She kissed him back, demanding as much as he was demanding of her. Tasting him. Savouring the feel of his wonderful male body under her hands. Guy Carver…
Guy Carver.
This was crazy.
She, Jenny Westmere, mother of Henry, wife of Ben…To kiss this man…
She was out of her mind. Panicked, she shoved her hands between her breast and his chest, pushing him away.
He released her at once. He tried to take her hands but she’d have none of it. She was three feet away from him now. Four.
‘No.’
‘No?’ His eyes were gently questioning. Not laughing. She couldn’t have borne it if he was laughing. ‘No, Jenny?’
‘I only kiss my husband,’ she said, and the words made perfect sense to her, even if they didn’t to him.
But it appeared he understood. ‘You’re not being unfaithful, Jenny. It was only a kiss.’
Only a kiss? Then why was her world spinning?
‘I’m not some easy country hick…’
‘I never thought you were.’
‘You’re here until Christmas. Will we see you again after that?’
‘Probably not.’
‘We’re ships passing in the night.’ She took a deep breath and steadied. ‘So maybe we’d better do just that—pass.’
‘I’m not into relationships,’ he said, not even smiling. ‘I’m not about to mess with your tidy life.’
‘My life’s not very tidy,’ she confessed. ‘But thank you. Now…I think I’d better go home.’
‘You’re brave enough to drive the Ferrari by yourself?’
‘Something tells me it’d be far more dangerous to stay here with you,’ she muttered. ‘But I’ll pick you up in the morning. As long as you promise not to kiss me again.’
‘You want me to promise?’
‘Yes, I do,’ she said, and if her voice sounded desperate she couldn’t help it.
‘I won’t kiss you again. I know a mistake when I see one.’
‘I’m a mistake?’
‘Absolutely,’ he told her. ‘This whole place is a mistake. I should leave now.’
Only of course he didn’t. He couldn’t. He booked into the fantastic guesthouse he’d been delivered to. He rang Malcolm in New York and confirmed that there was no one who could get here on short notice to take over organisation.
‘Scooping the Barret and Anna wedding is fabulous, though.’ Malcolm was chortling. ‘Every bride in Australia will want you after this. It’s just as well you’re there to do it hands-on. You’ll use the local staff? Great. Make sure you don’t mess up.’
The local staff? Guy thought of what he had to build on—Jenny and, by the sound of it, a crew of geriatrics—and he almost groaned.
‘It’s the best publicity we could think of,’ Malcolm said jovially. ‘I’ll manage the Film Conglomerate do. We’re fine.’
Only they weren’t. Or he wasn’t. Guy lay in the sumptuous four-poster bed that night, listening to owls in the bushland outside, and wondered what he was getting into.
He didn’t know, and he didn’t want to find out.
And five miles away Jenny was feeling exactly the same.
When she got back to the farmhouse Henry was asleep and Lorna and Jack were filling hot water bottles from the kitchen kettle.
‘Did you have a nice ride, dear?’ Lorna asked, and for the life of her Jenny couldn’t keep her face under control. Lorna watched her daughter-in-law, her eyes twinkling.
‘He seems very…personable,’ she said, speaking to no one in particular, and Jenny knew her mother-in-law was getting ideas which were ridiculous.
They were ridiculous.
She scowled at her in-laws and went to bed. But not to sleep. She stared at the ceiling for hours, and then flicked on the lamp and stared at the picture on her bedside table. Her lovely Ben, who’d brought her into this wonderful family, who’d given her Henry.
‘I love you, Ben,’ she whispered, but he didn’t answer. If he was here he’d just smile and then hug her.
She ached to be hugged.
By Ben?
‘Yes, by Ben,’ she told the night. ‘Guy Carver has been here for less than twenty-four hours. He’s an international jet-setter with megabucks. He kissed me tonight because I’ll bet that’s what international jet-setters do. He’s your boss, Jennifer Westmere. You need to maintain a dignified employer-employee relationship. Don’t stuff it up. And don’t let him kiss you again.
‘He won’t want to.
‘He might.’
She wasn’t sure who she was arguing with. If anyone could hear they’d think she was crazy.
‘Ben,’ she whispered, and lifted the frame from the bedside table and kissed it.
She turned off the lamp and remembered the kiss.
Not Ben’s kiss.
The kiss of Guy Carver.
CHAPTER FOUR
JENNY arrived at Guy’s guesthouse the next morning wearing clothing that said very clearly she was there to work. Plain white shirt, knee-length skirt, plain sandals. Guy emerged dressed in fawn chinos, a lovely soft green polo shirt with a tiny white yacht embroidered on the chest—Jenny bet it had to be the logo of the world’s most exclusive yacht club—and faded loafers. He looked at what Jenny was wearing and stopped dead.
‘The Carver corporation has a dress code,’ he said.
‘What’s wrong with this?’
‘It’s frumpy.’ It was, too. In fact, Jenny had worked quite hard to find it. There’d been an international lawn-bowls meet in Sandpiper Bay two years ago, and she’d helped organise the catering. The dress code for that had meant she’d had to go out and buy this sophisticated little outfit, and she hadn’t worn it since.
‘It’s my usual work wear,’ she lied. ‘Yesterday I was too casual.’
‘We were both too casual,’ he agreed, and she blushed.
Right. Get on with it.
‘So where do you want to start?’
‘I’ve come here to plan the refurbishment of the salon.’
‘That’s important. But there’s the little manner of two weddings…’
‘Leave the planning to me,’ he said, and she subsided into what she hoped was dignified silence. She was this man’s employee.
He’d kissed her. She should forget all about that kiss. She should…
Let’s not aim at the stars here, she told herself. Let’s just be a good little employee and put the memory of that kiss on the backburner.
But not very far back.
He was out of his depth.
They’d purchased three salons so far in this round of expansion. In each of those, Guy had visited early, taken note of the features of the building as they were, then brought his notes back to his cool grey office in Manhattan and drawn them up as he’d like them to be. With plans prepared, he’d sent a team of professionals to do his bidding, and six months later they’d opened as a Carver Salon.
Now, thanks to Lorna’s indiscretion, the Carver name would be used before he could leave his imprint.
He had to get rid of the fluff, and fast. Instead of sitting down, calmly planning for the future, he was trying to figure how he could get this place clear so if the media arrived to see the latest Carver Salon they’d see something worthy of the name. How to transform fluff to elegance in a week?
And how to ignore Jenny, sitting silently at her desk? She sat with her hands folded in front of her, a good little employee, waiting for instructions.
What was it about this woman that unnerved him?
Why was she so different?
He didn’t do relationships. He didn’t…
‘Phone Kylie,’ he said at last, goaded. ‘Tell her she’s having a Carver Wedding.’
‘I already have,’ she said meekly.
He was out of his depth. He needed help here.
‘I need your assistance,’ he snapped, and she nodded, ready to be helpful.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Jenny…’
‘Sir?’
‘Will you cut it out?’
‘Cut what out?’
‘I don’t know where the hell to start,’ he confessed, and watched as she struggled to keep the expression on her face subservient.
‘You’re asking for my input?’
‘I want some solid help here,’ he told her. ‘I assume you’re not just the girl who mans the desk? You’ve been running this place on your own since Lorna’s stroke.’
‘But you’re in charge. I’m waiting for orders.’
‘We need to get a dumpster,’ he said in exasperation. ‘Something to get rid of this lot.’
‘You have two weddings to organise before Christmas and you’re planning to redecorate the salon?’ she said cautiously. ‘Right.’ She lifted the phone. ‘I’ll order a dumpster.’
‘Dresses,’ he said, in increasing frustration. ‘We need to organise a wedding dress and attendants’ outfits.’
‘They might take some time,’ Jenny said, and started dialling.
He lifted the phone from her hand and crashed it down onto the cradle.
‘If I don’t get some solid help here I’ll—’
‘Sack me?’ she said, and smiled.
Damn the woman. He knew she was competent. He wanted to take her shoulders and shake her.
He wanted to kiss her.
That thought wasn’t helping things at all. His normally cool, calculating mind was clouded, and it was clouded because this woman was looking up at him with a strange, enigmatic smile.
This woman who was as far from his life as any woman he’d ever met. This woman who was up to her neck in emotional entanglements.
His employee.
He took a deep breath, turned, and paced the salon a couple of times, trying to clear his head. He knocked one of the bridal mannequins and spent a couple of minutes righting it.
He turned to Jenny and she was watching him, her eyes interested, her head to one side like an inquisitive sparrow.
Forget she’s a woman, he told himself. And forget she’s an employee. Let’s get this onto some sort of even keel.
‘Jenny, I’m out of my depth here,’ he told her. ‘I don’t know where to start.’
She stilled. The faint smile on her face faded. He’d shocked her, he thought. Whatever she’d been expecting it hadn’t been that.
There was a long silence.
She could keep up the play-acting, he thought. And she was definitely considering it. The role of subservient employee was a defence. He watched as indecision played on her face. Finally she broke. Her face was incredibly expressive, he thought. He saw the exact moment she put away the play-acting and decided to be up-front.
‘Two weddings,’ she said. ‘The biggest problem is the dresses. We need to get things moving. There are three local women with the capacity to sew fast and well.’
‘Contact them.’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘They’re all up to their ears in Christmas preparations.’
‘Then what—?’
‘There are a couple of oldies I know who love baby-sitting,’ she said. ‘They have very quiet Christmases, so they may be prepared to help. Jonas Bucket had an accident at work some years ago and is confined to a wheelchair. He loves Christmas cooking. So if I…’
‘What are you talking about?’ He was lost.
‘Mary, Sarah and Leanne are my seamstresses,’ she said patiently. ‘Mary and Sarah have small kids, and Leanne’s having eighteen people for Christmas dinner. If I ask them to sew for me they’ll say no. But if I say I’ve already organised childminding and cooking and house-cleaning—and someone to set Leanne’s table—then they’ll jump at the chance to escape by sewing. Now…’
‘Now what?’ he said, stunned.
‘You’re the boss,’ she said, ‘but if I were you I’d sit down and write the menu for the Barret and Anna wedding. We need to get the food ordered right away. They’ve elected to do a Christmas theme, so we’ll keep it like that. Roast turkey and all the trimmings.’
‘For a sophisticated—?’
‘She did say pink tulle,’ Jenny said, though she sounded a bit less certain of her ground.
‘So she did,’ Guy said, thinking fast, and then looked up as the doorbell tinkled.
It was Kylie. She was dressed in pregnancy overalls with a white T-shirt underneath. With her face flushed with either nerves or excitement, and her blonde curls tied up in two pigtails, Guy decided she looked like one of those Russian Mazurka dolls. If you pushed her she’d topple over and then spring right up.
‘Hi, Kylie,’ Jenny said, and Guy winced. This woman was a client. His first Australian Carver Wedding…
‘Mum just rang me,’ Kylie said, with a nervous look aside at Guy. ‘She says Mr Carver’s agreed to do my wedding.’
‘He has,’ Jenny said. ‘But there’s no need to change your plans. We’ll do your wedding exactly as we’ve planned it.’
‘No,’ said Kylie.
There was a moment’s silence. ‘No?’ Jenny said at last, cautiously, and received a furious shake of her head in reply. ‘You don’t want a wedding?’
‘Of course I want a wedding,’ Kylie said. ‘Me and Daryl are really excited. But…’
‘But what?’ Jenny asked.
‘It’s Mum’s wedding,’ she burst out. ‘And Daryl’s mum’s. They’ve been at us for ever to get married, and of course we want to, but we didn’t want this. We thought maybe we’d just have the baby and then go somewhere afterwards and get married quietly. But from the minute we told them we were expecting they’ve been at us and at us, until finally we cracked. And that dress…Mum had you make it for me when I was sixteen. She chose it. Not me. Every week since then Mum gets it out and pats it. Do you know how much I hate it?’