Sun Kissed (Crane Series) Read Free

the first hour of meeting. Tomorrow, when she’d had some sleep, she was going to get them on a professional footing. Tomorrow.
    As she stifled a yawn, Cameron Crane walked to the door. “Sleep well,” he said, and he was gone.
    While she dragged out her night things, she couldn’t help wondering about him. He’d struck her as an arrogant beer-swilling jerk on their first meeting, but when he’d brought the suitcase he’d exuded warmth, almost teddy-bearish in this rather hairy man. Contrasts like that intrigued her, and she didn’t want to be intrigued by Cameron Crane—just paid well. Thinking the next few weeks were going to be quite the challenge, she fell into bed and wondered if cool, crisp sheets had ever felt so good.
    Jen awoke with a start, momentarily disoriented. She blinked a few times in the darkness, feeling tired, wide-awake, and starving hungry all at once. As memory returned about where she was and why, she scowled and rolled over, searching out the clock by her bedside. Three in the morning. The green fluorescent dots broadcast the time as though it were good news. She groaned, rolled over, and squeezed her eyes shut, but who could sleep with the racket coming from her stomach? It was hopeless.
    She flipped on the bedside light, illuminating walls of a pale Wedgwood blue, a couple of paintings on the wall—one of tropical flowers and one of a sailboat floating over blue-green water— typical guest-room fare except that when she’d examined them last night she’d discovered they were originals. Good ones, too, although she’d never heard of the artists. Australian probably.
    The blue and green batik bedspread and the rattan furniture in the room continued the tropical theme. She got out of bed and wished she were in a hotel where there was room service and she could raid the mini bar. In a private home she was going to have to put up and shut up until it was morning.
    Since she was wide awake, she pulled out her laptop. Might as well do something useful, she decided. But in the next heartbeat, stomach pangs attacked her again. She wondered why she should be polite about being a guest in Cameron Crane’s home when she was an unwilling guest. Her stomach rumbled again. She was so hungry she was starting to feel nauseous. She snapped the laptop closed. If there was food on these premises, she was going to find it.
    She shrugged into her robe and the terry slippers she never traveled without and pushed her hair out of her face. Quietly, she eased open the door and stepped into the hall. The house slept soundly, so she padded down the stairs then through a hallway that led to the back of the house where the kitchen must be. She found it without trouble. There were dim nightlights in all the hallways, which struck her as useful for the jet-lagged, but odd otherwise.
    The kitchen matched the dimensions of the rest of the house and was predictably huge: restaurant-sized, sleek, and industrial. She flipped on the light and was nearly blinded by the gleam of stainless steel appliances and black counters. It looked like he’d taken his decorating palate from a carving knife. Everything was sharp and cold.
    She shivered as she made her way to the refrigerator, where she found orange juice and yogurt. A little more snooping in the cupboards uncovered muesli, which looked like plain old granola to her. She was happily chowing down until the thing she dreaded most—and at three in the morning wouldn’t have believed possible—happened.
    “You’re up early,” said the twangy voice with its subtle teasing note she’d hoped to avoid until the sun rose.
    “Jet lag,” she said, not bothering to turn around. She sipped her orange juice, wondering if she could pretend to being already full and dash back to her room—except she wasn’t full. She was still hungry.
    Cameron Crane padded past her and leaned against a counter, pausing to look her up and down. God, did the man have a single good manner? She