Renzo’s brain told him to be careful

Too bad his instinctive side was already caught up in the soft flame of Esme’s embrace and the unmistakable message of her lips planted against his. How could he interpret the signs as anything but a blinking neon-green light?

Breaking away from the liquid fire of her kiss, Renzo sought confirmation. He needed her to make the call tonight, since she had pushed him away last time.

“What is it you want, Esmerelda? I need to be sure.”

“I want the kind of pleasures you started to give me the other night,” she whispered. His body reacted immediately, an automatic spike of temperature between them.

“You like the way I touched you?” He trailed a hand down her hip, stretched his fingers across her thigh. His thumb pressed into the soft flesh, eliciting a throaty hum from the back of her throat.

“Yes. I liked it too much.” Her restless hands moved over him, sending those rising temperatures into the red-hot zone

“Esme, there’s no such thing as liking it too much.”

Dear Reader,

SINGLE IN SOUTH BEACH meets THE WRONG BED miniseries…oh, the possibilities! What a glamorous backdrop, and I already had the perfect hero in mind, since one of the owners of Club Paradise has a slew of gorgeous, overprotective brothers. I couldn’t wait to put one of them in the path of an unsuspecting female to see what happened!

The result is One Naughty Night, a classic case of an immovable object colliding with an irresistible force. I loved watching the way Esmerelda Giles learns to work around this particular immovable man, Renzo Cesare!

I hope you’ll join me for a very special SINGLE IN SOUTH BEACH story coming in January 2004. Look for Valentine Vixen in a volume entitled Strangers in Paradise with author Stephanie Bond. And there will be more SINGLE IN SOUTH BEACH books in spring 2004.

Visit me at www.JoanneRock.com to learn about future releases or to let me know what you think about the series!

Happy reading,

Joanne Rock

Books by Joanne Rock

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

863—LEARNING CURVES

897—TALL, DARK AND DARING

919—REVEALED

HARLEQUIN BLAZE

26—SILK, LACE & VIDEOTAPE

48—IN HOT PURSUIT

54—WILD AND WILLING

87—WILD AND WICKED

104—SEX & THE SINGLE GIRL*

108—GIRL’S GUIDE TO HUNTING & KISSING*

One Naughty Night

Joanne Rock

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For the fantastic community readers at eHarlequin.com—thank you so much for the shared support, encouragement and twenty-four-hour entertainment. Also, I’d like to invite new readers and writers to join us. I’m often in the Blaze Boudoir or at the Temptress Tales thread on the Books & Authors board, but I bet you’ll find lots of other great chats to enjoy, as well!

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

Epilogue

1

BAD DECISION number five thousand thirty-eight—overdressing.

Esmerelda Giles rocked back on the low heels of her sandals and sighed as she watched the parade of half-clad bodies strut down Ocean Drive toward the swanky new dance club that would be her destination tonight.

Even though the hands on her antique silver-and-turquoise watch pointed to 11:32 p.m., the well-lit street hummed with activity. A steady stream of cars rolled down the avenue at a snail’s pace to see and be seen. Foot traffic converged on Club Paradise from every direction as if all of South Beach wanted a chance to meet and mingle at Miami’s most risqué hot spot.

And every single person Esme laid eyes on wore considerably less than she did.

Shoot. How could she have made such a mistake after spending at least forty-five minutes deciding what to wear for this ridiculous blind date?

Esme fingered the featherweight silk of her outfit—a vintage gypsy dress she’d unearthed at a consignment shop on one of her antiquing outings. The gossamer garment ranked as the most seductive item of clothing she’d ever owned, yet it looked like a schoolgirl’s frock next to the sexy getups sported by every woman in line at Club Paradise’s side entrance across the street.

Once again, Esme’s judgment had been faulty.

Surprise, surprise.

In the weeks since she’d lost her job, her car, a little bit of her self-respect and her life’s dream to boot, Esme had been trying really hard not to exercise her own judgment. In fact, following the explosion of her previously well-ordered life, she’d realized that every decision she’d ever made had led her to lose her job, her car, some self-respect and her life’s dream. Therefore, she couldn’t trust her horrendous instincts.

Which accounted for her new desire to do the opposite of everything her instincts suggested.

She would have never considered going on a blind date before, but now as she waded through the rubble of her old existence, she’d decided maybe she ought to try it. She’d accepted her kindly new neighbor’s matchmaking attempt and had agreed to meet the woman’s nephew at the Moulin Rouge Lounge inside Club Paradise tonight.

Yippee.

While she stood on the street corner where the bus had deposited her and debated what to do about her overdressed condition, Esme was jostled by a pack of young men. She stepped aside quickly, mindful that she needed to quit dreaming and pay attention to her surroundings. A tall guy with spiky hair and a red silky T-shirt swept past her making breathy little psst sounds at her in the way one might call to an animal.

Is this how people communicated attraction these days, or was the man trying to insult her with his catcall? God, she was so out of touch with the real world. She hadn’t been on a genuine date since grad school and even then she’d only gone out with history geeks who were as socially inept as her.

But no more.

Tonight marked a symbolic change in Esme’s life. A new mode of thinking, a new take-charge attitude. She’d thought the way to keep her touchy-feely former boss at bay was by buttoning up to the gills in conservative suits and layers of clothes, but Mr. Too Many Hands had probably read her insecurities in her wardrobe and thought he could help himself.

Steam hissed through her as she remembered those moments trapped in his grip and the ugly fallout of her resistance. She’d been fired in short order for sexual harassment even though he had been the one harassing her. Using his techno-nerd skills, her ex-boss had managed to manipulate the company computer system into printing out manufactured obnoxious e-mails supposedly from her to him. And now here she stood a week later.

Pissed and unemployed.

But ready to make a few changes in her life.

Stepping back into the shadows of an alleyway between two of South Beach’s historic, ice-cream-colored art deco buildings, Esme decided to make a few last minute adjustments to her wardrobe before she embarked on her blind date. The little overnight bag she planned to drop off in her complimentary hotel room before her midnight rendezvous didn’t include a change of clothes other than the casual outfit she’d wear tomorrow.

And frankly, she didn’t even want to cross over to that swanky, sexy side of the street looking like she did right now. She couldn’t do much about overdressing since she had no intention of stripping off her dress. But ditching another item of clothing might make her feel a little more daring and a lot more naked.

Reaching beneath her blouse, Esme unhooked her white lacy bra and wriggled out of the straps one arm at a time. Her barely-34Bs didn’t really require the support and somehow going braless seemed even more bold than baring a little midriff.

Old Esme never would have taken such a risk. New Esme planned to do just the opposite.

Flinging her bra off to one side to drape across a stainless steel trash can, Esmerelda Giles prepared to meet her blind date—one Mr. Hugh Duncan, journalist—with a serious take-charge attitude.

And possibly a little jiggle.

“RENZO, NO WOMAN is ever going to snap you up with that kind of old-fashioned attitude.” Giselle Cesare, head chef at Club Paradise and part owner of the popular singles playground, stirred her teriyaki sauce and glared at her older brother.

“Since when has it been my mission in life to get snapped up?” Renzo stood propped in the half-open door shortly before the resort’s main kitchen closed for the night and stared out over the writhing, wriggling bodies on the dance floor of the Moulin Rouge Lounge. He reached behind him to poke his mouthy sister in the ribs and steal a hunk of bread from the crusty Tuscan loaf sliced on the counter beside her. “I’m swearing off women since Celeste anyhow, remember?”

He’d been engaged to a woman raised as old-school Italian as him, but even she’d gotten scared off at the last minute by the idea of lifelong commitment. According to Celeste, she couldn’t allow her first lover to be her last.

Not that he blamed her exactly, but he sure as hell would have liked to have been informed of her decision before he showed up at the altar in his tux.

No, he definitely wasn’t in any hurry to be snapped up by any one right now. He shoved his pilfered bread in his mouth and resumed watching the erotic flow of scantily clad bodies out on the dance floor. Still leaning in the doorway, he could easily monitor the activity outside the room while occasionally helping Giselle with her work in the kitchen. Even after all formal food service ceased at midnight, the main kitchen still buzzed with activity until almost dawn thanks to twenty-four hour room service and the prep work that needed to be done before the hotel’s three restaurants opened for breakfast.

Despite the high titillation factor of the action in the lounge, Renzo wasn’t here to take in the floor show. He usually spent his few evenings away from his carpentry work at Club Paradise in order to keep an eye on his baby sister, although tonight there was an added chore. Later he needed to meet his older brother Nico to discuss the Cesare family finances and how in the hell they were going to cover their little brother’s law school expenses without going broke. Renzo was already working every spare second of the day. He needed to figure out a way to channel a more high-end product to a higher-paying clientele, but so far he hadn’t come up with how to accomplish this.

“Oh please. Renzo Cesare the monk?” Giselle ladled her sauce over a fresh batch of spinach noodles and slivers of grilled chicken. “Don’t try and tell me you’re swearing off women. It’s been six months since Celeste went back to Rome. Move on already.”

“And you’re such an expert on heartbreak, Ann Landers?” Renzo hadn’t mentioned his new financial concerns to Giselle, knowing his sister felt guilty enough about spending her inheritance by investing in Club Paradise. And although the idea of Giselle opening her own business where she could indulge the full extent of her culinary skills had sounded great at the time, none of the Cesare men had been prepared for her to bake bruschetta among half-naked bodies in South Beach’s most racy club.

Giselle garnished the teriyaki dishes with a curly strip of orange peel and a healthy chunk of Tuscan bread while Renzo rang a pager to signal one of the wait staff.

“Admittedly, no. I’m not an expert since men never get close enough to me to break my heart thanks to you.” She frowned up at him, her forehead damp with steam from the stove.

“Just because the last guy you dated didn’t break your heart doesn’t mean he didn’t cause you a hell of a lot of grief. Excuse me for trying to make sure that doesn’t happen again.” Some married SOB had lied to Giselle that he was single and taken her for a ride last winter. Renzo still hadn’t forgiven himself for not keeping a better eye out for her.

“I’m entitled to make my own mistakes, damn it. You and Nico have suffocated me with big brother watchfulness ever since then. If you don’t hook up with some majorly distracting females soon, I may be forced to strangle the both of you.”

“Sorry, sis. Cesare men don’t throw their women to the wolves, and this place of yours is crawling with them.” He snagged a plate of teriyaki for himself along with an extra slice of bread. “But since you’re feeding me tonight, I’ll give you a reprieve and you can have the next hour to yourself.”

Giselle shoved him toward the door. “I swear you and Nico are only playing watchdog so you can eat for free. Will you at least try to look mildly charming and less like a muscle-bound bouncer while you chow down so maybe some naive woman will steal you away for a few days?”

Renzo reached for a bottle of water before he backed out of the kitchen and into the club. “I’m not interested in the kind of women who want to steal me away. Neanderthals need to do all the stealing.”

As the heavy metal door swung shut behind him he heard Giselle call him a chauvinist pig and he smiled. No news there.

Dance music flooded his senses as he melted into the crowd to search for a table. Snippets of conversation around him drowned out his own thoughts, escalating into an unintelligible, continuous rumble of noise and laughter.

Although Renzo made no attempt to look charming while he ate at his table for one in the back of the bar, tempting women approached him twice. Part of him responded to their frank come-ons and slinky attire. It had been six months since Celeste, after all. Old-fashioned values be damned, his sister had been right to suggest he was no monk.

But he had more on his mind than sex—even with the thumping bass of R&B music pulsing through the dance club and the swirl of moody red and blue lights above him. As the clock behind one of the bars struck midnight, Renzo told himself he needed to do a better job keeping the wolves from Giselle’s door—a sacred trust passed along to him and his brothers by their father on his deathbed. More importantly, he had to figure out how in the hell to pay for his younger brother’s latest bills in law school while the rest of his family built their careers.

Obviously he needed a second job to supplement his carpentry, but—

Holy hell.

Renzo’s attention snapped from finances back to the action on the dance floor. The scene that a moment ago had been a mass of rump shaking, thigh flashing and heavy breathing got a little more interesting as a petite blonde dressed like a fairy in a high-school play glided into view.

Renzo had her pegged for the glasses and hair-in-a-bun type in two seconds flat. Her fluttery lavender dress looked like the kind of thing other women wore to church. Yet here she was, flitting through South Beach’s most notoriously exotic club in an ankle length skirt.

She had a schoolteacher walk too. Very proper. No lazy hip rolling or swinging of arms going on there. In fact, she seemed to take up as little space as possible, edging her way through the crowd, shoulders delicately drawn in and her blue eyes wide with palpable surprise at the sex-drenched atmosphere.

She stood out in the crowd to him—a conservative anomaly in the room packed full of skintight clothes and do-me high heels.

Not that anyone else seemed to notice.

While Renzo tracked her with his eyes as she inched her way between men and women playing complex games of flirtation, he realized no one else noticed the incongruity of this reserved creature in the midst of the urban jungle.

Talk about being thrown to the wolves. The feathery blonde looked completely unprepared to handle herself in a flagrant meat market like this one. Where was her big brother, damn it?

Rising to his feet, Renzo passed off his plate to a harried busboy and moved closer to the dance floor, all thought of second jobs and law school tuition forgotten for the moment.

Not that he was attracted to this woman, he told himself. Just that the protector in him couldn’t stand to watch her brand of innocence stomped by the lascivious lounge lizards populating the club.

He had already glimpsed some slick Don Juan type headed her way, two drinks in his hand. And no way did this man know the wide-eyed blonde. Renzo had seen this particular Romeo at the club every night he’d checked in on Giselle for the past month. Nico had tossed the guy out on his ear last week for aggressively dancing with a woman who obviously wanted no part of his company.

Renzo finished his bottle of water and tossed it on to the bar, keeping his eye on the silk-suited barracuda closing in on little Miss Innocent. Giselle wouldn’t exactly mind if he didn’t get back to the kitchen for another hour.

She could call him a chauvinist all she wanted. He had every intention of running interference for the blond newcomer—at least until he convinced her she was out of her depth in these shark-infested waters.

Swearing off women didn’t mean he couldn’t help out a lady in distress. Or possibly introduce himself after he’d given her a hand. He had a pulse, after all.

And, damn it, he wasn’t a monk.

ESMERALDA WONDERED if it was too late to back out of the blind date thing when she spied the man in a slick silk suit walking toward her with two drinks in his hand. He shared the same reedy, too-perfect good looks as her former boss, an association that brought a wave of nausea to her already quivery belly.

She forced herself to stand still, however, determined not to follow her instincts tonight. If this guy turned out to be Hugh Duncan, she would find a way to survive it. Although she suspected it would be easier to get through the evening if she’d worn her bra. At this rate, she’d be hunching her shoulders all night to disguise the fact.

Then again, her date might be very nice despite the strong cloud of musky cologne that reached her long before he did.

Her lovely neighbor Mrs. Wolcott assured her Hugh was a perfect gentleman.

Straightening her spine as the man approached her from the right and opened his mouth to speak, Esme jumped when another voice intervened.

“I’ve been keeping an eye out for you.” The warm, masculine rasp emanated from her left. Somehow she’d missed this man’s approach in her fear of turning her back on Mr. Reedy.

A damn shame considering the newcomer looked like a page on a girl’s pinup calendar. She had never possessed such a thing herself, but in the many hours of her life she’d spent ensconced in bookstores, Esme had most certainly spied hunk calendars. This guy, with his dark hair, even darker eyes and sexy bronze skin should have been in one of the “Studs of Italy” editions.

Not that she’d memorized her favorite titles or anything, either.

“You’ve been looking for me?” She wondered if her voice conveyed a pathetic amount of hopefulness. Glancing back and forth between Mr. Reedy who’d taken the liberty of ordering a drink for her already and the Italian stud who possessed killer muscles and yet not a hint of aggressive body language, Esme crossed her fingers that the Italian stud proved to be Hugh Duncan.

She cast a pointed look to her left, away from the overpowering cologne of Joe Slick. “I’m Esme Giles. Are you Hugh?”

The guy to her right bristled, raising himself a little taller in his polished leather shoes as he shoved a drink under her nose. “Hey, Esme, how about some sex on the beach?”

She struggled not to roll her eyes. Even the college history geeks had been above using that tired bit. Curious, she wanted to ask the man if that line had ever worked for him before, but Mr. Tall, Dark and Delicious inserted himself between them to face her.

“I’m the man you’re looking for.” He nudged the reedy guy’s glass aside with one hand while smoothly steering Esme toward the back of the club and away from the other man.

Very presumptuous. And okay, maybe a little sexy.

Part of her was grateful for the assistance since she’d been getting a sinus headache from the other guy’s cologne overload, but part of her didn’t appreciate being led around by the nose. Or in this case, the elbow.

The new Esmerelda had every intention of calling her own shots and following her own path in life.

She stopped just before they reached a secluded table, refusing to go any farther until she’d confronted Rambo.

Whirling on him, she sent her skirt in a swirl about her legs, the resulting breeze creating a delicious draft up her dress. But as she faced her rescuer again, she was struck anew by his sexy good looks. The bronze skin, the dark eyes, the longish dark hair. His sharply sculpted face was full of hard angles, relieved only by the soft fullness of his mouth.

And despite the serious feminine competition all around, this guy had noticed her and stuck around long enough to help her out of a sticky situation. The night seemed to be looking up.

Clearing her throat, she tried to remember Mrs. Wolcott’s description of Hugh Duncan and failed. Any mental vision she might have formed of Hugh had somehow transmuted into the hard edges and clean lines of the man standing in front of her. “I’m sorry, but did you say you were my date?”

“You’re meeting a blind date?” His dark eyebrows knit together in an intimidating furrow. “In this meat market?”

What a perfectly eloquent assessment of the place. Club Paradise was lushly beautiful with its rich appointments and clever lighting, but the atmosphere in the lounge was a bit—sexually overt. Mrs. Wolcott had given Esme a room here tonight so she would have safe territory to retreat to if her date didn’t work out. “It is a meat market, isn’t it?”

He grumbled something unintelligible under his breath about idiotic men as a group of dancers clad only in strategic white feathers breezed past them.

She noted with interest that his gaze didn’t stray to the expanse of exposed feminine flesh that passed almost under his nose. If anything, she had been more curious about the feathered dancers than he seemed.

Appreciation for meeting a real gentleman—something far too rare in her opinion—warmed her to her toes. And he’d known she was meeting a blind date. Obviously she had found her man. “If you think Club Paradise is such a pick-up joint, why did you want to come here tonight?”

“This wouldn’t have been my first choice, that’s for sure. Who was it you said you were meeting again?” He glared around the room as if surprised to find himself here.

“Hugh Duncan.” She snagged a fresh prepoured glass off the champagne fountain at one end of the bar and helped herself to a little more of the bubbly drink. As part of ladies night, the Moulin Rouge Lounge offered free champagne to its female guests until 1:00 a.m., according to a sign in the lobby. She’d had a glass a few minutes ago, but the nervousness chugging through her and the tingly awareness of the man standing next to her urged her to indulge in a little more. Between the rapid pounding of her heart and the swift whoosh of air in and out of her lungs, the sedative effects of alcohol would be most welcome right about now. “I’m so glad I found you. I have to admit I’m a little out of my element in here. I feel better already to be with someone I can trust.”

He was quiet for so long, she hesitated before sipping her champagne.

“Assuming you are my date tonight?” A wave of nervousness threaded through her. She’d be a little bit embarrassed at this point if he wasn’t.

He reached for the glass just as she put it to her lips, covering her hand with his own, effectively seizing the drink and awakening a long slumberous desire she hadn’t known she’d harbored until just this very moment.

“Why don’t you let me get you a drink?” He leaned closer as he spoke in soft, serious tones. The gesture was at once totally innocent and thoroughly intimate. His dark eyes cut through the shifting blue and red lights, making the rest of the noisy club disappear for one heated moment. “And I am most definitely your date tonight, Esme Giles.”

2

RENZO EASED the champagne glass out of Esme’s hand slowly, not wishing to scare her away by appearing too domineering. Didn’t she know the dangers of picking up a prepoured glass of anything in a crowded nightclub?

He’d have to talk to Giselle about getting rid of those filled glasses on top of the champagne fountain right away. The drinks were perched in a place where anyone could have access to them—not a good setup when date-rape drugs were so widespread. It took half a second for someone to drug a drink, a stat savvy club-goers kept in mind.

Not Esme Giles.

Her brand of innocence could be downright dangerous.

Applying light pressure to the small of her back, Renzo nudged her toward the table he’d staked out for himself in the back. Over her head, he crooked his finger at one of Giselle’s waitresses.

“Why don’t you let me order you a fresh drink?” He rolled out the Cesare charm, needing to keep Esme entertained and out of circulation in the lounge. “My sister is something of a food and drink wizard and she works in the back. How about if I ask her to prepare us something a little more exotic?”

Esme seemed to weigh the idea for a moment. Then she smiled up at him in a half-cocked grin that struck him as a rusty movement. “Yes. Absolutely. Exotic is exactly what I’m looking for tonight.”

God help him.

If she’d said as much to Don Juan the barfly who’d tried to corner her before, the guy would have hustled her out of the club and back to his room in five minutes flat.

Apparently Esme had no sense of how to protect herself in the bar scene.

And although Renzo hadn’t intended to misrepresent himself tonight, he also wasn’t about to allow Esme to wander the club alone looking for her idiotic blind date.

What kind of moron lured an innocent woman like Esme into the most scandal-ridden hot spot in South Beach? A guy who didn’t deserve her, that much was for damn sure. For that matter, maybe this Hugh person had sleazy intentions.

In which case, Renzo definitely wasn’t going to let him have a shot at her.

As he and Esme slid into the seats of the round booth table in the back corner, Renzo asked the waitress for a couple of Good Fortune Potions, Giselle’s most recent creation.

He’d simply enjoy a drink with Esme until he could put her safely in a cab back home. Surely he could justify not telling her the truth since he was only protecting her. It’s not like he had designs on her for himself.

Still, in an effort to forestall any questions about him, Renzo thought he’d better take the conversational lead.

“Esme is a great name.” Okay, admittedly his dating small-talk skills needed a little sharpening up, but it was the best he could come up with on short notice.

“Short for Esmerelda, but that’s a bit of a mouthful.” She peered around the club from the safe haven of their table, her dark-blue eyes absorbing the action with the passive interest of a woman accustomed to observing life rather than taking part. “My mother thought if she gave her daughter an exotic name I would eventually live up to it.” Esme gave a shrug, her exposed shoulder calling attention to itself a few feet away from him. “But no luck so far. I’m an out-of-work art historian with an interest in antiques. Not exactly the outgoing and adventurous type.”

Renzo allowed his gaze to wander over her again with this new information in mind. But his eye was distracted by the shadow of her body beneath her dress and the…

Holy hell.

She was naked underneath that dress.

Thank you, God, he wasn’t in the middle of taking a drink or he would have spewed it for sure. Luckily the waitress chose to make a reappearance just then, bringing with her a tray laden with the exotic concoction his sister had demanded he taste just last night for the first time. The blend of fruit juices, rum and who knows what else, garnished by a fortune cookie had been delicious.

Esme reached for hers, a gesture that put her breasts in close contact with the silky thin fabric of her lavender dress. Breasts he could now see that were shaped like small apples, tipped with dark, tight nipples.

A rush of male appreciation swamped his senses, alerting his every stray blood cell that a sexy woman sat within tantalizing reach. Heat crawled over his skin, making his whole body edgy and very…ready for action.

Great. This was just what he needed—he was trying to be noble and in the course of two steamy seconds his body had turned traitor to the cause.

How had he ever thought that dress of hers was conservative?

“I’m sure you’re living up to the name.” His words scratched across a throat gone slightly hoarse. Maybe this swearing off women thing hadn’t been such a good idea. His self-imposed sexual deprivation of the last few months was robbing him of necessary objectivity. “You risked accepting a blind date tonight. That takes a healthy sense of adventure.”

“Maybe a little.” She sipped her drink through the straw, her forehead puckered in wary concentration as she tasted the concoction. And smiled. “My compliments to your sister. This is delicious. Much better than champagne.”

She bent forward for another sip, her breasts grazing the fabric of her dress again. Not that he had a clear view with the table in the way and her sitting at a forty-five degree angle to him in the round booth. Still, his imagination easily supplied what he couldn’t see with his own eyes.

“You’re an art historian?” Think conversation. Think conversation. He refused to morph into some slick pickup artist just because he’d caught a glimpse of bare breasts. He could maintain an intelligent discussion even if Esme was naked beneath her dress. He hoped.

“I just left a position with the South Beach historical museum that I held for five years. We focused on preserving Floridian culture and we recently added a small exhibit on native architecture.” She did a double take as the lights dimmed on the dance floor and the music changed to a salsa beat. The club-goers who had peopled the floor moved to one side to make room for the hourly show. Leaning close, she whispered in Renzo’s ear. “What’s happening now?”

Warmth tripped through him along with her hushed words. What was it about a whisper that created an immediate veil of intimacy around two people?

“There’s a floor show every hour. Sort of a Vegas-style event with lots of—” Half-naked bodies. Painted-on tattoos over women’s nipples. See-through feathers in the place of panties. “—costumes.”

She’d see for herself soon enough. The parade of perfect female bodies and fluffy white feathers was already snaking through the club toward the open dance floor. He and Nico had been trying for weeks to convince Giselle that the sex-drenched club was no place for a young woman to work, but to no avail so far.

Renzo didn’t take any note of the parade of bare flesh, however. He simply watched Esme’s reaction, mesmerized by her transparent features as her face registered surprise, titillation and pleasure at the seductive moves performed by the Moulin Rouge’s dancers.

Her cheeks flushed pink the first time a dancer sent a limber high kick in their direction. Her soft lips parted on a little gasp when another woman brought her supple bump-and-grind routine a few inches from their table.

Was Esmerelda Giles—who, according to her, had never quite lived up to her name—as innocent as she appeared? She had to be in her mid-to-late twenties if she’d worked as an art historian for five years. Didn’t that sort of profession call for some kind of postgraduate work? Surely she couldn’t be all that inexperienced. But there was an undeniable naiveté about her actions, an unexpected sense of wonder Renzo found incredibly appealing.

So many women he’d dated were blatantly in charge of their sexual desire. The dating mentality these days seemed to be I want this, I want it nonstop for 12.2 minutes and I don’t want to wait for it. Did it make him a chauvinist to think that in women’s rush for control in the bedroom a certain willingness to go with the flow, an openness to try new things, had been lost?

Spontaneity seemed like a quaint notion of the past.

However, it seemed like a quality Esme Giles might possess.

Too bad he wasn’t going to act on the growing attraction he felt for her.

Besides, Esme wasn’t the sort of woman a guy could just cart back to his room. She was more demure than that. More subtle. A woman with delicate ethics and old-fashioned values.

JUST HOW DID A WOMAN go about enticing an Italian stud back to her bedroom?

Esme pondered the question as she stared across the table at her sexy-as-sin date.

The seductive performance of the feather-clad dancers had just ended and the music pulsing through the club switched from the blood-pumping salsa to a funky R&B song that had everyone on the floor. Something about the staged show remained with Esme, some vaguely erotic longing, a latent desire to perform and be noticed in the bold manner the dancers had called attention to themselves.

If she could claim that kind of sensual power, she would surely be an in-charge woman to be reckoned with. A fierce female. A woman who ran with the wolves.

All of which was exactly what she needed. And she’d be on her way to having those things with one simple seduction.

The decision to pursue her date wasn’t nearly as difficult as she might have expected. She couldn’t deny an instant attraction to his dark good looks and his fathomless brown eyes. Under normal circumstances she would have crossed her fingers that he would call her—knowing all the time he wouldn’t—and wasted a lot of time being disappointed.

But under her new life principle, she would do the opposite of wait around. She’d call the shots, she’d seduce him, and maybe—just maybe—she’d actually get what she wanted in life for a change.

Simple.

Of course, Esme fully recognized the brilliant plan was probably helped along by the happy combination of champagne and Good Fortune Potion zipping through her system. Other women did this all the time, however, so she refused to worry about the consequences.

Her date—Hugh, she reminded herself—leaned closer, the short sleeve of his black T-shirt brushing her shoulder as he did. “So what did you think of the show? The Moulin Rouge Lounge has caused a bit of a local uproar with the antics of their dancers.”

Esme rejoiced over the conversational opening and prayed she wouldn’t blow it. “I thought it was incredibly sexy. Very…stimulating. Definitely inspiring.”

Hugh’s jaw dropped just a little. Esme hoped that was a good sign.

“Really? Some of our local politicians are making a push to put more restrictions on the creative license of the performance.”

“The audience is appropriately mature here.” Esme shook her head, thinking of all the risqué artworks from antiquity that were accumulating dust in the basements and storerooms of museums all over the world. “Throughout history, there has always been a movement to suppress sexual art, but who exactly is getting hurt in the wake of a little titillation at an adult dance club?” She cast him what she hoped was a suggestive smile and flipped her hair over one shoulder. “So a few more men and women go home together tonight because a provocative dance has gotten them fired up. What harm is there in that?”

Hugh’s dark eyes widened.

Did he have no clue what she was driving at here? Perhaps a woman needed to be more overt about what she wanted.

“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.”

Esme nearly dropped the brandy snifters as she stumbled over her feet. How had he known that? “That’s quite an eye you have. A lot of people wouldn’t know an antique if they lived with one, let alone be able to name the period.”

“But we both know an up-and-coming South Beach singles resort wouldn’t exactly have the funds to decorate their rooms with French Empire period mahogany, so I don’t think guessing this is a reproduction was much of a stretch.” He lifted the small table off the floor and peered underneath the silk panel inset that decorated its surface. “It’s not signed but it ought to be. Good replicas are hard to find.”

She promptly lost her heart to the man who spoke her language. As he set the table down, she handed him his glass. “You’re interested in antiques?” Did it make her a total geek that her heart pounded harder at the thought? “Because I deal in them as a sideline to my museum job. Well, my former job. I used to funnel a lot of antique finds to clients of the museum.”

She’d been an art historian by trade for the last five years, but her hobby had always been antiques. Every weekend of her adult life had been devoted to haunting local flea markets and garage sales in an endless quest for precious finds.

“I guess I’ve learned a few things about antiques through woodworking. I do some carpentry.” He tossed back a gulp of his brandy and pointed to the ceiling draped with embroidered linen as if eager to focus the conversation away from himself. “The tent effect is cool.”

“And very in keeping with the sensualist’s theme.” After sniffing the brandy, Esme couldn’t bring herself to actually try it. Ack. Maybe she would become equally intoxicated by inhaling the fumes. “Everything in the room just makes you want to reach out and touch, doesn’t it?”

Hugh’s gaze snapped to hers as if he suspected her words for the blatant come-on that they were meant to be.

But damn it, he seemed to willfully ignore all her subtleties. Almost as though he’d backed off getting any closer to her since they had kissed.

Yet she knew the kiss had been good. Better than good, in fact. Her body still sang with the want of him.

“The fabrics are all top-of-the-line,” he agreed, wandering farther away to admire the babbling brook tripping through the room again. He put more distance between them at the same time he put himself closer to the door.

And didn’t that say a lot about her charms?

Then again, she had read somewhere in a magazine that in this era of political correctness, men were more careful not to proceed physically with a new woman unless the female was very clear that was what she wanted. So maybe Hugh was simply being upstanding and polite.

But take-charge Esme didn’t need her date to be so solicitous. She needed him to kiss her again in the way that tripped off a reverberating alleluia chorus in her brain.

Time to set the record straight.

Resting her brandy on the little table—sorry, Bette—Esme struggled to connect with her inner wild woman as she closed the distance between her and Hugh.

Her instincts told her to try and entice him into kissing her again. So of course, she needed to ignore that instinct and move straight to kissing him herself.

Consequences be damned.

“When I said everything in the room makes you want to reach out and touch, I wasn’t just referring to the fabrics.” Her pulse jackhammered against her wrist, her neck, her chest. Her words seemed to hover in the heated current of air between them, wrapping them in a suggestive cocoon Hugh couldn’t possibly escape.

“You weren’t?” He set his drink down now, too, providing her with his complete, undivided attention.

Either that, or he was freeing up his hands so he could sprint away if she got any closer.

“No, I wasn’t.” She took a measured half step nearer to him, watching him carefully to see if he would flee.

He remained rooted to the spot, his dark eyes raking over her with a heat that didn’t feel so polite any more.

“I was referring to a different kind of touching altogether.” She edged closer until she could rest her fingertips on the black cotton expanse of T-shirt stretching over his chest.

Hard muscle rippled underneath her touch. His breath hissed out between his teeth. “You’re a woman full of surprises, Esme Giles, but I don’t know if—”

Stretching up on her toes, she kissed him into silence.

Maybe he had been about to voice a valid concern, but she wasn’t in the mood to hear it. If he wanted out of this moment and this kiss, he was going to have to find his own way not to be subtle.

But from where she was standing, he didn’t strike her as a man who wanted out of the kiss. His arms banded around her with a strength that made her shiver. And this time, she didn’t wait for him to stroke his tongue over her lips and seek entry. She parted her lips on contact, ready to receive more of him.

A low groan rumbled through his chest. She didn’t hear it so much as feel it, almost as if he’d stifled the sound. Still, she knew the sentiment had been there.

He wanted this as much as she did and the knowledge fired her with more resolve to wear down his defenses and show him exactly what she wanted tonight.

She’d never minded her lack of a love life—well, not too much anyway—when she’d had her work to be passionate about. But now that she’d had that taken away, too, Esme couldn’t help but feel a little desperate to be passionate about something.

Hugh Duncan filled the bill oh-so-nicely.

The man was passion personified with his romantic dark eyes, his polite consideration mingled with his scorching kisses. Yes, he definitely lit her fire—and he did so far more thoroughly than any new acquisition to the Floridian architecture exhibit ever had.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, Esme lost herself in the sensations swirling through her. She closed her eyes to the warm earth tones of the suite and focused on the heat they generated together.

The bristly skin of his jaw scraped along her chin, providing a surprising contrast with the soft fullness of his lips. He tasted faintly of brandy and Esme found herself swaying on her feet as she grew all the more intoxicated.

His hands shifted on her back, his fingers smoothing their way over the thin silk of her dress to graze the bare skin of her shoulders exposed by the generous neckline.

She wanted nothing so much as to wriggle her way out of that dress and feel his hands all over her body, to let the fire he ignited overtake her and burn away any bad memories she harbored of the last time another man had touched her.

Clinging to him with a fierceness that surprised her, Esme backed them deeper into the room, closer to the piece of furniture she wanted to test with him tonight.

The mahogany replica bed that this man recognized as French Empire neoclassical. Dear God, he was a dream come true.

Esme plastered herself to him with abandon, shedding her old reserve with relish. She was in charge here. She could decide what happened tonight.

And she wanted. Oh, how she wanted.

Her hands strayed over his body, absorbing the hard masculine angles of his shoulders and chest, the narrowed hips that housed the most male part of all.

Not ready to go there quite yet, she contented herself to feeling that particular part of him against her belly as she kissed him with all she was worth and continued her relentless track backward to the bed.

Hugh’s hands raked through her hair, disturbing carefully arranged curls and making her feel totally decadent, wild, free.

Everything she felt tonight seemed new and different, unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. Sex in her experience had always been a secret, covert act committed in the dark, not a blazing firestorm that bowled her over before she was even horizontal.

Chills radiated down her spine as his fingers massaged their way through her hair to her scalp and the sensitive back of her neck. Her breasts pressed more urgently against his chest, craving the same attentive touch.

As the back of her leg finally grazed the bed she’d been searching for, Esme was more than ready to topple them on to it. She caved into the taupe-colored duvet, dragging him along with her so that they never broke their kiss.

He landed on top of her with a soft thud, his hands breaking their fall as she knew they would. Something about his very nature, some old-fashioned sense of nobility suggested he would go to great lengths to protect her, to take care of her.

Tucked beneath him, she felt utterly safe and yet deliciously vulnerable at the same time.

Easily shouldering her way out of her dress, she bared her breasts to brush across his chest. Hunger for him curled through her, bold and brazen and demanding to be fed.

He groaned above her, as if her attempt to get naked had tortured him on some sexual level. Esme prayed it was torture in a good way as her body seemed to undulate beneath his on pure sexual instinct.

“Oh my, it’s so good,” she murmured between kisses as her hand ran down the length of his body to seek the rest of him that she hadn’t yet explored. All of him was steely and hard, edgy and muscular. She wanted to explore every inch. “I need you, Hugh.”

4

HUGH?

Esme’s impassioned cry for another man should have killed the mood and brought Renzo to his senses. But she was responding to his touch, his kiss, his body pressed against hers.

She wanted him, not some moron named Hugh who’d trapped her into a blind date at the biggest meat market on the strip. He knew he ought to correct his mistake and confess his ruse before it was too late. And he would.

Just as soon as he stole one peek at the deliciously bare breasts Esme had exposed when she shrugged her way out of her silky dress.

He pulled back to stare down at her and promptly lost track of all his good intentions.

Warm light flickered from the elaborate brass candelabras stationed above the bed in the Sensualist’s Suite, casting Esme in a golden glow. Her bare skin bathed in the rosy light, her nipples took on a deep pink tint, the same color as her beckoning lips.

He had no choice but to bend his head to her breast for a taste, a kiss, a decadent feast.

She arched and sighed beneath him, her hands raking through his hair as he fed upon her. Her skin tasted cool and creamy at first, but the longer he allowed his tongue to play over the sweet crests of her nipples, the hotter her flesh became.

Fascinated by her quick response, he lost track of his own, squelching his needs in a desire to please her, to make her cry out. Not until his hands strayed lower to the delicate dip of her belly and the silky curve of her hip beneath the remnants of her dress did he realize that he was teetering on the point of no return himself.

His fingers flexed into her gentle curves as he willed them into obedience. He couldn’t, shouldn’t take this any further.

Would. Not.

“Hugh?” Esme gazed up at him with passion-clouded blue eyes, her hands quick to move over his and nudge his fingers lower. “Please.”

He allowed himself a scant second to absorb the feel of her skin, to appreciate the heady drug of having a woman lead him to the exact places he wanted to go.

His fingers grazed a soft band of cotton low on her hip beneath Esme’s fallen dress. He could envision the shape and cut of the bikini panties in his hand.

But damn it, he didn’t deserve to see them.

Not tonight.

He pulled away, rolling to one side before he forgot he was raised to have some manners. Some freaking self-control.

“I can’t.” He hated the sound of those words. Hated that he hadn’t cleared up his mistruth before they’d tumbled into Esme’s bed tonight.

“You can’t?” Esme twisted around to prop herself on her shoulder. “You mean you’re not properly equipped? Because, believe it or not, they sell the necessary…” She drew a circle in the air with one finger, almost as if winding herself up to locate the words she sought. “…protective devices in the snack dispenser under the minibar.”

She peered across the beige satin pillows at him with such earnest practicality and only slightly banked passion that Renzo knew without a doubt he was the biggest heel in Miami tonight. This incredible woman would have trusted him with her body if he’d just been honest from the start.

Now, she would no doubt kick him to the curb. But worse, she just might be hurt by his actions and the thought presented him with the promise of a far more stinging pain than being booted out the door.

“It’s not that.” He laid a hand on her bare shoulder, consumed with the need to touch her once more before those trusting eyes turned shuttered. Angry. “I haven’t been totally honest with you, Esme, and I need to straighten out a misunderstanding before we take this any further.”

“What do you mean?” She stiffened. He could feel her body go rigid underneath his palm. She reached for the top of her fallen dress, pulling the lavender silk over her breasts and dislodging his hand at the same time.

His fingers mourned the loss of her soft skin, her delicate curves. He braced himself for censure and then unveiled his mistake.

“I’m not really your date. I’m not this Hugh guy you were looking for. My name is Renzo Cesare.”

The disillusionment in her eyes provided all the upbraiding he deserved. She didn’t need to say how devastating she found this revelation because her transparent features conveyed her horror so eloquently.

And if Renzo had ever thought himself a gentleman, Esme’s expression quickly proved him wrong.

For a guy with old-world values who considered himself a protector of women, he’d somehow just betrayed everything he held important.

RENZO?

Esme blinked past the shock, the rip-roaring hurt and embarrassment to get a better handle on exactly what this…imposter seemed to be telling her.

“You pretended to be my date?” Maybe the real Hugh Duncan had taken one look at her and fled. Maybe he’d strong-armed a good friend into standing in for him so he wouldn’t have to proceed with a blind date from hell tonight. “Why? Did Hugh get cold feet?”

The stranger in her bed had the gall to shrug. Shrug! “I don’t know. I—I’m not really sure what happened to your date. I just didn’t think he could be a very smart guy if he’d asked a woman he never met before to meet him at a place like the Moulin Rouge Lounge. By herself.”

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