve been living and breathing architecture most of my life. Dad’s not hands-on, but I always wanted to get my hands dirty so when I went with him to building sites he left me to it. He never learned how to say “no” even though Mum used to scream blue murder when I’d coming home scraped raw with hammered thumbs and bits of metal embedded in me.’

  He laughed softly. ‘He still hasn’t learned how to say “no” to either of us, so we’ve had to learn to be careful what we ask for because we’ll get it. Not exactly character-building over the long term if you’re always going whining to mummy and daddy, so Sarah and I made a pact long ago to only whine to each other and deal with all the crap in our lives by ourselves.’

  ‘And did you have a lot of … of crap?’ Lane asked.

  He grinned at her. ‘If I told you we did it would negate the pact, wouldn’t it?’

  Lane was quiet, thinking through what he’d said, comparing it to her own family life. She supposed she had a permissive parent herself, in a way; her mother basically left her to do whatever she wanted. The difference was that her mother didn’t call anything she did ‘wonderful’. And Lane couldn’t help hoping for that.

  ‘Anyway,’ Adam continued, ‘I guess my time with Dad set me up for starting my own business earlier than might be considered usual.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ she said, and reached for her wine—not to drink; just for something to occupy her hands. ‘And it’s a … a thriving business, is it?’

  ‘We do very well, yes.’

  ‘Which means that you don’t need my money.’ Another uncomfortable shrug. ‘I’m not sure how you got roped into this, when you not only don’t need my money but you don’t need any more sex, either.’

  He waited a heartbeat, while Lane watched him like a hawk. And then he reached across and touched the backs of his fingers to her cheek. ‘I’ll take your money, Lane, very happily,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, but that’s not really an answer, is it?’

  He sat back, and now he was doing the watching. ‘I’m doing it because Sarah asked me to. She said for what you had in mind it would be a case of better the devil she knew—me being the devil! At least then she could be sure you wouldn’t end up with a maniac who gets his jollies from dismembering redheads and bricking them up in cellars.’

  ‘Yes, to hear Sarah and Erica talk, you’d think psychopaths are out there in their millions just waiting for me to stumble into their path!’ Lane sighed. ‘Surely it wouldn’t be that hard to find a man who wants no-strings sex.’

  ‘Lucky you—you’ve found one of them without even trying!’

  ‘Okay, so tell me: why aren’t you?’

  ‘Why aren’t I …?’

  ‘Interested in commitment.’

  He smiled slowly. ‘See, I knew you wanted to know. Well, Lane, it’s simple. Divorce, that’s why.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘You’re divorced?’

  ‘No, and I don’t want to be.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Law of averages. So many people get divorced it’s like an epidemic. And I don’t want to catch the disease.’

  ‘Lots of people don’t get divorced.’

  ‘My father has three under his belt and my mother is heading for number four.’

  ‘Four! Bertie is number four?’

  ‘Number four,’ he confirmed, ‘to be replaced by Massimo, who may or may not be a nice guy—who the hell knows, it’s too soon to tell. My two aunts and one uncle have one divorce apiece. And— Ah!’ Looking past her. ‘Saved from this tale of woe by the lasagne.’

  Lane swivelled in her seat and saw that the waiter was indeed converging on them with two serves of lasagne and a massive salad held aloft on a tray.

  Saved by the lasagne.

  But saved from what?

  She wished she knew, but once their plates were set before them, it seemed he was done with that particular conversation and she had no idea what questions to ask to get them back to it. And it was none of her business, either. It had to be a very private family matter, some deep dark secret, covered by their pact most likely, or Sarah would surely have told her about it. Instead, Bertie had been covered off in a throwaway reference with a laugh about another one biting the dust. Another one. The clue had been there. But Sarah had changed the subject so fast, there would have been no chance to take it further even if Lane had been intuitive enough to catch the meaning.

  Just as Adam was changing the subject now. Talking about another job he’d done, here in Haberfield, which was when he’d discovered Benedetto’s. Talking about the food, and the wine, and making ridiculous suggestions about what the group at the big table in the centre of the restaurant might be celebrating—none of which Lane cared about.

  She wanted to go back and delve beneath the bitterness that had invaded his voice when he’d talked about the divorces. She wanted to know exactly what had happened, and use it to … to know him. Because he seemed more mysterio
us now than he did that first night, even though he’d been a completely unknown quantity then. How could he be more of a stranger now … and yet less of one? More distant … and yet closer?

  And the big question was what was he doing with her? She was struggling to understand it. She had nothing to offer him except money. Fee-for-service. That’s the kind of deal she’d brokered, the one he’d accepted, the kind that worked for her. Fee-for-service was businesslike, easy to deal with, no pitfalls. But as it turned out there was a pitfall: he didn’t need her money. And if he didn’t need her money, and he didn’t need sex, then … what?

  To have sex with a stranger as a favour to his sister when he was already beating women off with a stick seemed ridiculous in a way Lane had never considered before—or maybe she hadn’t let herself consider it, because the moment she’d seen him she’d known he was the one she wanted for this job and nothing was going to stop her. Even now, sitting across from him and choking down lasagne when she had no appetite for it, she tried to tell herself that it didn’t matter why he’d signed the contract—only that he had signed. But somehow it did matter.

  ‘I’ll take your money, Lane,’ he’d said. And Lane knew she just had to go with that, even if it felt suddenly wrong to do so, because if he didn’t want her money, their arrangement became something different. Something unequal. She became a charity case—Sarah’s pitiful friend—and that would be untenable.

  An awkward silence descended as they finished their lasagne, and Lane desperately wanted to break it but didn’t know how.

  In the end, Adam spoke again, it seemed to her with an effort, a forced smile. ‘So, Lane, maybe we can talk about you.’

  ‘There’s not much to say,’ she said, and when he closed his eyes as though saying to himself, ‘For God’s sake!’ she hurried on, ‘I have a mother, and a brother—Brad, his name is. But my father’s dead. Sarah may have told you that …?’