Bad Boys Down Under by Nancy Warren Page B

swiveled in her seat to stare at him. “You have a house here?”
    â€œI have a lot of houses. I don’t like hotels. They’re too cold and unfriendly. Besides, real estate is a good investment.”
    Sure, she was a big land mogul herself, her with her one apartment in San Francisco.
    His house was more of a large, ocean-front cottage and was all clean angles and modern lines. It had clearly been designed around the view and there were windows everywhere.
    Hardwood floors, cool colors, modern, sleek furniture. Two bedrooms and a loft. He’d made it his, though. He’d hung old surfboards on the walls like artwork along with surfing photos, tide charts, and ocean maps.
    â€œWant something to eat or drink before we go?”
    She shook her head. “I’m a little nervous about the surfing. I want to get it over with.”
    â€œAll right, then. Get your cossy on and let’s go.”
    â€œOkay.” She took a deep breath. Surfing wasn’t going to kill her. Unless a shark got her, or the riptide, or one of those stone fish she’d read about . . . “Um, which bedroom?”
    â€œI use that one,” he pointed to the beachside room. “You’re welcome to join me, or take the other.”
    She didn’t even bother to answer, but strode to the other room. At the doorway, she asked, “Do I wear a wet suit?”
    He looked at her like she was crazy. “Naah.”
    So much for that idea. In a couple of minutes she was back out with her bathing suit on and her sarong, her sunhat, and glasses. She’d already lathered herself up with sunscreen. She was as ready as she was ever going to be.
    Cam was already outside with a couple of surfboards. They both looked enormous. Didn’t he know she’d never done this? She wanted something the size of a skateboard, not the monstrosity he was hauling around.
    When she raised this excellent point with him, he said, “Naah,” once more in that poetic way of his. “This is a learner board. Made of foam. You can’t hurt it.”
    â€œVery reassuring.”
    He only grinned at her, and then carried both boards to the beach. She followed, thinking if he was going to carry that big heavy board around for her he wasn’t all bad.
    He put the boards side by side and told her to lie on hers on her stomach and practice paddling in the sand. He threw himself onto his own board and demonstrated. She tried to concentrate on his technique and not on the tawny skin bulging with nicely defined muscles, or the way the sun caught highlights in his unruly hair, or the little patch of sand that had stuck to his chin.
    When he was focused on something other than getting her into bed, he could be a lot of fun, she decided, as they flapped their arms around and pretended they were perched on waves rather than sand-bound. “Okay,” he said, paddling his muscular arms while her own were already tiring, “you’re paddling for shore, right?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œWhen you feel the wave grab the back of your board, jump to your feet and squat. Like this.” He jumped and crouched there, looking like the real thing with the balanced stance, feet moving like a fencer’s, arms out to the sides.
    â€œOkay,” he said, “you try.”
    It wasn’t so hard, except she didn’t feel like a surfer in control of her board; she felt dork-like and tippy. It was bad enough on the sand—she couldn’t imagine doing this with water wobbling away beneath her.
    â€œAll right,” he said after they’d practiced about fifteen minutes. “Ready to have a go?”
    â€œWhat, already?”
    â€œSure.”
    With a deep breath she rose and removed her sarong, the glasses, the hat, even the shoes.
    There was a leash that attached her board to her ankle, which she hung onto as she pushed and dragged her board, fighting the waves and the “soup,” the white choppy