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“I agree there’s no harm,” he started, the words seeming to stick in his throat a bit.
Esme rushed to clarify. “All I’m saying is that we ought to be able to appreciate the invitation to seduction without feeling guilty because we enjoyed it, you know?”
Hugh shrugged. “I wouldn’t say I feel guilty. But some people—”
“That’s great.” She squeezed his forearm, relishing the way a man’s arm contained muscle in the most innocuous of places and hoping positive reinforcement would help steer him in her direction. “Because I don’t feel guilty either. You want to walk me up to my room?”
“You have a room here?” His voice rasped across another throaty note.
Esme handed him his half-full goblet. “Tonight was a birthday present from your aunt. Mrs. Wolcott reserved a room for me when she set up our date so I wouldn’t have to worry about taking a bus home.”
“I would have never put you on a bus at two o’clock in the morning, Esme.” His dark eyebrows knit together in that serious manner that warmed her insides. Hugh Duncan knew enough about chivalry to make a woman’s heart beat faster.
“Maybe Mrs. Wolcott just wanted to give me a place to retreat to in case our date didn’t go as well as she’d hoped.” The dear woman. Esme couldn’t wait to give her a big hug and some homemade bread for sending this gorgeous man into her life if only for one night.
“About my aunt—”
Esme jumped up from the table, certain that this line of conversation would only distract them from the flirtatious atmosphere she’d struggled to maintain ever since the feathered dancers had departed the lounge.
Doting aunts were not a topic she wished to discuss while in seduction mode for the first time in her life.
“How about one dance before we call it a night?” She extended her hand to him in yet another unprecedented move. Esme Giles, the woman who’d busted the grading curve in every class she’d ever taken, the college geek turned scholar for life, was asking the most gorgeous guy in the room to dance with her.
And as if her lucky stars were in perfect alignment over her head, the DJ changed the pace to a slow groove, a song that was sexy and danceable and just right for getting close to this man.
Either because of his chivalrous nature or else because he knew fate was conspiring against him, Hugh slid out of the booth and rose to his feet. Esme gulped as his arm slipped around her waist, the warm expanse of his palm connecting with the small of her back.
“How can I refuse a beautiful woman’s request?”
Oh my.
No one had ever called her beautiful before. Cute, maybe. And she knew better than to fall for idle flattery, but something about the way he looked at her when he said it made her feel beautiful. Strong. Confident.
As they made their way toward the floor, Esme revised her former opinion that she had been overdressed for tonight. Right now, with long masculine fingers applying light pressure to her spine, she felt as if she wore nothing at all. The thin silk of her dress seemed to scorch and vanish beneath that sure, possessive touch.
She scoped out the dance floor, hoping to find a place for them among the mob of other couples vying for space on the hardwood floor. But she needn’t have concerned herself. Before she’d analyzed all the options, Hugh twirled her toward him, somehow halting her midspin so that she ended up face to face with him, firmly in his arms.
Every schoolgirl fantasy she’d ever hoped for in vain was granted in that long minute as she stared up at him. It didn’t matter that she’d never been greatly noticed, fawned over or otherwise admired by a charismatic male in the course of her younger days because right now the forces of cosmic balance were finally tipping the scale in her favor.
And she was winning big.
She could have gazed into those dark brown eyes of his forever, but the subtle sway of their feet beneath them jolted her back to awareness. They were dancing.
Not the awkward one-two-three, one-two-three of stepping on one another’s feet that had been a staple in her personal repertoire. No, she wasn’t even sure how they were dancing or why her body knew just how to follow his, but they moved together in supple agreement as smoothly as if they’d been choreographed.
His body met hers—hip to hip, thigh to thigh—in a warm, sinuous connection. Her skin flamed right through her silken skirt as she realized how little a barrier her gypsy dress provided. And her breasts…
She didn’t dare move away from him now that her breasts grazed his chest. Her reaction—and attraction—would be immediately obvious.
The music enveloped them, folding her into the slow bass line as the dance floor lights all turned to a moody shade of blue. In the dimness, she could almost convince herself they were alone as they moved together in total accord.
“Thanks for sharing a drink with me tonight, Esme.” His voice emanated from above her, but she was close enough to hear the rumble of speech in his chest. Through the thin layer of black cotton that covered superb pecs. Through the faded pine scent of his aftershave that she only detected now that he was near.
“I hope your aunt didn’t have to twist your arm into coming tonight.” She kicked herself as soon as she said it because it sounded like the kind of paranoid comment an eighteen-year-old would make. Did she not only have to monitor all her actions but her speech now, too?
He didn’t look turned off by her insecure comment, however. He trailed a thumb over her cheek and tipped her face up to his.
“No one twisted my arm, Esme. You were a definite choice of my free will.”
Something inside her sighed with pleasure.
Gooseflesh popped out over her skin, a mix of shivery chills and tingly anticipation. His sure touch made her eyelids flutter, fall closed for one long moment.
When the kiss that she’d hoped for didn’t materialize, she pried her lids open again and decided the new Esme wasn’t a woman willing to wait. The new Esme wanted her kiss, by God, and she was determined to have it.
Now.
Confident that her bold decision fit in with her plan to take charge of her life, she pressed her body closer to his.
She hadn’t been prepared for the shock waves that kind of movement would send straight to the intimate heart of her. She was in way over her head with this man, but she found she didn’t care.
More than anything, she wanted this one chance to be daring, this one night to be bold and in control of her body, her actions.
He readjusted his hands to accommodate their new closeness, his hands on her waist while his fingertips dangled pleasantly down the curve of her backside. Esme wondered what it might be like to make love to him, to have him lower his hands even more to guide their bodies together…
Smoothing her hands up the hard planes of his chest, she inched her way closer to what she wanted. He stared down at her with steady dark eyes, fully alert to her every move yet letting her choose the pace of what was happening between them.
After those horrifying moments locked in her creepy former boss’s office, Esme appreciated Hugh’s willingness to let her take the lead.
And damn it, she was taking the lead.
Even though her senses were all keenly tuned to the moment, a small part of her rational brain stood aloof from the heated action on the dance floor and seemed to stare down at her from above, applauding her boldness.
You go, girl.
As the final strains of the slow song hummed through her, Esme reached for the prize she’d been dreaming of since she laid eyes on her sexy blind date. And with no more thought of the consequences, she touched her lips to his.
3
RENZO CESARE HAD kissed plenty of women in his day.
Not that he considered himself a connoisseur or anything, because that just sounded plain sleazy. But he had some experience to compare Esme Giles’s kiss against, and that tentative brush of her soft pink mouth over his completely obliterated all memory of holding anyone else in his arms.
He’d told himself he would let her set the pace tonight since he’d intercepted her from meeting her real date in the first place. According to his sister, no woman wanted to be insulated from life by a hulking Cesare male who would claim mob affiliation in a heartbeat if it would scare potential predators.
Yet here he was, doing his gentlemanly best to save Esme Giles from herself and all the while falling under the spell of her sweet pink lips.
Lips he found himself parting with the sweep of his tongue. Damn. Damn. Damn. He hadn’t meant to do that.
But man, she was sweet.
She tasted like rum and something more sugary. Sort of like the strawberry lip gloss girls in his junior high used to wear. All innocence. How had he gone his whole adult life without realizing strawberry lip gloss still turned him on nearly twenty years later?
Her body sank into his a little more, giving him all the more appreciation for the shape and feel of her bare breasts beneath her dress.
Goodbye all innocence. Hello sensual woman.
The hard beads of her nipples had his body answering hers in kind, encouraging him to do all the things to her they both wanted so badly….
Except they were in the middle of a goddamn dance floor.
Renzo broke their kiss, unable to pull away from her totally without disrupting her balance. Besides, he didn’t dare move away from her quickly or he’d end up exposing them both a bit too…intimately.
Esme’s eyes remained closed a moment, and when she lifted her lids to gaze up at him again, the passion-clouded expression he saw there made him want to drag her somewhere private and—
Wait.
Wasn’t he supposedly saving her from that kind of fate when he’d told her a whopper of a fib tonight?
Backing them off the side of the floor, Renzo peeled himself away from her with more than a little regret.
“Maybe you ought to walk me up to my room now,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the synthesized whine of the next dance song.
“Good idea.” Renzo steered her through the crowd, using his body as a shield for her to make sure no drunken idiots copped a feel on the way.
He could not, should not, would not, get any more involved with Esme. The whole charade had been ill-conceived and it would be least embarrassing for all parties concerned if he simply said good-night to her right now.
Just as soon as he knew she was safely inside her room.
Once they cleared the Moulin Rouge Lounge and hit the bank of elevators, she paused, fishing in her purse.
“I’m on the fourth floor in the Sensualist’s Suite. Maybe I’d better find my key.” She shook her purse as the elevator arrived. Apparently convinced the key lay within the white satin bag, Esme began the search with determination etched on her delicate jawline.
“The Sensualist’s Suite?” He had no idea why he tortured himself by asking as they stepped inside the elevator.
Maybe because liars deserved to be tortured.
Withdrawing the plastic card from her bag as they soared up to the necessary floor, Esme’s cheeks flushed lightly. “It’s the kind of room that has to be seen to be believed. I had no idea the accommodations here were so…” Her eyes darted about the tiny elevator cabin—outfitted in soft brown suede walls and decorated with a fake-leopard-print-covered bench—as if in search for the right word. Finally, her gaze landed on him. “…so sexy.”
His body twitched in reaction to the word rolling off her tongue. In reaction to their proximity in the quiet privacy of the small space.
The torture had officially begun.
“My sister told me all the rooms were redesigned when the hotel went from a couples resort to more of a singles haven.” As the doors slid open on the fourth floor, Renzo’s hand moved automatically toward her waist to help her out of the elevator.
Just before his fingers made contact with the small of her back, he caught himself. If he touched her once, he might never stop. At the last moment, he redirected his errant hand toward the open doors button and pressed that instead.
“Hotels are always remodeling,” Esme remarked as she strode down the hall, her gait more confident and easy now that they were alone. Maybe she just didn’t enjoy crowds. “This is different. This is spectacular.”
Too late, Renzo realized they had arrived at her door and that she was already unlocking it. Opening it.
And somehow they were in the middle of a conversation about her room, which she now wanted to show him.
His feet paused at the threshold of the door—his brain knowing he probably shouldn’t enter, the rest of him already straining to follow her.
Esme watched him expectantly as she held the door open with her slight form, her blue eyes communicating silent invitation.
Maybe as long as he kept his distance, maintained an arm’s length between them at all times, he could at least check out the room and make sure this Hugh character wasn’t lurking in the closet or anything. His aunt had paid for the room, after all. What if the guy thought he was entitled to help himself?
Convinced he needed to go inside for just a minute, Renzo whispered a swift prayer for restraint and followed her into the suite.
FOR A MOMENT, Esme had feared she might have to break out a crane to transport the man into her suite. Was it that big a decision to come home with her for the night?
Feminine pride stinging just a little, Esme realized she would never be cut out for the club-hopping and manhunting that other South Beach women engaged in with ease. She liked getting to know people before she invited them back to her hotel room.
For that matter, there would be real safety issues at stake here tonight if her date hadn’t been given the thumbs-up by her friend and neighbor. At least Esme could feel comfortable knowing Hugh Duncan wasn’t a wanted criminal or anything.
His low whistle of appreciation jolted Esme back to the moment. A whistle intended for the exotic room decor and not her, she realized with dismay as his dark eyes swept the width of the suite and the rainbow of earth tones someone had thoughtfully woven into all the furnishings.
Touchable silk and damask pillows littered the dark mahogany furniture while a huge swath of embroidered taupe linen lined the ceiling with a tentlike effect. And if the decadent tent weren’t impressive enough, the Sensualist’s Suite also boasted a small brook winding through the room.
At least the beautifully appointed room was a comfortable topic. She could spend a little while distracting him with small talk that genuinely interested her before she ambushed him with another kiss.
Assuming she didn’t lose her nerve.
Judging by how long it took him to make that final step into her hotel room, Esme guessed he would walk away if she kissed him too soon. For some reason, fate had laughed at her attempts to be bold and brazen tonight by handing her a date with values as traditional as hers had always been.
Just her luck.
“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” Having no idea how to behave while seducing a man, Esme scoured her brain for role models.
Her mother had raised her alone, content to make Esme the center of her world when Esme’s father had walked out on his pregnant girlfriend. And Esme’s deep love of antiques and art had absorbed her for so many years she barely kept up friendships enough to know how any of her casual acquaintances would go about picking up a man.
The seductive women in the Pre-Raphaelite paintings she loved were often reclining objects to be adored, not active seductresses themselves. No help in that quarter either. The lone source of inspiration she came up with were her screen idols. And if her matinee memory served, Esme thought Bette Davis would have already been mixing the drinks by now.
She hurried to the wet bar and eyed the myriad of offerings in the room service cooler. Too bad they didn’t prepackage Good Fortune Potion. She could use a healthy serving right about now—the good luck as much as the potion.
Emerging from the cooler with a miniature bottle of brandy and two snifters—wouldn’t Bette be proud?—Esme found Hugh stooping to dip his fingers in the narrow waterfall that trickled gently from one wall in the living area.
“The details are genius.” He picked up a smooth river stone from the base of the waterfall where a cleverly crafted brook wound its way through the room. “I’ve seen something like this in Caribbean resorts before, but the finishes are usually more obviously prefabricated. The polished rocks are a nice touch.”
Esme flicked on the stereo located under the bar. She had no clue where the speakers were actually located, but the strains of Brahms seemed to surround them. She hoped classical music wasn’t off-putting, but it would be too much of a lie for her to flick over to some hip-hop station and pretend to be a happening chick.
Besides, how could anyone not love Brahms? The music hadn’t been around for centuries because it was no good.
“The furniture is what gets me. Whoever designed the room didn’t just pick up the furnishings at the local discount warehouse.” With a little awkward fumbling but no major spills, Esme managed to remove the packaging around the top of the brandy bottle and pour two glasses.
Hugh released the pebble he’d been holding and shook the water off his fingertips as he moved toward a small table where she’d set her keys. “Neoclassical reproductions. Nice stuff.”
