# Just Toying Around...

Rhonda Nelson

Meg Sugarbaker is living a secret life. By day she's a pastry chef. By night she's the notorious Desiree Moon, acclaimed online sex-toy critic. Which wouldn't be so bad if she had some experience. But she's about to get some – big time. Because when gorgeous Nick Devereau shows up at her door wearing nothing but a towel, all Meg wants to do is play with him….Ultraconservative lawyer Nick Devereau is still wondering how he ended up at a sex-toy convention! He was just trying to straighten out his brother, Ron. Instead, he'd been talked into helping Ron expose Desiree Moon – the critic panning Ron's products – as a fraud. Only, once Nick sets eyes on Desiree, his plans take a radical turn. Yes, he'll still do his best to expose Desiree. But he'll be keeping her sexual secrets to himself….

## “Blow me again.”

Meg’s startled gaze flew to where Nick sat on the bed, grinning wickedly at her. She drew in a much-needed breath, trying to calm her racing nerves. Instead, her blood raced as graphic images—enticing possibilities—began tumbling through her mind. And she might as well start by giving Nick what he asked for. Lowering her head, she blew lightly on his arm.

“Damn. It feels all hot and tingly. What did you call this stuff?”

“Shiver Cream. You like it?” Meg teased, turning to place the container back on the bedside table.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Did you give it a good review?”

Meg blew lightly on his wrist a second time. “What do you think?”

Nick’s eyes widened and he shuddered. “I think it’s incredible,” he said with a groan. His sinful and slightly mischievous gaze captured hers. “Want me to do you?”

A vision of those gorgeous lips hovering over her flesh gripped her, made her breasts go heavy, her nipples bud. She ached for him. “Yes,” Meg finally squeaked. “Definitely, yes.”


Dear Reader,

If you like a little giggle with your sizzle, then this might be the book for you. Personally, I am utterly thrilled to be writing for Blaze. This bold, innovative new line provides such scope for the imagination and is the perfect forum for contemporary characters prone to a little scandalous behavior. What fun! It’s a writer’s dream.

Set in Atlanta amid a weeklong sex-toy trade show, Just Toying Around… is long on laughs and even longer on steamy sensuality. Meg Sugarbaker is a pastry chef who moonlights as the online sex-toy critic, Desiree Moon. Trouble is, Meg’s true sexual experiences can be counted on her pinky finger and, sadly, lasted about as long as it takes to nuke a bag of microwave popcorn. Attorney Nick Devereau suspects Desiree’s secret, and is determined to declare her a fraud. But as the week progresses, Nick becomes less interested in uncovering the truth and more interested in uncovering her.

I hope you enjoy reading about Meg and Nick’s wicked games….

Enjoy,

Rhonda Nelson

## Just Toying Around… Rhonda Nelson


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If you’re lucky, at some point in your life

you’ll find a true friend of the heart, someone who laughs with you, cries with you and always believes in you. And if you’re truly blessed, you’ll be able to call that person your sister.

This book is dedicated to Brooke Vanderford,

my very own friendster.

I love you, Froggy. This one is yours.

## 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

## 1

“ARE YOU SURE THAT’S HER?”

“Yes, that’s her,” Nick Devereau’s brother, Ron, hissed impatiently. “What do you take me for? An idiot?”

Ninety-nine percent of the time, yes, Nick thought with a beleaguered sigh. There were times when being the responsible son was really inconvenient. Like now.

“I’ve done my homework on this one,” Ron insisted. “That’s definitely Desiree Moon.”

“If you’d done your homework,” Nick retorted tightly, “you’d know her real name by now.”

Which would have made Nick’s work considerably easier. He could have simply threatened her with a libel suit, instead of resorting to tactics so beneath him it made his gut clench with dread. Nick had foisted his substantial caseload off onto his partner, had essentially put his entire life on hold in order to handle another Ron crisis. Honestly, would he never shrug this albatross off his neck? Would he always wear an armor of guilt beneath the hard-earned suit of his success?

How on earth had he let Ron talk him into this ill-conceived plan? he wondered again. Nick mentally snorted. Hell, he hadn’t been talked into anything. He’d been blackmailed. Threatened. Coerced. Sent on the you-were-Dad’s-favorite Guilt Express, a one way ticket to the land of self-reproof. It didn’t matter that Nick was blameless, that he hadn’t been responsible for his father’s unfair favoritism. It only mattered that it was true. And therein lay the rub.

Forcing the somber thoughts away, Nick shifted in the comfortable hotel chair and continued to pretend to read the paper while he covertly studied his prey.

Desiree Moon.

The infamous online sex-toy critic.

The woman Ron had asked him to seduce. Nick had flatly refused, of course. Honestly. He’d be damned before he’d become Ron’s whore. But he had agreed to spy on her, charm her, to see if he could discover any information Ron might use against her to save his business.

Thank God she wasn’t the pock-faced-three-hundred pound-mustached-hag-standing-at-the-ironing-board-wearing-a-muumuu nightmare his overactive imagination had tortured him with over the past week.

As a corporate attorney Nick had learned how to finesse both genders, learned how to study body language and pinpoint weaknesses, vanities. The art of flirtation was also a handy tool and Nick had mastered it over the years. Still, if she’d been the nightmare his sadistic imagination had recently plagued him with, Nick would have been hard pressed to pull off this charade. He was good, but not that good.

Nick’s lips twisted into a wry grin. His conscience had devised a peculiar punishment—penance, he supposed—for agreeing to do something so underhanded. As soon as he’d committed himself to helping Ron, it had staged a rebellion in his dreams, had tantalized him with visions of himself and a voluptuous goddess in the throes of acts so carnal, so depraved that Nick could scarcely believe they could be borne of his own imagination. Then, in the dream, just as he lay poised on the brink of the ultimate, most mind-blowing orgasm…she’d change—into the hag.

It was horrid.

And all he deserved, given what he’d agreed to do.

Regrettably, he’d been left with little choice. In addition to sending him on another lengthy guilt trip, Ron had played the Mother card, and Nick would do whatever he had to in order to protect his mother. Nick wasn’t the only one Ron could play and, though Nick had tried for years, he still hadn’t been able to get his mother to protect her retirement funds, shelter them out of Ron’s reach. If she couldn’t earn absolution for her husband’s shortcomings, she’d buy it. Nick sighed. He couldn’t let her do it again. It was that simple, and that complicated.

Furthermore, after Ron’s last so-called loan—a substantial sum Nick had never seen a penny of returned—Nick had vowed not to lend him any more money. He would help Ron any other way he could, but the days of simply handing money over to him to help assuage his own guilt for being the favorite son were a thing of the past. It hadn’t been his fault that their father had showered Nick with attention and praise and that Ron had essentially been a forgotten child. No, not forgotten, Nick realized. More like ignored. But no matter how many times Nick tried to tell himself that his father’s partiality wasn’t his fault, there still remained a little part of him that couldn’t be convinced, that held on to the guilt.

So here he sat in the hotel lobby of one of Atlanta’s premiere hotels to attend a sex-toy trade show and charm Desiree Moon, the Howard Stern of the online sex-toy world. The woman who, with her acid-tongued reviews of Ron’s products, had slowly but surely run his brother’s first semi-lucrative business into the ground. The only way to save the business was to discredit her as a critic. For reasons which escaped Nick, Ron suspected her of being a fraud, of lying about her expertise.

That’s where Nick came in. He would spy on her, gather the necessary information to prove Ron’s theory, and Ron would out her to the adult-toy world. Ron’s business would rebound, thus—since Nick had absolutely refused to bail him out of another deal gone sour—Ron wouldn’t approach their mother for help.

Though pride would never allow Abigail Devereau to admit it, her funds were in serious trouble from previous Ron-bail-outs and they simply couldn’t withstand another handout of this magnitude. Nick knew that she’d do it anyway. She always had. That had been her way of dealing with their father’s lack of attention to his youngest son. His mother had overcompensated, showering Ron with love, with gifts, with whatever she could in order to fill the void of his father’s inattention. Sadly, the money would be gone before she’d run out of guilt.

So Nick had stepped in to prevent that from happening—he owed his mother too much. Though she wouldn’t allow him to manage her funds—the result of Ron’s interference—he still couldn’t permit her to essentially commit financial suicide.

Nick wasn’t absolutely certain that Ron would go to their mother, but the threat had been enough to keep Nick from calling Ron’s bluff. Had been enough to propel Nick to help him. Furthermore, though he didn’t always understand him, Nick loved Ron and longed for a closer relationship with him.

Besides, there was something distinctly distasteful about his mother’s retirement money being used to produce and market sex toys. It was unnatural.

Just like the damned toys.

Nick suppressed a shudder. Males and females were created with conjoining parts, made to come together in a perfectly natural way. Nick was sure alkaline batteries were never meant to be a part of it.

Besides, any man who couldn’t pleasure a woman without the aid of some new-age latex, battery-operated gadget should forget the business altogether and let his pecker petrify from disuse. He’d use his own rod, thank you very much, and if for some reason he left a woman unsatisfied—which had never happened—then there were other more creative methods to accomplish the same end.

In Nick’s opinion, every man owed it to his partner to become a competent lover. He could personally draw an orgasm from a woman in under ninety seconds. No brag, just fact. And he used his own equipment.

“Hey, she’s pretty hot,” Ron whispered roughly. “Now you can quit complaining. This should be a walk in the park for you.”

Nick scowled. “This is not going to be a walk in the park. It’s a deceitful, underhanded course of action that surely could have been avoided with a little—”

“Yeah, yeah. Save your lawyer talk, Nick. She’s ruining me,” Ron reminded him hotly. “Are you going to help me or not?”

Did he really have a choice? Nick wondered futilely. He sighed. “I said I would.”

Ron grunted in response.

Nick snuck another peek at his target. As for her being hot, how could Ron even tell? The woman wore a trench coat, a big floppy hat and sunglasses that would have dwarfed Mike Ditka’s big head. Hell, she could be hiding all sorts of imperfections underneath that getup.

The garb nevertheless drew a reluctant grin from Nick. Her blatant attempt at incognito had definitely backfired. Almost every person in the hotel lobby had swiveled a double take at the ridiculous outfit.

Like everyone else in the room, the only part of her anatomy Nick could truly see was her mouth.

And what a mouth.

Ripe, curved to perfection, naturally pink, not globbed up with thick, pasty lipstick and just a fraction over-full. It was the most carnal mouth Nick had ever seen and instantly redeemed whatever imperfections she might or might not have. Kissing her would be a treat.

“She’s headed for the elevators,” Ron muttered needlessly. “It’s show time, big brother. The check-in clerk and I worked out a little deal. Your rooms have connecting doors.”

Nick shuddered to think what sort of deal Ron and the hotel employee had “worked out.” The connecting door would definitely be a perk, though. He’d be able to monitor her comings and goings and the proximity would work to his advantage. It would be easier to nurture a relationship. Though he hated to admit it, Ron had managed not to completely bungle this.

“Keep me updated,” Ron said. “I’m in nine-oh-nine.” He paused, looking momentarily sheepish. “Uh…thanks, Nick. You won’t regret this. This one is going to work.”

Famous last words, Nick thought, hoping that, for his brother’s sake, that would be true. Reluctantly, he stood and leisurely strolled to the bank of elevators where Desiree Moon waited. This was it. For better or for worse, he’d agreed to spend the next five days charming everything but the pants off Desiree Moon. Five days with a self-proclaimed professional. A sex-toy critic. Arguably any red-blooded man’s fantasy and yet Nick had never dreaded a woman’s company more. More, hell. He’d never dreaded it at all.

MEG SUGARBAKER, aka Desiree Moon, depressed the call button for the elevator and silently prayed again that she wouldn’t see anyone she knew at this hotel while attending this damned trade show. None of her co-workers at Atlanta’s renowned Chez Renauld’s knew about her other job and she had to keep it that way. Despite her excellent reputation and years of service to her employer, Meg knew that she’d be fired faster than she could say soufflé if the ultra-conservative Renauld ever learned about her second job.

As far as the rest of the world was concerned, she was only a pastry chef. Not a pastry chef who moonlighted as an online sex-toy critic for Foreplay, one of the hottest online e-magazines on the World Wide Web.

Meg still couldn’t believe that things had escalated to this degree. Six months ago, in the throes of one of her many bouts of unrelieved sexual frustration, she’d gotten cocktailed and gone online in search of a BOB—a Battery Operated Boyfriend.

She’d gotten more than she bargained for.

She’d gotten the BOB and a job.

Though events from that night were still pretty foggy, Meg remembered jokingly applying for a position with Foreplay as a critic, vaguely remembered dreaming up the pseudonym Desiree Moon. After that night, she hadn’t given it another thought—until her first box of toys arrived with instructions on how to use and critique them, then upload her reviews onto the Web site.

Morbid fascination, blatant curiosity and a woefully neglected, highly motivated libido had propelled her to explore each and every item in the box. She didn’t consciously make the decision to start critiquing the toys; she’d just done it. She hadn’t been able to resist.

The compensation had turned out to be incredible, and the extra cash would put her that much closer to her lifelong dream of attending Pierre’s Culinary Arts School in Paris. She’d been saving for almost two years, but this job with Foreplay would make that dream a reality as early as next summer.

But for every perk, there was always a drawback and Meg’s had turned out to be a doozy.

For reasons which escaped her, Meg’s Desiree Moon persona had reached semistardom on the Internet through her reviews. She knew her neighbors suspected her of having an affair with the deliveryman—she got bombarded with plain-packaged boxes every day. It seemed as though every adult-toy company across America wanted her to critique their product.

Quite frankly, Meg didn’t have a clue why.

As with everything else in her life, when she did something she wanted to do it well. This job had been no different. Each time she critiqued a product, she did so to the absolute best of her ability and she was frank. After all, these were sex toys. Mincing words would hardly benefit anyone. Being honest meant speaking plainly. If a toy didn’t stimulate her, if it didn’t facilitate orgasm, she said so. Likewise, if it made her come, she said that, too.

As for the toys which required a partner…Meg winged it, BS’ed her way through it. She had to because, ironically, other than one sad, completely unsatisfying experience back in college which had lasted a grand total of two minutes—and had cost her a very lucrative scholarship—Meg had no firsthand experience and wasn’t inclined to go to the trouble to get any.

The one and only time Meg had dropped her guard and trusted a man enough to sleep with him, he’d bragged about nailing the Ice Queen—her nickname, she’d found out later—to every jerk in possession of a Y chromosome. Including one of the professors who happened to be on the scholarship board. The scholarship Meg had been all but assured, had worked so hard for, was suddenly snatched out of her reach as a result of a morals clause. That momentary lapse in judgment had wrecked the hell out of her five-year plan. It would never happen again.

Meg sighed. The mind was willing, but the flesh was weak, and growing weaker by the day.

To her eternal frustration, Meg had been cursed with an extremely hyper libido and, sadly, due to the scholarship fiasco, a mistrustful nature. The latter was not conducive to the former.

Which resulted in perpetual sexual frustration.

How she ended up with such a strong sex drive Meg would never know. She was the only child of a set of aging parents whom she’d never seen display any sort of sexual interest in each other. In fact, her parents seemed to be completely asexual and Meg considered it nothing short of a miracle that she even existed. How her mother had ever dragged her father away from the television—which stayed perpetually tuned to a football game—to get the business done, Meg would never know. If she had to guess, Meg imagined she’d most likely been conceived in the recliner, probably during the half-time show.

At any rate, when Meg critiqued the partner-oriented toys, she gleaned information from magazines, co-workers and close friends who were sexually active. Then she’d invented a partner whom she’d dubbed “Antonio” after a popular Latin superstar to complete the ruse. Meg grinned. What the hell. It was her fantasy. She might as well make it real for herself.

If the editors at Foreplay ever found out, or heaven forbid, any of the toy companies discovered the true extent of her sexual experience, she’d be ruined as a critic. She’d lose her job. Going to Paris next summer would be out of the question.

Meg shoved the disturbing thought aside, chastising herself for worrying needlessly. Short of her admitting her lack of experience, how could they find her out? They couldn’t, Meg assured herself. She had nothing to be concerned about.

Meg simply loved the freedom her online persona gave her. Online she wasn’t just plain old single Meg Sugarbaker, twenty-seven-year-old pastry chef, whose life was about as exciting as a pound cake. She was the mysterious Desiree Moon. She was hot. Sexy. People respected her opinion. The power she had was addictive. In that protected forum, she could give voice to some of her most scandalous thoughts. Things she couldn’t share with even her closest friends. Things she’d never dream of sharing without complete anonymity.

Meg boarded the elevator, dragging her wheeled garment bag behind her. The doors had almost closed when a large male hand suddenly thrust between them and halted the process.

The body that belonged to the man was proportionate to the hand. The guy was enormous, built on a monumental scale, easily six-six. He was lean like an athlete, yet heavily muscled.

Meg pushed her floppy hat back and craned her head so that she could get a better look at him.

She felt her eyes go wide and her knees go weak. She smothered a moan.

In addition to owning the most devastatingly perfect male form Meg had ever had the pleasure to gaze upon, the guy was gorgeous. Epitomized sexy. To her near slack-jawed amazement, need broadsided her. Her womb flooded with heat and she immediately cast him as the lead in each and every one of her future sex-with-a-complete-stranger fantasies.

Adios Antonio.

Equally bewildered and intrigued by her instantaneous physical attraction to him, Meg continued her rapt perusal.

Pale tawny locks capped his head and she imagined the same golden shade lightly dusted his muscular chest, legs and forearms beneath his fashionable suit. He was lean cheeked, with a hard, uncompromising jaw. His eyes were slumberous, a rich golden brown, almost caramel, with a hint of sin and mischief thrown in for good measure.

He smiled at her, and an endearing dimple winked in his left cheek. She reciprocated the gesture and melted against the wall for support. This man was art in motion, would make Michelangelo’s David weep with shame.

“What floor?” he asked.

Who cares? Meg thought. This floor, that floor. The wall, the shower. Didn’t matter to her. Until reason returned, she was open to any and all possibilities.

Looking somewhat bemused, he lightly shrugged and pressed a button on the control panel. “I’m on five,” he told her.

What floor? Feeling ridiculous, Meg squirmed as a blush warmed her cheeks. She cleared her throat, drew her shoulders back and tilted her jaw to its most flattering angle, vainly making a belated attempt to look cool and sophisticated. Which was ridiculous when she looked like the proverbial mobster’s widow. What on earth had possessed her to wear this? “I’m, er, on five as well. Here for the trade show?” she ventured. Would that she could be so lucky.

“No.” He winked conspiratorially. “But I am here on business.”

Damn. It figured. Meg absently chewed her bottom lip and did a quick inspection of his left hand. No ring. No visible shadow of a ring. Probably never married. Which would lead a sensible, less horny woman to conclude he was either A) Possessed of some hideous character flaw. Or B) He was gay. Good-looking professionals such as this did not remain single otherwise. Meg heaved an internal sigh. He was probably gay.

The elevator glided to a smooth stop and the doors opened with a hydraulic whoosh. He allowed her to exit first. Meg murmured a thanks, then said, “Hope you enjoy your stay.”

He grinned. “Thanks.”

Hope you enjoy your stay? What was she? The damned concierge?

Mentally cursing her own stupidity, Meg started down the hall in search of her room. Gay or no, he’d already made this trip even more interesting than it had promised to be. Meg sighed and mentally ticked off what would be required of her during this trade show. She’d meet the editors of Foreplay as well as the vendors of the products she critiqued. She’d been asked to give a Q&A workshop. She’d be busy, she realized, totally engrossed in the trade show and probably wouldn’t even have time to fantasize about Mr. Perfect from the elevator, much less pursue anything else with him.

Meg battled a wave of regret at the thought, but resigned herself to that end. Need was one thing, but actually acting upon that need was another.

That admission nonetheless didn’t keep Meg from wishing she had the nerve to be more like Desiree Moon in her daily life. Meg longed to give Desiree Moon this week, to let her out, so to speak. Let her wear the sexy, silky, off-the-shoulder red dress she’d impulsively bought, then packed. She wanted to be that person, if only for a week.

And why not? Meg wondered consideringly, struck with sudden inspiration. Why couldn’t she simply let herself be Desiree Moon this week? No one knew her here at the hotel, there was no one she would be held accountable to. The possibility made her quiver with anticipation. Still…there were other issues.

Meg wasn’t ashamed of her work for Foreplay, but neither did she wish to become a social pariah and an embarrassment to her family. Regrettably, a seedy connotation went along with what she did. While anything pertaining to sex sold—just look at books, magazines and movies, and the hotter the better—there were still people who considered the topic taboo.

If that wasn’t enough motivation, her mother would have a stroke.

But her mother wasn’t here, and this was the perfect opportunity, a little-heeded voice persisted. She could do it. There was nothing here to stop her, nothing to prevent her from giving Desiree this week and giving Meg a little excitement in the process. Throw caution to the wind, so to speak. Meg stopped outside her room and fumbled around in her purse for the key card.

“Looks like we’re neighbors.”

Meg looked up. Him. Lust kindled, then detonated, burning her up from the inside out.

It was a sign, Meg decided.

“So we are,” she said, the first truly articulate thing she’d managed so far.

Perhaps trust and discretion had nothing to do with her reluctance to engage in a no-strings affair, Meg thought as she watched her mystery man let himself into the room next to hers. Perhaps she’d just never been presented with the proper motivation.

And, as every good pastry chef knew, timing was every bit as important as the ingredients. This week, combined with Mr. Next Door, certainly looked like a recipe for romance to Meg. She’d just bet he’d be delicious.

## 2

WHAT was she doing in there?

And what the hell was that noise? To Nick’s supreme consternation, Desiree had been in her room for hours. He had heard the unmistakable sound of packages being delivered and enthusiastically opened. She’d oohed and ahhed excitedly at one point, so he assumed she’d gotten something that really pleased her. In addition, room service had been by and her phone had rung at least half a dozen times.

But of all the various noises filtering through the wall, the most intriguing—the most infuriating—had to be the ominous low buzzing hum which now emanated softly from her room.

Nick grimly suspected it was a vibrator.

Exhaling mightily, he shoved away from the connecting door and paced the small area between the foot of his bed and the wall. He speared his fingers through his hair. Irritation and, yes, dammit, lust hurtled through him at the thought of her lying over there doing…things to herself.

Despite the fact that he’d only gotten a vague impression of what she might look like underneath that garb, his imagination nonetheless filled in all the other necessary images, tantalizing him—torturing him—with visions so graphic, so depraved it was all Nick could do to keep from bursting through the door and showing her what the real article could do.

At present, his article was about to explode, and all because he suspected her of using a vibrator. One of the toys he detested.

It galled him to no end.

With little effort, Nick could imagine himself being slowly driven insane by presumed acts of carnality. Visions of her naked, lithe, dewy body writhing in ecstasy on that king-sized bed sent his personal mercury into the triple digits. Nick gritted his teeth. And the hell of it was, he didn’t even know if she possessed a lithe, dewy body. The unknown combined with his suddenly fertile imagination had turned his brain to mush. He couldn’t stand another minute of this, much less a week.

But he had to. The alternative wasn’t acceptable.

The infernal buzzing hum suddenly stopped and Nick found himself straining toward the door to listen harder. Several seconds passed, then the sound of running water filled the empty silence. Nick smiled wryly. Atta girl, he thought. Keep the toys clean. At least she practiced good hygiene.

Nick growled under his breath and opted for a shower. A cold one. He needed perspective and listening to every move Desiree made next door and attaching some sort of sexual connotation didn’t facilitate clear thinking.

Nick disrobed, then stalked, naked, to the shower. He adjusted the spray, then stepped in. The frigid water stole the breath from his lungs, resulting in a litany of anatomically impossible expletives. He muttered one final oath, then determinedly steered this thinking back to the task at hand.

Before he’d gotten sidetracked by eavesdropping all day, he’d had a perfectly acceptable plan. Nick had decided to put her under surveillance, then stage a few coincidental meetings. To corroborate his in-town-on-business lie, those meetings would have to take place at night. He’d have to quietly hibernate in his room during the day, and plan to see her in the evenings.

According to Ron, the trade show would keep nine-to-five hours, freeing everyone up in the evening to examine the products. Nick chuckled darkly. After five this posh high-rise would turn into Hotel Fornication.

Nevertheless, he sincerely hoped that Desiree would keep to that schedule. It would make his job considerably easier. He assumed that she’d go down to the hotel restaurant in the evenings. Nick would simply turn on the charm, and the rest would be history.

Or so he hoped.

The sooner he got this over with, the better. If things went according to plan, he could be home as early as Wednesday, back to his regular routine, which consisted primarily of work. It had occurred to him that it might not be necessary to stay the entire week. He’d find out if she was a fraud—which he sincerely doubted—then report his findings to Ron. Then he could get back to his productive life at the office. Though he knew Ron needed him, Nick felt off-kilter when he was out of his element. He liked being in the boardroom, closing deals, finalizing mergers, reviewing contracts. Spying on a sex-toy critic, for heaven’s sake, was simply not his area of expertise. Still, he’d prepared for this week as best he could.

Nick had read Desiree Moon’s critiques and could easily see why she’d become so popular. To begin with, it was obvious that she was educated. She wasn’t the stereotypical bored lower-class housewife looking to add a little excitement to her life.

Though Desiree used explicit terms to convey her meaning, she managed to do it in a classy, yet sexy way. She was witty, used a self-deprecating humor that engaged the reader, kept them scrolling the tool-bar until she’d said what she wanted to say. Simply put, she not only critiqued, she entertained. In addition to that, her conclusions were thorough and insightful.

Nick couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps her assessments of Ron’s products weren’t right on the money. He certainly hoped not. Nick still had to help him, and by default, protect his mother. His mother had sacrificed enough on her children’s behalf—her health—and Nick couldn’t let her waste one more penny.

Nick’s mother had worked in a sewing factory for twenty years. She suffered from carpal tunnel syndrome and arthritis, and could barely hold her toothbrush as a result of that labor. His father had been a first-rate mechanic who had worked himself into an early grave.

Like most parents, the Devereaus had wanted a better life for their children, and though they’d had their problems, they’d succeeded, and more. His father had been a wily businessman and had squirreled away enough money to put both Ron and Nick through college, and to see to it that his wife had been provided for.

Nick had used his funds as his father had intended—education. Ron, in another misguided attempt to earn his father’s approval, had taken his college fund and opened his own garage. The decision had been a poor one—not Ron’s first—and the business went belly-up within a year. Ron had been on a quest to prove himself ever since.

Nick stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist and stared into the mirror at his foggy reflection, the familiar guilt settling around him again. He blew out a resigned breath. When this was over, he planned to sit down and have a long talk with his little brother. Ron needed to let go of the past, to forgive their father for his mistakes, and he needed to quit relying on his family for financial support.

To Ron’s credit, this particular business had been operating profitably right up until Desiree Moon began to bash his product line on the Internet. Nick had looked at the books, seen a direct correlation.

And, if what Ron suspected were true—if Desiree Moon was a fraud and lacked the experience to critique these products—she needed to be stopped. Right was right and wrong was wrong. If she was making fraudulent claims, then someone needed to put an end to her online career. Nick sighed. Those were a lot of ifs and he preferred to deal with certainties. Too bad there weren’t any.

Nick heard a door open, then close. Her door.

Shit.

Without the hat and glasses, he didn’t know quite what she looked like. Damn. How the hell would he put her under surveillance if he didn’t know whom to look for?

Towel still wrapped loosely around his waist, Nick rushed to his own door, pulled it open and stepped out into the hall. He’d taken three steps into the corridor when he realized two things. One, the person in the hall was an old man, and therefore, couldn’t be Desiree Moon. Two, he didn’t have his key.

A hot oath hissed through his clenched teeth.

To Nick’s immense mortification, hotel patrons began to seemingly burst from their rooms like horses from the chutes at the Kentucky Derby. No fewer than five people passed him, giving him curious, look-at-the-pervert stares.

Nick nodded politely to each, heat creeping up his neck. “Stepped into the hall, forgot my key,” he muttered inanely.

Given the situation, he had two choices. He could board an elevator and go up to his brother’s room, pray that Ron was in and not with the check-in clerk. His stomach knotted in revulsion. Or, he could knock on Desiree’s door, then get back into his room via the connecting door.

Ah, hell. He supposed this was one way to speed up the farce. Showing up in nothing but a towel should spark some sort of reaction. Hopefully, the right one.

“I’LL BE CAREFUL. I know all about the undertow. Yes, I brought my sunblock. It’s not generic, Mom, it’s the good stuff.” She could hear the familiar drone of the football game in the background, indicating her father was home from the office. She smiled, thankful that some things in life never changed. “I don’t know the number offhand, but I have my cell. Call me on that if anything comes up.”

Meg inwardly groaned, regretting the whopping lie she’d fabricated to account for her week-long absence. Her mother, The Chronic Worrier, would fret until Meg arrived safely home from her trip to the “beach.”

Still, she could hardly tell her the truth.

Hey, Ma. Headed into town for a sex-toy trade show. By the way, have I mentioned that I’m a sex-toy critic now? Multi-talented, your daughter is. Meg chuckled, and then shuddered. Her mother would call an emergency meeting of her prayer group quicker than she could say “Amen.” It wouldn’t be pretty.

“I don’t plan on going to any bars to pick up men, Mom. Yes, I’ve heard all about the date-rape drug. Listen, Mom—” Meg paused as a knock sounded at her door. Probably another vendor, she surmised. Half listening to more of her mother’s concerns, Meg crossed the room, flipped the lock and opened the door. “I’ll avoid…strange men, Mom. Bye…” Meg trailed off weakly as her eyes landed on the wet, glistening wall of a spectacularly muscled chest.

She instinctively knew whom the chest belonged to, so she didn’t waste any time by allowing her gaze to be drawn upward to confirm an identity.

Instead, she took the lucky opportunity to slowly scan and commit to memory each and every golden inch of his impressive torso and all areas south. The chest gave way to a rock-hard, splendidly sculpted abdomen. The desire to learn those ridges, to play them like a harp and listen to the music of his groans of pleasure, the hissing of his breath, was so strong Meg’s throat went dry. She wanted to wet her finger, slowly drag it down his belly and swirl it around his navel.

The towel barely clung to lean, narrowed hips, and dipped lower in the front, revealing a gilded treasure trail Meg itched to explore. An impressive bulge created an intriguing terrain across the front of his towel, leaving little doubt that what lay underneath was just as well proportioned as the rest of him. A slow simmer commenced between her thighs and Meg absently licked her lips.

He cleared his throat, forcing her preoccupied gaze to the northern territory of his face. A slight flush reddened his cheeks and a sheepish grin tugged the corners of his beautiful lips. “I’m locked out of my room,” he told her. “Do you mind if I get back in through the connecting door?”

Still bedazzled, Meg blinked. “Connecting door?”

“Our rooms have connecting doors. Haven’t you noticed?”

No. She hadn’t. Meg glanced behind her to confirm what he said and, sure enough, they did indeed share a connecting door. She didn’t know quite what to make of that, and decided to sort the conundrum out when a half-naked man wasn’t standing less than two feet from her.

“Would you mind if I came in out of the hall?” he asked, gesturing behind him as a couple of teenagers tittered past. “I’m attracting quite a bit of attention. The kind that could get me arrested.”

Meg started. “Oh. Sure. Sorry.”

He murmured a thanks as Meg stepped back and allowed him to come in. A clean, masculine fragrance bathed her as he passed, making her knees go weak. Gathering her scattered wits, she hurried to the bed and drew the coverlet over the newest batch of products awaiting her critique, then she doubled back and unlocked her side of the connecting door. She could feel his observant gaze following her.

“Is your side locked?” she asked.

He shoved an impatient hand through his damp hair and swore hotly.

Meg took that as a yes. “Er, why don’t you call down to the front desk and ask someone to come up and open your door? You can wait in here until they arrive.”

“Thanks.” He rubbed the back of his neck, then lifted the receiver and dialed the front desk. “I’m really sorry about this. I hope I’m not keeping you from anything.”

Meg pretended to check her watch. “I’ve got a few minutes.”

What she really had was a bad case of lust. The man had the best ass she’d ever seen. The damp terrycloth clung to the hard muscles of his butt like butter over warm bread. The finely sculpted muscles of his back glistened with wet droplets and, strangely, Meg found herself consumed with a peculiar urge to nibble a path from his sinewy shoulder up the curiously vulnerable side of his neck.

Heat swamped her, made her breasts heavy, her sex moist. She’d never been more attracted to a man in her life.

“They said they’d send someone up in a moment,” he told her. He tightened his towel, glancing about the room as though unsure of what to do or say next.

Making an attempt to be some sort of hostess, Meg hastily scooped up her discarded clothes from the back of the only desk chair. While she’d unpacked all of her things and arranged them to her satisfaction, she’d yet to clear away her dirty clothes. “Have a seat,” she offered, summoning a weak smile.

“Thanks.” Firmly holding the towel in place, he folded his big frame into the chair.

“So how did you come to get locked out of your room? Like that?” she asked meaningfully, gesturing toward the towel. Her gaze lingered just a fraction longer than necessary.

“I thought I heard someone knock on my door, stepped out into the hall, and the door closed before I could get back in.” He lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug and grinned. “Bet it happens to everyone.”

Meg’s lips quirked. “I’m sure it does.”

“Has it ever happened to you?”

“Nope.”

He chuckled, the sound a rich, deep rumble. “You could have lied. I was almost feeling better.”

“Sorry.” Meg laughed. “Sucks to be you.”

His eyes widened at that comment and an outright laugh burst from his chest, making the muscles dance across his abdomen. “Yes, right now, it does sorta suck to be me,” he admitted. He extended his hand. “I’m Nick Devereau, by the way.”

“Desiree Moon.” Meg didn’t even hesitate. The lie rolled off her tongue before she’d even realized she’d said it. She didn’t know what exactly had possessed her to do that, but it felt incredibly liberating. Wicked. That settled it, Meg decided. For this week only, she would be Desiree Moon and all that persona entailed. A delightful quiver eddied through her.

She took his hand, felt the warm masculine palm dwarf her smaller one. A zing sparkled up her spine at the contact. Swift. Tingling. Hot.

An intriguing grin claimed his lips and an equally intriguing glint stewed in his sexy, heavy-lidded caramel gaze. “It’s a pleasure,” he murmured.

Oy. Indeed it was.

A brisk knock sounded at the door, breaking the charged silence.

Meg withdrew her sensitized hand and straightened, reluctant to see him go now that she’d decided to pursue the life of her alter ego. “That’ll be for you.”

He stood as well and followed her across the room. All the while she was aware of his scrutiny. She could feel that hot stare. It made her all shivery inside.

Meg opened the door so that he could meet the bellhop in the hallway. He paused, then leaned toward her, bringing his tantalizing scent with him. “Thanks, again.”

Meg resisted the urge to chew her nail. To bite her fist. “You’re welcome.”

He turned to go, but seemingly thought better of it and swung back to face her. “Look, could we get a drink later?”

Delight bloomed in her chest, resulting in a small smile. “Sure. Just knock.” She gestured toward the connecting door.

He grinned. “Until then.”

Meg leaned against the open doorway as he left, once again mesmerized by his sheer physical beauty. That back. Mercy. Hmm-hmm-hmm. That ass.

Meg straightened, horror dawning.

That ass…had her bra dangling from it.

The hooks had gotten caught in the cloth.

Meg darted out into the hall just as the bellhop planted the key card into the lock. Nick started at her abrupt appearance, then smiled. “Desiree?”

“Nick, uhhh…”

He frowned. “Is something wrong?”

Meg tentatively moved toward him, her gaze darting to where her bra swung drunkenly from the towel. “I, uh…just wanted to let you know I’ll be back in my room by eight.”

He smiled. “Okay.”

The bellhop opened the door and Nick moved to go in. Meg lunged and attempted to covertly snatch her bra. The hook hung stubbornly, and to Meg’s slack-jawed astonishment, she not only managed to snag her bra—she snagged his towel as well.

Mortification momentarily burned her cheeks, robbed her of speech. Her gaze was riveted to the only part of his anatomy she’d been unable to properly peruse. Unable to control herself, her lips curled into an appreciative smile.

She’d been right.

He was definitely well proportioned.

## 3

“FLASHING HER, that’s a direct approach. Little forward if you aren’t going to seduce her.” Ron licked his forefinger, leaned forward and smoothed his eyebrows, then stood back and admired his Fonzie-like reflection. “Myself personally, I like to woo a woman.”

“Woo?”

“Yes, woo. It’s all part of the chase, the thrill of the hunt.”

“This is a woman, Ron. Not an elk, for chrissakes.” Dropping into the desk chair in his brother’s room, Nick exhaled wearily and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He shuddered to think of what Ron considered wooing. A trip through a drive-thru, then back to his place to show off his lava lamp collection?

“So what’s she look like? She a hottie?”

A cloud of dark-chocolate hair, kiss-me mossy-green eyes, smooth skin and a mouth designed for sin flashed through Nick’s mind. The hair, the eyes and the skin were pleasing to look at, not remarkable on their own. But the mouth that tied it all together… Damn.

“She’s attractive,” Nick managed, feeling a telltale tightening in his groin.

Ron nodded, apparently satisfied with Nick’s assessment. “So, did you sense any interest? She hot for you yet?”

“She’s interested,” Nick said casually.

And though he had no intention of taking advantage of the situation, she was most definitely hot for him.

Out of all the uncertainties surrounding this scheme, Nick didn’t have a doubt about that one fact. She’d practically devoured him with her eyes. That bold green gaze had inventoried every inch of his exposed flesh…and then some.

Nick took care of his body, worked out regularly. He wasn’t ignorant of his build and the resulting effect it had on women. He’d been covertly studied before. But he’d never been so intensely scrutinized. Never felt a woman’s gaze like that.

Furthermore, when his towel had come off, she’d made no pretense of turning away. Her gaze had dropped to his male equipment, lingered, then she’d had the audacity to smile.

Appreciatively.

Nick found himself equally intrigued and baffled. Baffled because, while he’d gone into her room to set things into motion, he’d been the one knocked for a loop. He’d demonstrated an appalling lack of control, something he never permitted himself to do. Something that mustn’t happen again.

Ron grunted as he shoved a foot into his boot, pulling Nick from his reverie. “Listen, if you find anything out tonight that might be helpful, give me a call no matter what time. Keep me posted. I—I need to know what’s happening, okay? This is my future we’re trying to protect.”

“Sure,” Nick said, frowning at the desperation in Ron’s tone. Ron was very adept at playing him, Nick knew, but he seemed genuinely worried this time. Who knew with Ron? It could only be wishful thinking. “But I seriously doubt anything will happen tonight. We’re just meeting for drinks.”

Ron’s brow furrowed. “Whatever. Just call me. I’m meeting Cindy, but should be back by ten.”

“Cindy?”

Ron smiled. “The check-in clerk. I’m giving her some free samples.”

Nick’s brows rose. On that note, he decided to take his leave. He stood. Desiree had said she’d be back by eight, and it was pushing that now. “I’m gone,” Nick told him, heading for the door.

“Work your magic, big brother.” He paused, giving Nick a small glimpse of Ron’s more vulnerable side. “I’ve got a lot riding on this.”

That last statement lacked Ron’s trademark bravado and, for the first time, Nick detected a hint of fear in his brother’s voice. Ron was genuinely afraid of losing this business. Fear was the beginning of wisdom. Given that, perhaps the end would justify the means.

Nick fervently hoped so.

“MR. KENT will be arriving tomorrow. He rarely attends these trade shows, but he’s very anxious to meet you.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting him as well,” Meg murmured. Marcus Kent, the senior editor for Foreplay magazine, had recently decided to personally handle Desiree Moon’s reviews. They had communicated via e-mail and telephone, but had never met in person.

“Do you have everything you need?” Ann Dolan, Marcus’s assistant asked. “Everything in your room to your liking?” She smiled. “You’re our star, you know. I was told to keep you happy.”

Meg laughed. “I’m happy and I have everything I need, thank you.”

“Good.” Ann sighed. “Well, we’ve covered your schedule, outlined your workshop. I think we’ve done everything we were supposed to do.” She quirked a brow. “Would you like to go to the lounge and get a drink?”

Meg hesitated. She nudged up her sleeve and checked her watch. “Er, actually I’m supposed to meet someone.”

Ann’s eyes widened. “Oh, of course,” she said knowingly. “You brought Antonio. Naturally, you would. Duh.” Ann popped her forehead with the palm of her hand. “This is a trade show. You’re here to critique. How else would you…well, you know?”

“I, uh—”

She nodded approvingly. “Mr. Kent will like that,” Ann confided. “The majority of our critics are women. He’s been very interested in getting a fresh hetero male perspective. I’m supposed to call in tonight with a report. I’ll be sure and let him know that you brought your partner with you. He’s been anxious to meet the legendary Antonio,” she shared with a droll smile. “We all have.”

Meg’s insides froze. Antonio? The fictitious Antonio? “Well,” Meg faltered, “I’m not sure that my, uh— That Antonio would be comfortable talking about our—”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. Mr. Kent will put him right at ease. He has a way of doing that.”

That would be fine, Meg thought, if she had an Antonio to put at ease! How on earth would she get out of this mess? She’d have to think of something, and quick. The man would be here tomorrow, expecting to meet her…and dear old Antonio. Dread mushroomed inside her. Her dinner—which she’d enjoyed—curdled in her stomach.

“Well, I won’t keep you,” Ann told her, standing. She drew her purse from the back of the chair. “I’m sure you’re anxious to get upstairs and, er, get started.”

Meg managed a weak goodbye. Her mind whirled. Actually, she had been anxious to get back upstairs so that she could wait for Nick. But now… Now, she had a mess to deal with. It had never occurred to her that she would need to bring a partner, that they would expect her to have him here with her.

But it should have.

This was a sex-toy trade show and she, a critic.

Meg absently worried her bottom lip. Well, she would think of something. She would make up a lie. She’d simply tell them that poor Antonio had been called home on an emergency. His mother was ill, his house had been hit by a tornado, his brother needed a kidney transplant and he was the only match. Something. Meg snorted at the extreme scenarios her desperate mind created. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought. Might as well make it a good one.

Meg stood and refused to think about it anymore. She would handle it in the morning. Right now she needed to get back upstairs. To wait for Nick. A tingle of excitement bubbled through her.

Though the meal had been delicious, she’d barely been able to eat. It had been a long time since she’d had anything that remotely resembled a date—she’d been too busy double-timing it up her career path to enjoy any sort of social life—and something about this guy… Meg paused consideringly. Physical attraction aside, something about this guy seemed different. She didn’t know exactly what yet, but she intuitively knew that the potential for something extraordinary had been presented to her and she didn’t intend to waste it.

Besides, now that she’d decided to momentarily ditch her ho-hum life and trade it in for the week for an exciting one, she couldn’t wait to get started. Meg shuddered to think about what that said about the life she’d led to date, that she’d be so willing to abandon it. True, since the scholarship fiasco she’d forsaken all men and pursued her career with single-minded determination. But had it really been that bad? That boring? That empty?

Yes.

With that disturbing realization in mind, Meg hurried to her room. Rather than sit on the end of the bed and twiddle her thumbs while she waited for him, she took the opportunity to straighten up. Meg couldn’t stand clutter, liked her surroundings balanced, harmonized and color-coordinated. In her line of work, presentation was almost as important as the quality of the dish she prepared and that mentality had spilled over into other areas of her life. She’d been told she was maddeningly meticulous. Meg grinned. She just considered herself thorough.

Less than five minutes passed when a soft knock sounded at the connecting door. So he’d been just as anxious. Meg felt a grin tug at her lips. Taking a fortifying breath, she smoothed her jacket and opened the door.

“Hi,” she managed. He looked devastating. He wore khaki trousers, a white oxford shirt and a come-hither smile that melted Meg’s insides.

“Ready?”

“Sure.”

Meg slipped her key card back into her purse and allowed him to escort her from the room. The sheer size of him struck her again. Her head lay a good two inches below his shoulder. Though totally against her feminist nature, the thought made her feel safe. Protected. This was the sort of man that a cave woman would want to take as a husband. A big, tough, muscled warrior who would defend and protect.

A ribbon of heat curled through her. Need consumed her, made her knees momentarily go weak. Hell, they hadn’t even made it to the elevator and yet she found herself hit with the insane notion to skip the drinks altogether and drag him back to her room.

Which was ridiculous, of course, because Meg had never dragged any man to her bed, much less a complete stranger. And while this man happened to be the answer to her every carnal fantasy, he was still a stranger.

He was just a stranger she was impossibly attracted to.

But she didn’t have to consider what Meg would do, she reminded herself, only what Desiree would do, and this week she was Desiree. A sly smile curled her lips as she cast a sidelong glance at her companion. The possibilities were endless.

Nick guided her into the elevator with a hand at her elbow. The minimal contact nonetheless ignited a sparkler of pleasure low in her belly. “Did you enjoy your dinner?” he asked, pulling Meg from her mental musings.

“I did,” she replied. “What about you? Have you eaten?”

“I ordered room service.”

Well, that took care of that line of conversation.

Now what were they going to talk about? Meg wondered as the silence yawned between them.

“Fifty percent chance of rain tonight,” he remarked casually.

“Is that right?”

He rocked back on his heels. “So I heard.”

“I like rain,” Meg replied, her lips curling into a small grin.

“I do, too.”

“Makes me sleepy.”

The elevator glided to a smooth halt. He twined his fingers with hers and waited for the doors to open. “That covers the traditional pleasantries,” he murmured, his voice a smooth decadent rumble. “How about we move on to a more interesting topic of conversation.”

“Like what?” Meg chuckled.

His lazy, half-lidded gaze captured hers. “You.”

Oh, he was smooth. Definitely out of her league and she out of her element. What on earth was she doing? “You’d be sadly disappointed if you thought I’d be a more interesting topic of conversation.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “I doubt it.”

They strolled into the lounge and found a secluded table tucked past the bar. In a gentlemanly fashion Meg hadn’t witnessed in ages, Nick obligingly pulled out her chair.

“What would you like to drink?” he asked.

“Chardonnay.”

“It’ll be quicker if I go to the bar.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t go away.”

Like hell, Meg thought as she watched him cross the room. Once again she found herself thrown into the grip of another bout of yearning. The man walked with an economy of movement, languid yet purposeful. Nick Devereau was obviously a man who felt comfortable in his own skin.

Meg had always prided herself on her ability to size a person up. She read confidence in the breadth of his shoulders, a smidge of arrogance in the tilt of his jaw and—the most distracting of all—the invitation to sin in those warm, heavy-lidded butterscotch eyes.

While Desiree Moon might long to throw caution to the wind, Meg Sugarbaker was still more than a little gun-shy. She’d been burned before and repercussions for that one stupid mistake had blistered her enough to make her very cautious. The last time she’d dropped her guard she’d lost a scholarship that would have saved her thousands of dollars and garnered respect in the snobbish circles of haute cuisine. She’d also been made a laughingstock. Though she was more mature now and circumstances were different, old habits died hard. Meg chose her company carefully, kept her circle tight.

But hadn’t she decided not to worry about Meg’s concerns this week? Hadn’t she decided to be Desiree Moon? If that were the case, then she shouldn’t be bound by all the old doubts, reservations and insecurities. She should simply live in the moment and see where this week took her. And she’d only have this week. Once it was over, it would be back to good old Meg. The thought struck a curious pang of regret, but Meg forced it away and concentrated on the present.

After all, this was the first time she’d been out on anything that remotely resembled a date in ages, and Nick Devereau was by far the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on. She would simply enjoy herself and the rest would take care of itself.

Resigned to that end, Meg took a moment to survey the bar. Though relatively early, a sizable crowd had gathered. A soulful jazz tune emanated from hidden speakers, creating an intimate bare-your-soul atmosphere. A smoky haze swirled near the ceiling, casting an eerie glow in the dimly lit lounge.

Nick returned with their drinks. “Now where were we? Oh, yes. You were going to tell me about yourself.”

Her gaze tangled with his. “I was?”

“Certainly. We decided you were a more interesting topic of conversation than the weather.”

Meg grinned wryly. Aside from the fact that she was a sex-toy critic, there was absolutely nothing interesting about her life. She was a single, twenty-seven-year-old pastry chef, a frustrated semivirgin who owned a small patio home in a middle-class subdivision. Rather than succumb to the old-maid cat cliché, she’d bought a gerbil. Whoopee. Didn’t she live life in the fast lane?

Well, that would all change when she pulled together the tuition and travel fees for the school in Paris. Her dream was almost in reach. Just a few more months and she’d be a true cosmopolitan woman.

But she wasn’t yet.

“No,” she clarified, drawing in a cautious breath. “You decided I would be a more interesting topic of conversation.”

He shrugged noncommittally. “Semantics. Tell me about yourself.”

Another interesting discovery, Meg thought, unreasonably impressed. Nick Devereau didn’t seem to have any intention of dominating their conversation with the usual bullshit bravado men normally felt compelled to impart. He seemed genuinely interested in her. Meg couldn’t help but be impressed. “What do you want to know?” she asked.

“Everything.”

Meg chuckled. “Not much, eh?”

“Why don’t we do a little Q&A? Tit for tat, so to speak.” He stilled, studying her intently. “If I ask something that’s too personal or something you don’t want to answer, then just say ‘pass.’ I’ll do the same to any question you ask me.”

Meg mulled it over. “Okay,” she conceded grudgingly. “Sounds fair.”

“What do you do for a living?”

Hell. Meg mentally rolled her eyes. He would ask that first. While the sex-toy critic job was more interesting, it wasn’t her primary source of income. Besides, she didn’t know how to do the Heimlich and he’d probably choke if she imparted that little factoid. “I’m a pastry chef,” Meg answered. “What do you do?”

He sipped his whiskey. “I’m an attorney. A pastry chef,” he repeated, seemingly intrigued. “That’s a great deal more interesting than the weather. What restaurant?”

Hmmm. Too personal, Meg decided. Too risky as well. Though unlikely, she still might discover some hideous character flaw. She might not want him knowing where she worked. “Sorry, I’ll pass on that one,” she told him. An earlier suspicion surfaced and she regarded him shrewdly. “Are you gay?”

He strangled on his whiskey. “Wh-what? No! Why?” His brows winged up his forehead. “Do I— Do I act gay?”

“That’s two questions,” Meg pointed out as she resisted the urge to laugh. His abrupt, outraged, vehement “no” certainly left no doubt that he was straight. “I’ll answer the last question. No, you don’t act gay…but you seem too good to be true.” Meg narrowed her gaze, studied him thoughtfully. “Are you married?”

“No.” A hint of humor danced in his eyes and a bit of self-satisfaction clung to the edges of his halfhearted smile. “Why do you think I’m too good to be true?”

That had been too telling a remark, Meg thought ruefully. She’d have to watch herself. Pass or be forthright? She chose forthright. It seemed the Desiree thing to do. “Because you’re a seemingly sane, heterosexual, unmarried, attractive professional over thirty.” Meg leaned forward. “Do you live with your mother?”

A burst of laughter erupted from his chest. “No. Are you married?”

Meg shook her head. “Does mental illness run in your family?”

“No.” His gaze captured hers and he lowered his voice. “Do you realize you are the most entertaining woman I’ve met in a long time?”

Meg blushed, pleased at the unexpected compliment. “No, I didn’t. Are you currently taking any prescription medications, mood elevators, anti-depressants?”

The perpetual grin kicked up around the edges. “No. Would you like to dance?”

Meg’s drink stalled halfway to her mouth. “Er…” Meg glanced around the increasingly crowded room. Some industrious patrons had shoved several tables out of the way and had created a makeshift dance floor.

“Didn’t catch a ‘pass’ or a ‘no’, so I’ll take that as a yes.” Nick stood and drew her to her feet, then gently tugged her toward the dance floor. Within seconds, she found herself curled into his masculine embrace. His warm palms lay anchored at her hips and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to twine her arms around his neck. Her head fit perfectly in the hollow under his chin. His scent, a clean woodsy fragrance, swirled around her senses, enveloping her in a sensual haze. The music throbbed around them and for Meg, the rest of the room simply faded away.

For all intents and purposes, they were glued from the knee up, and the contact had all but set Meg aflame. Her blood pulsed warmly in her veins, pooled at her womanly center. The desire for release, the unequivocal need, spiraled inside her, an ever-tightening coil.

She felt his breath stir near her ear. “You’re a good dancer. And you smell wonderful.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, impossibly warming more with the compliment. “You dance well yourself.” She paused. “Did you learn how at your anger management classes?”

His chuckle vibrated through her, and she could feel his smile against her hair. “Still looking for faults, I see. Can’t you just accept the fact that I’m perfect?”

Meg giggled. “Aha!”

He drew back to look at her. “Aha, what?”

“You’re not perfect.” She sniffed. “A perfect man would never be so conceited.”

“Touché,” he said, laughing.

As much as she dreaded it, Meg knew the time had come to bid him good-night.

While she still would.

While she still could.

Her shoulders rounded with a sigh as the song drew to a close. “It’s getting late,” she confided regretfully. “I’ve got an early morning.”

“I do, too. We should probably head back upstairs.”

Meg nodded, pleased to note that he didn’t seem any more eager to end their date than she did. The trip to the room went entirely too fast for Meg’s liking, but she knew she shouldn’t linger. It had been a pleasant evening and, other than that last dance, she’d managed to keep from launching herself into his arms. Or into his lap. Or at his mouth.

Which would have been entirely too easy.

Meg paused outside her door and turned to face him. Lashes at half-mast, those butterscotch orbs had darkened into a warm caramel. Meg suppressed a shiver. Her mouth dried…watered. Her gaze strayed to his full, firm lips and, with effort, she swallowed. “I’ve had a really good time tonight. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. Lingered. He cleared his throat. “Are you leaving tomorrow?”

Meg shook her head. “I’ll be here all week.”

He released a small breath. “Me, too. Can I see you again?”

A bud of pleasure unfurled in her chest. “Sure.”

The space between them had mysteriously lessened, Meg noted as her gaze once again returned to his lips.

“Same time tomorrow night?”

“It’s a date.”

“Then let’s seal it with a kiss.” He framed her face gently and his mouth descended to hers. His lips were firm, yet soft, and deliciously warm, and the taste of whiskey still clung to them. Meg moaned with pleasure, sank more firmly against him and angled her head to grant him better access.

Mamma-mia. This man knew how to kiss.

He knew precisely how to alternate pressure, how to suckle, how to explore the ultra-sensitive recesses of her mouth. His tongue curled around hers, plundered in and out, back and forth, and while his mouth laid siege to hers, his hands had started an equally thorough expedition.

But that was okay, because hers had too.

Meg mapped his chest with her palms, felt the hard muscles bunch beneath her hands, vibrate at her touch. When she’d gotten her feel for those areas, she moved north, to his massive shoulders, then on to his nape, where she curled her fingers into the silky tawny locks.

Nick’s hands were equally eager. He palmed her ribs, barely thumbing the undersides of her breasts. Up! Up! Meg wanted to scream. Her nipples ached with need, puckered for attention. She longed to feel his mouth anchored there, feeding on her as his lips fed now on her mouth.

His big warm hands traveled round the small of her back and settled on her rump. He squeezed her there, drew her upward and aligned her so that she came navel to zipper with the evidence of his arousal. Desire flooded her sex, moisture drenched her feminine folds. Nick swallowed her groan of want as she moved impatiently against him. Need clawed at her, consumed her, made her wiggle shamelessly against him. She wanted—

“Didn’t we get you a room?”

The vaguely familiar humorous male voice shattered the sensual fog and Meg and Nick broke apart guiltily. Meg turned…and came face-to-face with Ann and a man whom she could only assume was Marcus Kent.

Mortification glued her tongue to the roof of her mouth. “I—uh.”

The man extended his hand. “Marcus Kent. You’re Desiree, right?”

Meg nodded, still bewildered. “Right.”

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” His gaze bounced to Nick, glinted with something strangely akin to hunger. “And your significant other, Antonio.”

Nick frowned. “An—”

“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Mr. Kent,” Meg rushed to impart before Nick could finish.

Mr. Kent reluctantly returned his attention to Meg. “I know that you have a busy day tomorrow, Desiree. But at some point over the next week, I’d really like to meet with you and your partner. I’ve been anxious to get a hetero male opinion of some of those new products we’re reviewing.” He eagerly turned to Nick. “For instance, those new penis jelly rings. Man to man, Antonio,” he confided, edging closer to Nick, “do they really prolong an erection?”

Nick’s eyes bulged. “Wh—”

“We’ll have to get back to you on that, Mr. Kent. It was a pleasure meeting you.” Meg crammed the key card in the lock, shoved the door open and herded Nick inside. “See you tomorrow,” Meg trilled amiably. She sagged against the door, then turned to face Nick.

Meg winced at his thunderstruck expression. “Sorry about that.”

“Penis jelly ring? What the hell is that man talking about?”

“Dunno,” Meg lied, studiously avoiding his gaze. She opened her side of the connecting door and nimbly guided Nick to it.

Gone was the jovial charmer. The shrewd attorney had taken his place. “I suspect you do. And why did he call me ‘your partner’?”

Inwardly, Meg sighed. There was no way around it. She had to level with him. Especially if she thought he might be persuaded to don the role of her partner while they were here. She’d considered it. What choice did she have now that they’d been seen together? The he’s-gone-to-donate-a-kidney story certainly wouldn’t fly now—they’d see him around the hotel.

Honestly, who would have thought that one cocktailed trip through cyberspace in search of a vibrator to remedy her perpetually aroused state would result in this chaos?

Meg nervously cleared her throat. “Okay, here’s the truth. I am a pastry chef.” The rest she spewed out in a rush. “I’m-also-an-online-sex-toy-critic-in-town-for-a-trade-show-and-that-man-in-the-hall-was-my-editor-and-he-thinks-that-you’re-my-partner-Antonio-whom-I’ve-been-sleeping-with-while-I’ve-been-critiquing-various-products-over-the-past-several-months. Understand?”

If possible, his dumbfounded expression intensified. “No, I—” Meg leaned forward and captured his lips with hers. She threw every bit of her yearning into the kiss—every ounce of want—then abruptly drew back, making him stagger forward. “G’night,” she murmured breathlessly. “We’ll discuss this later.”

Then she closed the door on his gorgeous, thoroughly bewildered face.