The Real Deal by Lucy Monroe

didn’t touch her, but she went as stiff as his sex was getting.
    He turned his head slightly to see her face better and wanted to explode at the way she was biting her lip.
    The sound of the phone ringing came as welcome relief. He jumped up before Jacob could. “I’ll get it.”
    Jacob eyed him speculatively while Amanda kept her gaze set on the television.
    â€œAmanda, go ahead and finish watching the program.”
    Her head came up then, her features schooled into a blank mask. “All right. Thanks. Jill said she had one last scene in the second half-hour, but it wasn’t as big. I’d like to see it.”
    He nodded, already headed toward the nearest telephone.
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    Amanda went back to the great room after Jillian’s soap opera ended, expecting to find Simon waiting for her because he’d never come back to Jacob’s quarters.
    The room was empty.
    Should she go looking for him?
    Maybe he was still on the phone. She didn’t want to interrupt and surely he knew the show was over by now.
    Her gaze moved to the huge wall of windows. The water of the sound was different than the ocean in Southern California. Even in the bright sunlight of late June it looked like smoked glass rather than the shimmering blue she was used to. Simon had a dock that extended over fifty feet out into the water and a sailing yacht moored at the end.
    It didn’t look like a modern vessel, which surprised her. She was familiar with the sleek lines of the latest boating designs since her condo was located on the bay above an exclusive marina. Simon’s yacht looked like something from a 1940s movie. Even from the distance, its dark wood exterior shone with the gloss of a meticulous finish.
    As her gaze skimmed the glass wall, she noticed deck furniture to her right. A pitcher of what looked like ice tea and two glasses sat on the cedar table. Presumably, they were going to continue their meeting out on the deck that extended the length of the house. She picked her briefcase up from where she’d left it earlier and looked for a way outside.
    Just like everything about Simon Brant, the exit was cleverly concealed. It took her several minutes before she found the small lever that, once pressed, sent a door-size piece of glass sliding to the right. She carried her briefcase to the table and set it on one of the empty chairs. Since Simon was not yet there, she didn’t sit down but went to lean against the rail, breathing in the warm, salty air.
    A small breeze blew across her face, and she closed her eyes, reveling in both the warmth of the sun on her skin and the smell of air free of Southern California smog. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d allowed herself the luxury of stopping and just being .
    Her conscience reminded her that she could be at the table setting up her facts and figures to present to Simon, but for once, she ignored the inner prompting.
    This felt too good.
    The quiet was broken only by the distant chatter of seagulls.
    A strange inertia settled over her body as if the overwhelming pace she’d been keeping for the past two years had caught up with her all at once. She’d lived for her job since walking out on Lance. Why that sparked a sense of discontent at this particular moment, she could not understand.
    Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes and forced herself to turn back toward the table. She flicked a look at her watch and was shocked to see she’d stood at the deck rail for half an hour.
    Where was Simon?
    She scanned the great room, but it was empty.
    No doubt Jacob knew where to find his boss. She’d have to locate the cranky housekeeper and ask him what was going on.
    Luckily she found him in the kitchen. She hadn’t really wanted to wander around the huge house trying to find one of the two men who lived there.
    â€œJacob, do you know where Simon is? I’ve been waiting on the deck for him since Jillian’s show