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briefcase. Could he be hurt? He was a man of the world. Of course he wanted an affair with her—he’d as good as told her so—but he’d never hinted at warmer feelings. No, she decided, Bron and Fiona were young romantics. He wasn’t serious about her. Although there was a warmth in his eyes when he gazed at her that hadn’t been there in the beginning.
    Since he’d laid off the constant attempts to get her into bed, she’d assumed he’d come to respect her as a business equal, and like her as a friend. He didn’t pester her to spend every night with him but accepted that she worked late at the office and had pretty much assigned Roger, his driver and odd job man, to chauffeur her everywhere. They’d dropped the other women off at their respective homes on the way. As she was getting out of the car, Bron had said, “Are you sure you have to leave?”
    She bit her lip as Roger pulled the Jag up to the front of the house. With a tiny spurt of pleasure, she noted that Cam’s Range Rover was there, so presumably he was home. If Bron and Fiona were right, then it was definitely time for her to leave the country. She didn’t want her boss having inappropriate thoughts about her.
    And what about her, she mused as she got out of the car and headed inside.
    Why was she so tempted by a man she had so little in common with? When she was engaged to another man.
    From the way she felt jittery every time she imagined getting on the plane and leaving, she thought she couldn’t do it soon enough. Nothing but trouble could result if she let herself fall for Cameron Crane. She could wait until tomorrow to give him the report, but Cam handled his paperwork at night here in the house. It was logical and sensible to take the proposal to him now.
    When she got to his study, he was behind his desk, his computer on and papers spread around him, just like she’d seen him so many nights. For all his big reputation as a drinker, carouser, and womanizer, he hadn’t been doing a whole lot of that while she’d been here. Sure, he had fun while he was out, but it was clear that he hadn’t built a multi-million-dollar empire in his thirties by being a playboy. The man was a workaholic.
    “How ya goin’?” he asked as she appeared in his doorway.
    The warmth leapt into his eyes, and she recalled what his sister had said. Was he “dead-keen” on her? Since she felt her own warmth kindle, she had to ask herself the same question about him.
    “I’m all right,” she said. “And you?”
    “Couldn’t be better. Is that what I think it is?”
    “My preliminary marketing plan and proposal, yes.” She handed him the bound document. He put it beside him on the desk and raised his gaze back to her face.
    “I’ll read it later. Give me the highlights.”
    She sank to the chair in front of his desk, thinking he looked like a kid playing at being a grown-up with his scruffy, tanned face, mop of sun-streaked unruly hair, and the surfing clothes.
    “I’ve finished the initial research and I think you’re ready for the California market. I’m suggesting the product launch for next spring. It’s aggressive, but,” she stopped to smile at him, “aggressive seems to be your style.”
    He grinned back. “Too right.”
    “You’ve got a wonderful product, but you know that. However, the competition’s fierce in California. Frankly, I think the key will be the product spokesman and the advertising campaign.”
    “You just said we’ve got great products.”
    “That’s right. The ad campaign gets them on the boards and into the clothes in the first place. After that, the products have to do their job. And word of mouth.”
    She frowned as worry assailed her. This was the hard part of her job. Giving the green light or red light when all she had to go on was research and instinct. If she was wrong, the downside was heavy. “You’re taking a big risk, you have to know that.”
    He grinned at her and leaned back from the heavy desk with