Best Of Makeovers Bundle Part 38

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 s.p.a.ce 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 matter 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 s.e.xy thighs.

Despite the fact that she was circling around to open his door, he beat her to it, pus.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sengers 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 pa.s.sengers. But the wallet had wedged itself between the door and the seat cus.h.i.+on, 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 s.e.xy. 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 sh.o.r.e 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 s.h.i.+ver. 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 sh.o.r.e 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 att.i.tude.

"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 s.e.xy, the honest little voice in her head chimed in. She s.h.i.+ed 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed from her hands in the blink of an eye.

Within three minutes she was s.h.i.+mmying into the fitted black washed silk dress. The halter neck draped low over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s; 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 s.e.xiest 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 s.e.xier 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 s.e.xy 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 just 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 s.p.a.ce 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 a.s.sured of privacy. Twenty seconds, thirty seconds maximum, she'd be changed and ready for a glamorous night out. She reached for the b.u.t.tons on her work s.h.i.+rt, 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 unb.u.t.toning 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 s.h.i.+rt, she sighed with frustration and closed her eyes.

Okay, so this wasn't going so well. Untangling her s.h.i.+rt 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 p.u.s.s.y," 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 h.e.l.l 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 s.p.a.ce and pulled on the hand brake. Turning off the ignition on his Jaguar convertible, he hit the b.u.t.ton 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.

He was almost at the entrance to the exit stairwell when he saw the woman. At first he just glimpsed a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he frowned into the dark corner he saw it was a woman standing behind her car door-a half-naked woman. She was down to her bra and skirt, and her back was to him as she slid the catch at the back of her bra loose.

He couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. He froze, completely captivated by the impromptu strip show. As he watched, the woman turned slightly, offering a glimpse of firm, full b.r.e.a.s.t.s and a trim torso. Her face was in shadow, but he could see that her hair was short and spiky, accentuating her long neck. Then she was pulling a black dress over her head, s.h.i.+mmying into it. Once the dress reached her waist, she slid down the zipper on her skirt and he caught his breath as the skirt fell to the ground to reveal lacy black bikini panties, a full peach of a b.u.t.t and lacy stay-up stockings. He was hard in an instant, and he almost called out an objection as the dress was pulled down, masking all that curvy womanhood from his view.

G.o.d, maybe he did need a woman. It had been six months since he'd left Tara, after all. If his little encounter with the lady chauffeur today and his current state of arousal were anything to go by, parts of him were obviously missing the joys of feminine companions.h.i.+p.

The woman was ducking down now, doing something with her shoes. Realizing he was about to get caught ogling like a teenage boy, Marc tore his gaze away and continued crossing to the stairwell.

He took the steps up to ground level two at a time-anything to kill the erection that was straining at his trouser zipper. Stop thinking about her, he ordered himself. He had an important business meeting tonight; he couldn't afford to be distracted like this.

The smell of the ocean hit him as he stepped out into the night air. Above him, the stylized white sails of the opera house roof curved up into the darkened sky. Marc sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a rush. Slowly the desire bubbling through his blood dissipated, and as his need faded, his sense of humor returned. He grinned. It wasn't every day that a man got treated to a real live illicit s.e.x fantasy. He should just chalk it up to experience, rather than feel frustrated and vaguely angry that he had so little control over his own desires.

h.e.l.l, he could even tell the guys about it over dinner. It'd make a great icebreaker.

The click of high heels on concrete sounded behind him, and he tensed. There was every chance it was the woman from below, coming up the stairs behind him. He couldn't help himself. Despite his resolve not to be captive to his own desire, he had to look, had to confirm the sensual impression he'd received in the shadows underground.

He swiveled on his heel. And froze.

She stood poised at the top of the stairs, her head angled away from him as she scanned the broad steps to the opera house. Her dress-the dress-dipped low in the front and clung lovingly to the curves of her hips and thighs, the darkness of the fabric a perfect foil for the smooth creaminess of her skin. She wore dainty high heels, with the barest suggestion of a strap around her ankle. And she was unmistakably the woman who had driven him across town that morning-and, incidentally, driven him crazy with a flash of her lacy black stockings. Anna Jackson.

He hadn't seen her hair before, because she'd been wearing a chauffeur's cap. The short white-blond spikes were a surprise, not what he'd expected at all. It suited her, however, the severe hairstyle setting off the planes of her face, highlighting her large eyes and wide mouth.

Her head turned, and he locked eyes with her across the ten feet or so that separated them. He was close enough to see her pupils widen minutely as she met his gaze. And to note the pulse point flickering on her long, elegant neck.

He remembered the voluptuous curve of her breast, glimpsed for just the fraction of a second, and the way she'd smoothed the skirt down over her hips and b.u.t.t.

He wanted her. He wanted her more than he'd wanted anything in a long time. The realization shook him. Suddenly she'd a.s.sumed far too much importance and stature in his world. He didn't want to feel this way about a woman he'd just met for a brief few seconds. He didn't want to feel this way about anyone.

"Mr. Lewis," she said, closing the s.p.a.ce between them. The movement caused her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to sway subtly. His eyes dropped to follow the movement, then he caught himself and wrenched his attention back to her face.

He clenched his jaw. This is not going to happen, he told himself.

"Ms. Jackson," he said.

She held his wallet out. "There you go-signed, sealed and delivered," she said.

He reached for it, determined to avoid the temptation of touching her in any way, no matter how insignificant or incidental. But somehow he overshot the mark, and his fingers brushed hers as he took the wallet from her grasp.

She flinched, almost s.n.a.t.c.hing her hand back. Which meant she'd felt it, too-the unmistakable rush of electricity as desire met desire.

"Thank you. As I said earlier, bill the company for your time," he said, unable to stop himself from studying the smooth tilt of her cheekbones and the lushness of her mouth.

She shook her head. "It was no bother. I decided to see Carmen," she explained.

"All the same," he said.

"It's fine, Mr. Lewis. I haven't been inconvenienced. It's no big deal." She shrugged.

The movement made her b.r.e.a.s.t.s jiggle ever so slightly. When he lifted his eyes back to her face he saw she was blus.h.i.+ng, and guessed she'd caught him looking.

"I really have to go," she said, turning away.

Marc reached out on impulse. His fingers wrapped around the soft skin of her forearm just below her elbow, his thumb grazing the tender flesh of her inner arm.

"Wait," he heard himself say.

She froze, her body angled slightly away as if she was afraid to look him in the face.

Marc knew what she'd see there-desire.

"I want-" he said before he caught himself. "Perhaps I could take you out for dinner sometime as a thank-you?"

She tugged gently on her arm, and he released her.

"I don't think that would be a good idea, Mr. Lewis," she said.

"Why not?" he asked. His hunting instincts were aroused now. He hated to lose. In anything-business or pleasure. And he didn't want her to walk away. Suddenly that seemed important.

"Because you're one of my clients, for starters," she said.

"Anna! There you are. I've been looking everywhere."

Marc glanced up to see a tall, ruggedly handsome man bearing down on them. Dressed in a designer suit, he appeared as if he'd just stepped out of the pages of a fas.h.i.+on magazine.

"Danny," she said. She stood on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.

Marc took a step back. She had a boyfriend. Or a husband, for all he knew. He felt his lip curl as the old, too familiar bitterness swamped him. He wondered if her husband knew she made a habit of changing in public places. Or that she looked at men with so much heat in her eyes that it was more blatant than any verbal invitation.

"Excuse me. I won't keep you any longer," he said crisply.

Abruptly, he turned on his heel and walked away. He should have trusted his instincts where she was concerned. He wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

2.

"HEL-LO! Who on earth is the horn-dog?" Danny asked as Anna watched Marc walk away.

Suddenly she felt as though she could breathe again. She took in a deep, greedy lungful of air, let it out, then turned her attention to her brother.