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Girl Gone Wild
Joanne Rock
Journalist Hugh Duncan can sniff out international intrigue, but finding a juicy scoop in a Miami singles' club right under his nose? Could a voluptuous chef, singing a siren song while icing a Kama Sutra cream puff, be his next big story–or is she just a luscious piece of fluff?And if the kitchen contessa insists on giving out free samples–well, there's an offer no gentleman should refuse…Giselle Cesare has a history of stirring up trouble, and not just on her stove. Even so, the minute a handsome reporter wanders into Club Paradise, she knows she's struck gold. By the time their first date draws to a close, Giselle has hit on the secret to spontaneous combustion! Unfortunately, if Hugh persists in digging up her past, more than her sexplicit desserts will be exposed!
“You’re sure you’re okay with this?”
Hugh asked, lifting a hand to Giselle’s cheek and toying with a stray dark curl.
“I’m very fine with this. I think we can work around the article and not let it interfere with—” Giselle sidled closer, allowing her thigh to graze his— “what we both want.”
He caught her hips in his hands. He closed his eyes for a long moment. Feminine intuition told her she was testing the man’s restraint.
“How soon can you have your story written?” Patience wasn’t her strong suit on a good day. And with his hands on her, there was no way she could wait.
His fingers slid along the silky fabric of her dress. “I can hurry it, but it will take a few weeks.”
“Weeks?” She could hardly wait a few hours, let alone weeks, especially as his touch skated up her ribs, pausing just beneath her breasts.
“I’m very thorough in my work.” His thumbs drew idle circles skimming the edge of her bra.
“Oh, really?” Awareness flared through her, made her breath catch in her throat while her breasts tingled and tightened in anticipation. She wanted to tangle tongues, limbs and sheets with him.
“I never do anything in half measures.”
And that was the best promise she’d heard in a long while.
Dear Reader,
Chef Giselle Cesare has a whole week free now that she’s finally managed to get all four of her brothers out of her hair at once. Whatever will she do with a few days on her own now that her personal protection squad is out of town?
She’s cooking up seduction, of course! And journalist Hugh Duncan looks like he’s going to make the perfect target. That is, until she finds out what kind of stories Hugh wants to write. How can she think about hot nights with Hugh when he’s determined to dredge up a past that’s better off forgotten? Then again, it’s not often a girl gets a chance for seduction like this one….
If you enjoy Girl Gone Wild, I hope you’ll join me for next month’s SINGLE IN SOUTH BEACH story. Date with a Diva will be a June Blaze title and we’ll see what’s in the works for Club Paradise’s resident diva Lainie Reynolds. Visit me at www.JoanneRock.com to learn more about my future releases or to let me know what you think about the series so far!
Happy reading,
Joanne Rock
Girl Gone Wild
Joanne Rock
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Amy Mehl Romines, my Kentucky pal who taught me how to fake homemade apple pies and bluff my way through stir-fry. Thank you for nudging me out the door that night I ran off with my husband! You were a fun part of my happily-ever-after and you’ll always be my dear friend.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
1
SOME MEN COUNTED SHEEP to fall asleep. Hugh Duncan spied on people.
Peering out of the dark windows overlooking a deserted stretch of Miami’s South Beach, he strolled through one of the quiet lounges at the back of the posh resort he was supposed to be investigating for his newspaper. At 4:30 a.m., the raucous partyers who had populated the hotel’s nightclub had just stumbled out into the early morning air, leaving this section of the resort suddenly quiet. Secretive.
Skirting around a secluded seating area in one corner of the minimalist Art Deco-style lounge, Hugh searched for a diversion to occupy his mind through what had always been his most restless hours of the day. He’d never been one to fall asleep until at least 6:00 a.m., preferring to roam the streets of whatever city he happened to inhabit, looking for his next story. Some kind of intrigue he could write about, dissect, rant over.
Nine times out of ten, he unearthed the kind of subjects he preferred by simply watching. Observing details in a manner he’d come to realize was unique. The quirky way he’d always been able to fixate on the small, the seemingly insignificant, gave him an edge as an investigative reporter.
It also annoyed the hell out of most people, but how many guys had turned their most irritating habit into a Pulitzer? Annoying or not, he continued to indulge the practice, even in the case of stories he didn’t want to write.
Like this one.
Sighing with frustration that South Beach’s most notoriously hedonistic resort could be so damn quiet, Hugh paused to absorb the colors emanating from a nearby erotic painting. Georgia O’Keefe-like in its simplicity, the picture of a red poppy flower in bloom bore disconcerting resemblance to a woman’s genitals. Then again, maybe men who’d been without sex for as long as he had simply started seeing women’s genitals everywhere they looked.
Damn.
Pivoting away from the picture, he considered heading for the next exit to see what he could find on the South Beach strip to entertain himself, when a woman’s voice lifted in song caught his ear.
Whoever warbled out “Summer Wind” might not have had the greatest vocal ability, but he had to appreciate the musical selection. He probably wouldn’t be able to find a cover of a Sinatra tune playing anywhere else on the strip.
Besides, he wouldn’t unearth any material for the story he was being coerced to write on Club Paradise if he left the premises tonight. A stupid assignment more suited to a features reporter than a hard-hitting investigative journalist, but his editor was determined to take a piece out of Hugh’s hide for an article he’d written that had stepped on the toes of British intelligence.
As if a month’s worth of crappy assignments would make Hugh stop writing the kinds of stories that truly needed to be told.
Winding through the back halls of Club Paradise, flagrantly ignoring the Employees Only signs on one door after another, Hugh followed the source of the “Summer Wind.” He could claim a distant, step-cousin-style relationship to one of the owners of the resort since his uncle had married founding partner Brianne Wolcott’s mother at some point. Of course, his whole family was one big mass of stepthis and ex-stepthat, and he’d never actually met Brianne. No one in the Duncan or Simmons families had much of a track record in the marriage and family department.
Still, the relationship ought to be enough to justify his presence in the employees-only sections of the resort, right?
Scents of garlic and basil assailed his nose as he neared the kitchen, making his gut rumble in hungry approval. When was the last time he’d eaten? Snacking wasn’t usually a part of his late-night spying rituals, but the distinct aroma of Italian cooking made him rethink his nocturnal surveillance traditions.
He paused just outside the door to the source of the incredible aromas, the feminine voice within hitting a high note and luring him with her siren’s song.
Curiosity beyond professional interest pulled him closer to the doorway. The dynamic Sinatra rendition, even without musical accompaniment, coupled with the incredible scents had him salivating for a glimpse of the songstress. And—truth be told—the recent glimpse of the poppy had probably stirred his interest a bit.
Damned suggestive artwork.
But the one benefit to being back on U.S. soil was the freedom to engage in casual sex—a pleasure he never afforded himself while abroad. And from the way his body had kicked into overdrive at the sound of the woman in the next room, he knew he couldn’t put off some serious fulfillment in that department for too much longer.
With the silent feet and stealthy grace that had long supported his nightly habit, Hugh nudged open the door and edged his way into the room.
Only to discover his efforts to be sneaky were totally wasted on the oblivious creature stirring up mayhem in the center of her kitchen.
She held a wooden spoon in one hand and a bag of decorator frosting in the other as she whirled between a granite-topped island and an eight-burner cooking range loaded with steaming cauldrons.
Dancing as she worked, a petite brunette in a sexy-as-hell red dress did a bump and grind as she bent over a shiny aluminum cookie sheet and applied frosting to some confection or another. Her abundant hair was pinned up on the back of her head in some little confining net, but a few wavy strands escaped to bounce in time with the rest of her.
Sinatra’s music had probably never enjoyed such an enthusiastic performance.
He debated breaking out in applause as her voice died on the final strains of her song. Odd, because he’d always been a disinterested bystander on his other nighttime investigative outings. Why the sudden urge to blow his cover and announce himself to this brown-eyed beauty?
Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the lithe little brunette emanated more sheer physical presence than many men twice her size. Or maybe it was because her dress happened to be the exact shade of the provocative poppy flower he’d spied in the hallway.
Then again, maybe it was simply because he’d never seen a woman so full of life, she practically bubbled over like one of those steaming pots on the stove. Before Hugh could make up his mind either way—to reveal himself or not—the woman launched into a rendition of “Witchcraft” as she twirled over to the range top to stir the cast-iron cauldrons wafting the rich aroma of what could only be spaghetti sauce. She dipped her wooden spoon into the first batch and spun it clockwise, counterclockwise, then back again before moving to the next pot where she repeated the process.
He watched, mesmerized, as the woman worked her own brand of witchcraft on him. Since when did he go for domestic goddesses who appeared totally at home in bare feet and wielding a spoon? His tastes usually ran to women on a mission. Only serious crusader types need apply. And this woman looked about as far from serious as a man could get. Especially when she licked the remnants of spaghetti sauce off the ladle after stirring the final pot.
She flung the instrument into the sink and paused in her singing long enough to kiss her fingertips in the classic Italian effusive gesture that meant “delicious.”
Damned if he didn’t feel that kiss from all the way across the cavernous room. The wealth of cool, stainless steel surfaces in the industrial kitchen didn’t come close to making the space less intimate.
Intrigued for all the wrong reasons, Hugh settled a shoulder into a wall of locked rolling carts filled with clean dishes. Willing away thoughts of the exposé he needed to write on Club Paradise in order to barter his journalistic freedom back from his editor, Hugh told himself it would be okay to mix business with pleasure just this once.
He definitely needed a domestic fling before he jetted out on his next foreign assignment. So what would it hurt to watch the apron-clad songbird dance around her kitchen for a little while and see what happened?
Hell, for all he knew, maybe the wild-eyed brunette would be the key to his first lead.
SOME WOMEN BELTED OUT hallelujahs when times were good. Giselle Cesare preferred Sinatra.
She tossed in a few extra choruses of “Witchcraft” just because she couldn’t bear for the song to end. Times were definitely good.
After too many years of being watched over, protected and insulated from as many life experiences as possible by her family, the head chef and part-owner of Club Paradise finally had a window of delicious freedom. Mouthwatering opportunity.
She didn’t intend to waste a second of it.
Tangoing her way across the kitchen in her bare feet—a transgression she never allowed herself during business hours and for which she’d have to mop before she closed up tonight—Giselle relished the feel of smooth ceramic tile beneath her feet as she arrived at the pantry. Humming and rummaging around for the fresh fruit she’d bought the morning before, she transitioned straight into “The Way You Look Tonight” as her fingers seized the prize she sought.
A pomegranate.
Giddy pleasure ran through her veins at the mixture of sensual thoughts that swirled around her head. A taste of the delicious fruit she held would be the first of many indulgences over the course of the next week.
Now that her brother Renzo was off on his honeymoon and her brother Nico was on the road with the hockey team he coached, Giselle had no burly protectors to scare away potential suitors. No hulking bodyguards to intimidate her dates into keeping their hands to themselves.
This week, she would date whoever she pleased, and lure the right man as far as she dared.
Which, of course, was very far indeed. Unsuspecting men of South Beach beware. Giselle Cesare was very much on the prowl.
And hungry.
As long as the food critic from the Miami Herald didn’t show up anytime soon and the club continued to increase revenues—a likely event now that they’d shaken off some of the scandals attached to the business—life promised to be very, very good.
In flagrant celebration of that fact, she spun on her toes until the silky red skirt of her dress twirled out from her body, exposing her thighs and her panties to a rush of breezy air à la Marilyn Monroe.
Delicious.
She whirled faster to keep her short skirt airborne, reveling in one of many sensual delights that would soon follow. Her toes ate up the tile as she crossed the kitchen, spinning her faster and faster until—
A man caught her eye from the edges of her peripheral vision.
A grinning, gorgeous man.
She nearly tripped in her haste to halt herself, feet tangling in confusion. Gorgeous men never magically appeared in her kitchen.
Then again, she usually had her very own gargoyles posted around the entrance to any room she happened to occupy. Is this how easy it would be to find a hot guy if she had been born into the world without a troop of overbearing brothers?
Her heart slamming an erratic pace between the dancing and the sudden enticement of the newcomer, Giselle took a deep breath and tried to gather her composure while she thought of the appropriate thing to say.
“I hate to disappoint you if you’re looking for a late-night snack, but the kitchen is officially closed.” Okay, so that wasn’t exactly the kind of come-on line she issued effortlessly to gorgeous men in her dreams, but she was damn rusty at this. There’d been a time in her life when she’d been a bit of a hellion just so she could wrangle some occasional freedom from her family’s relentless watch over the only daughter in the brood. But she’d been too busy pulling her weight to get Club Paradise off the ground this year to expend any energy on man-hunting.
The sexy stranger grinned back at her, never shifting his lazy stance against her stainless steel rolling cart full of sterilized dishes.
“Officially closed? Does that mean all the activity going on in here is of an unofficial nature?” He sounded amused at the prospect.
Giselle looked him over more carefully as she wondered whether or not to be offended. Was he laughing at her song and dance routine with his sly smile and all-the-time-in-the-world body language?
She examined more clearly his striking green eyes set in an angular face. His hair was every bit as dark as her own, sort of brown bordering on black, but his skin lacked the bronze hue of her Italian heritage. She had him pegged for Irish ancestry. Or maybe those deep green eyes were making her see something that wasn’t there.
He possessed a lean, rangy body with none of her brothers’ muscle bulk. Nevertheless, he had a definite don’t-mess-with-me stance that suggested he could hold his own.
