Читать книгу Girl Gone Wild - Joanne Rock - Страница 8

SOME MEN COUNTED SHEEP to fall asleep. Hugh Duncan spied on people.

Peering out of the dark windows overlooking a deserted stretch of Miami’s South Beach, he strolled through one of the quiet lounges at the back of the posh resort he was supposed to be investigating for his newspaper. At 4:30 a.m., the raucous partyers who had populated the hotel’s nightclub had just stumbled out into the early morning air, leaving this section of the resort suddenly quiet. Secretive.

Skirting around a secluded seating area in one corner of the minimalist Art Deco-style lounge, Hugh searched for a diversion to occupy his mind through what had always been his most restless hours of the day. He’d never been one to fall asleep until at least 6:00 a.m., preferring to roam the streets of whatever city he happened to inhabit, looking for his next story. Some kind of intrigue he could write about, dissect, rant over.

Nine times out of ten, he unearthed the kind of subjects he preferred by simply watching. Observing details in a manner he’d come to realize was unique. The quirky way he’d always been able to fixate on the small, the seemingly insignificant, gave him an edge as an investigative reporter.

It also annoyed the hell out of most people, but how many guys had turned their most irritating habit into a Pulitzer? Annoying or not, he continued to indulge the practice, even in the case of stories he didn’t want to write.

Like this one.

Sighing with frustration that South Beach’s most notoriously hedonistic resort could be so damn quiet, Hugh paused to absorb the colors emanating from a nearby erotic painting. Georgia O’Keefe-like in its simplicity, the picture of a red poppy flower in bloom bore disconcerting resemblance to a woman’s genitals. Then again, maybe men who’d been without sex for as long as he had simply started seeing women’s genitals everywhere they looked.

Damn.

Pivoting away from the picture, he considered heading for the next exit to see what he could find on the South Beach strip to entertain himself, when a woman’s voice lifted in song caught his ear.

Whoever warbled out “Summer Wind” might not have had the greatest vocal ability, but he had to appreciate the musical selection. He probably wouldn’t be able to find a cover of a Sinatra tune playing anywhere else on the strip.

Besides, he wouldn’t unearth any material for the story he was being coerced to write on Club Paradise if he left the premises tonight. A stupid assignment more suited to a features reporter than a hard-hitting investigative journalist, but his editor was determined to take a piece out of Hugh’s hide for an article he’d written that had stepped on the toes of British intelligence.

As if a month’s worth of crappy assignments would make Hugh stop writing the kinds of stories that truly needed to be told.

Winding through the back halls of Club Paradise, flagrantly ignoring the Employees Only signs on one door after another, Hugh followed the source of the “Summer Wind.” He could claim a distant, step-cousin-style relationship to one of the owners of the resort since his uncle had married founding partner Brianne Wolcott’s mother at some point. Of course, his whole family was one big mass of stepthis and ex-stepthat, and he’d never actually met Brianne. No one in the Duncan or Simmons families had much of a track record in the marriage and family department.

Still, the relationship ought to be enough to justify his presence in the employees-only sections of the resort, right?

Scents of garlic and basil assailed his nose as he neared the kitchen, making his gut rumble in hungry approval. When was the last time he’d eaten? Snacking wasn’t usually a part of his late-night spying rituals, but the distinct aroma of Italian cooking made him rethink his nocturnal surveillance traditions.

He paused just outside the door to the source of the incredible aromas, the feminine voice within hitting a high note and luring him with her siren’s song.

Curiosity beyond professional interest pulled him closer to the doorway. The dynamic Sinatra rendition, even without musical accompaniment, coupled with the incredible scents had him salivating for a glimpse of the songstress. And—truth be told—the recent glimpse of the poppy had probably stirred his interest a bit.

Damned suggestive artwork.

But the one benefit to being back on U.S. soil was the freedom to engage in casual sex—a pleasure he never afforded himself while abroad. And from the way his body had kicked into overdrive at the sound of the woman in the next room, he knew he couldn’t put off some serious fulfillment in that department for too much longer.

With the silent feet and stealthy grace that had long supported his nightly habit, Hugh nudged open the door and edged his way into the room.

Only to discover his efforts to be sneaky were totally wasted on the oblivious creature stirring up mayhem in the center of her kitchen.

She held a wooden spoon in one hand and a bag of decorator frosting in the other as she whirled between a granite-topped island and an eight-burner cooking range loaded with steaming cauldrons.

Dancing as she worked, a petite brunette in a sexy-as-hell red dress did a bump and grind as she bent over a shiny aluminum cookie sheet and applied frosting to some confection or another. Her abundant hair was pinned up on the back of her head in some little confining net, but a few wavy strands escaped to bounce in time with the rest of her.

Sinatra’s music had probably never enjoyed such an enthusiastic performance.

He debated breaking out in applause as her voice died on the final strains of her song. Odd, because he’d always been a disinterested bystander on his other nighttime investigative outings. Why the sudden urge to blow his cover and announce himself to this brown-eyed beauty?

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the lithe little brunette emanated more sheer physical presence than many men twice her size. Or maybe it was because her dress happened to be the exact shade of the provocative poppy flower he’d spied in the hallway.

Then again, maybe it was simply because he’d never seen a woman so full of life, she practically bubbled over like one of those steaming pots on the stove. Before Hugh could make up his mind either way—to reveal himself or not—the woman launched into a rendition of “Witchcraft” as she twirled over to the range top to stir the cast-iron cauldrons wafting the rich aroma of what could only be spaghetti sauce. She dipped her wooden spoon into the first batch and spun it clockwise, counterclockwise, then back again before moving to the next pot where she repeated the process.

He watched, mesmerized, as the woman worked her own brand of witchcraft on him. Since when did he go for domestic goddesses who appeared totally at home in bare feet and wielding a spoon? His tastes usually ran to women on a mission. Only serious crusader types need apply. And this woman looked about as far from serious as a man could get. Especially when she licked the remnants of spaghetti sauce off the ladle after stirring the final pot.

She flung the instrument into the sink and paused in her singing long enough to kiss her fingertips in the classic Italian effusive gesture that meant “delicious.”

Damned if he didn’t feel that kiss from all the way across the cavernous room. The wealth of cool, stainless steel surfaces in the industrial kitchen didn’t come close to making the space less intimate.

Intrigued for all the wrong reasons, Hugh settled a shoulder into a wall of locked rolling carts filled with clean dishes. Willing away thoughts of the exposé he needed to write on Club Paradise in order to barter his journalistic freedom back from his editor, Hugh told himself it would be okay to mix business with pleasure just this once.

He definitely needed a domestic fling before he jetted out on his next foreign assignment. So what would it hurt to watch the apron-clad songbird dance around her kitchen for a little while and see what happened?

Hell, for all he knew, maybe the wild-eyed brunette would be the key to his first lead.

SOME WOMEN BELTED OUT hallelujahs when times were good. Giselle Cesare preferred Sinatra.

She tossed in a few extra choruses of “Witchcraft” just because she couldn’t bear for the song to end. Times were definitely good.

After too many years of being watched over, protected and insulated from as many life experiences as possible by her family, the head chef and part-owner of Club Paradise finally had a window of delicious freedom. Mouthwatering opportunity.

She didn’t intend to waste a second of it.

Tangoing her way across the kitchen in her bare feet—a transgression she never allowed herself during business hours and for which she’d have to mop before she closed up tonight—Giselle relished the feel of smooth ceramic tile beneath her feet as she arrived at the pantry. Humming and rummaging around for the fresh fruit she’d bought the morning before, she transitioned straight into “The Way You Look Tonight” as her fingers seized the prize she sought.

A pomegranate.

Giddy pleasure ran through her veins at the mixture of sensual thoughts that swirled around her head. A taste of the delicious fruit she held would be the first of many indulgences over the course of the next week.

Now that her brother Renzo was off on his honeymoon and her brother Nico was on the road with the hockey team he coached, Giselle had no burly protectors to scare away potential suitors. No hulking bodyguards to intimidate her dates into keeping their hands to themselves.

This week, she would date whoever she pleased, and lure the right man as far as she dared.

Which, of course, was very far indeed. Unsuspecting men of South Beach beware. Giselle Cesare was very much on the prowl.

And hungry.

As long as the food critic from the Miami Herald didn’t show up anytime soon and the club continued to increase revenues—a likely event now that they’d shaken off some of the scandals attached to the business—life promised to be very, very good.

In flagrant celebration of that fact, she spun on her toes until the silky red skirt of her dress twirled out from her body, exposing her thighs and her panties to a rush of breezy air à la Marilyn Monroe.

Delicious.

She whirled faster to keep her short skirt airborne, reveling in one of many sensual delights that would soon follow. Her toes ate up the tile as she crossed the kitchen, spinning her faster and faster until—

A man caught her eye from the edges of her peripheral vision.

A grinning, gorgeous man.

She nearly tripped in her haste to halt herself, feet tangling in confusion. Gorgeous men never magically appeared in her kitchen.

Then again, she usually had her very own gargoyles posted around the entrance to any room she happened to occupy. Is this how easy it would be to find a hot guy if she had been born into the world without a troop of overbearing brothers?

Her heart slamming an erratic pace between the dancing and the sudden enticement of the newcomer, Giselle took a deep breath and tried to gather her composure while she thought of the appropriate thing to say.

“I hate to disappoint you if you’re looking for a late-night snack, but the kitchen is officially closed.” Okay, so that wasn’t exactly the kind of come-on line she issued effortlessly to gorgeous men in her dreams, but she was damn rusty at this. There’d been a time in her life when she’d been a bit of a hellion just so she could wrangle some occasional freedom from her family’s relentless watch over the only daughter in the brood. But she’d been too busy pulling her weight to get Club Paradise off the ground this year to expend any energy on man-hunting.

The sexy stranger grinned back at her, never shifting his lazy stance against her stainless steel rolling cart full of sterilized dishes.

“Officially closed? Does that mean all the activity going on in here is of an unofficial nature?” He sounded amused at the prospect.

Giselle looked him over more carefully as she wondered whether or not to be offended. Was he laughing at her song and dance routine with his sly smile and all-the-time-in-the-world body language?

She examined more clearly his striking green eyes set in an angular face. His hair was every bit as dark as her own, sort of brown bordering on black, but his skin lacked the bronze hue of her Italian heritage. She had him pegged for Irish ancestry. Or maybe those deep green eyes were making her see something that wasn’t there.

He possessed a lean, rangy body with none of her brothers’ muscle bulk. Nevertheless, he had a definite don’t-mess-with-me stance that suggested he could hold his own.

She took in the dark khakis and black T-shirt covered by an unbuttoned jacket. With the eye of a woman who’d bought dozens of shoes for her four brothers over the years, Giselle recognized expensive leather moccasins that had seen some high mileage. In fact, from the lightly scratched face of the understated gold timepiece he wore to the premature laugh lines around his eyes, everything about the man said he’d seen a lot of living, though he couldn’t be too many years past thirty.

And the heat emanating from those green eyes assured her he wasn’t laughing at her.

A hungry shiver rippled over her skin.

“Unofficially, I’m doing some prep work for tomorrow,” she admitted, juggling the pomegranate to a nearby counter as she blew a stray lock of hair from one eye. Why, oh, why did she have to reek of garlic when she met the most intriguing man she’d laid eyes on in more years than she could count? “Giselle Cesare, executive chef.”

He straightened as he reached for her hand. “Hugh Duncan. Nice to meet you.”

If she thought it odd that he didn’t follow her lead and mention a little something about himself, she forgot all about it when his fingers enveloped hers. The warmth of his touch surrounded her palm, communicating some spark of life force that made her tingle with awareness.

Hello.

Her whole body seemed to sit up and take notice.

“Do you always have this much fun working, Giselle?” He relinquished her hand too soon, leaving her feeling just a tad bereft without the electric buzz of his touch.

“No. Tonight is special because I’m celebrating.”

“I take it if you refer to 4:30 a.m. as tonight, that means you’re a night owl who hasn’t gone to bed yet instead of a morning person who likes to rise before dawn?”

“Mornings are for sleeping,” she confirmed, although a man like Hugh Duncan could inspire a woman to use the morning for other things. Like taking handsome strangers to bed, peeling off their clothes and—

“I have to admit you’ve got me curious.” Hugh pinned her with a level look, his green eyes divining too much.

Had she spoken her wayward thoughts aloud?

“What exactly are you celebrating?” he prodded when she remained silent.

Relieved he hadn’t read her lascivious thoughts, Giselle backed up a step and gestured him to follow her deeper into the kitchen. “Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll tell you? The kitchen may be closed, but that doesn’t mean I can’t locate something snackable for a fellow night owl.”

When he didn’t move to follow her immediately, Giselle knew a moment’s panic. Hugh Duncan was her ticket to a week of sensual delights, and she had no intention of letting him slip away easily. The man had entered her turf after all, proving he must be at least moderately interested. And he wore no wedding band on his left finger.

Not that a girl could count on a missing ring as evidence of no commitment. Giselle had learned that the hard way the last time her brothers had been out of town over a year ago.

She couldn’t be in over her head already, could she?

“I wouldn’t want to impose.” His feet followed her more slowly, his gaze moving around the kitchen with unhurried thoroughness. “But it’s not often I run into such a tempting offer.” His gaze shifted back to her at the same moment the word “tempting” eased from his lips.

Giselle thought she’d have heart palpitations as she reached the small table where she’d planned to offer him a seat. But, damn it, now the whole issue of whether or not he was married danced irritatingly around the back of her brain. After the major screwup she’d committed by sleeping with a married man who’d claimed he was single, how could she not clear the air straight out of the gate?

She gripped the back of one of the chairs pulled up to the butcher-block table and hesitated. “It’s definitely not an imposition and I’d be glad for the company.”

Still she hesitated. Awkward.

“But?” Hugh Duncan stared at her with patient eyes, his slow pace putting her so much more at ease than her noisy, in-your-face family where everyone competed to talk at once.

“But I just want to make sure you’re not married or anything. Are you?” She’d rushed the words out so fast she’d be lucky if he’d even been able to decode them. “Married, I mean.”

To his credit, he didn’t laugh. If Nico was here, he would have busted a gut over that one. Instead Hugh simply met her gaze with unblinking sincerity. “No. One would hope that if I had a wife, I wouldn’t be crawling the halls of a singles hotel at this hour.”

Relief mingled with a quick pang of envy for the picture he created. Too bad most men didn’t view marriage that way. The philanderer she’d gotten caught up with most certainly hadn’t given a rip about being part of South Beach’s club scene despite his wedding vows.

Willing her thoughts out of that dark time in her life and back to the wealth of possibilities epitomized by Hugh Duncan’s timely arrival, Giselle withdrew the chair from the table and nudged it in his direction.

“Then by all means, Hugh, have a seat while I find something to tempt you with.” She flashed him her most flirtatious smile and hummed a few more bars of “The Way You Look Tonight.”

What to feed a man one wanted to seduce?

She’d been given an ideal window of opportunity with the sexy stud in her kitchen and now she’d even been granted the chance to cook for him, when the culinary arts were her lone claim to fame. If she couldn’t reel this guy in for a serious between-the-sheets encounter, she had no one to blame but herself.

Sure, the spaghetti sauce she had simmering on the stove would be delicious, but it didn’t really send the right message. The pomegranate on the counter was one of the most sensual fruits in the world, but it could be messy for a guy with no experience eating one.

Of course, then there was her specialty—the erotic pastries all of South Beach had gone wild for since the restaurant opened a few months ago. What man could resist light, flaky pastries shaped like a woman’s breasts and filled with sweet cream? He’d be putty in her hands in no time.

And maybe Giselle would have a shot at remembering what a man-induced orgasm felt like.

She already had her head buried in the refrigerator when she heard his chair scrape along the ceramic tile. She peered out at him while she dragged essentials from the icebox. He seemed to be getting more comfortable, pivoting his seat to face her, stretching out long legs encased in light brown trousers. She recognized the distinctively male characteristic from life with her four brothers—take up as much space as possible to maintain control of the environment.

“Are you going to give me a hint what you’re celebrating, or am I going to have to guess?” He propped an elbow on the table, his green gaze warm and intimate even from four feet away.

“You’d never guess.” She set the pastry in a low temperature oven to take the chill off while she stirred a small batch of frosting in a peachy, skin-tone shade.

Glancing at the difference between her own bronze skin and the fair hue of the frosting, Giselle added a dash of brown and yellow to the mixture. If the man was going to be thinking about breasts, he might as well at least be thinking about the proper pair.

“I don’t know about that. I’m a pretty good guesser.” He scrubbed a thoughtful hand along a squared jaw. “Any woman singing Sinatra probably has romance on her mind.”

She stopped stirring. “Romance?” Odd how the word made her nervous.

“Yeah. You know—a man, a woman and a lot of sparks?” He crossed his feet at the ankles as if utterly content to play guessing games.

And she had to admit he was pretty damn good at them.

Slowly, she began to stir again. “I might have been thinking about sparks, I’ll grant you that much.”

She wanted to glance his way again as she pulled the pastry out of the oven, but to create an erotic confectionery masterpiece she needed to concentrate on the task at hand.

“She says yes to sparks while romance remains questionable.” Hugh seemed to mull over the notion, the words spoken more softly than the rest. “I’d have to say that means you were celebrating a wild, out-of-control affair. Am I getting closer?”

The deep timbre of his voice in her kitchen did wicked things to her insides as she frosted the treat and put the finishing touches on the nipples with tiny pieces of cherry.

“You’re definitely getting closer.” Her words ended on a husky note as she eased the pastry onto a small silver serving dish and dusted powdered sugar around the rim. “I was simply celebrating the freedom to have a wild, out-of-control affair since my watchdog big brothers are all far away from South Beach this weekend.”

She hoped she didn’t overplay her hand as she swayed her hips with blatant suggestiveness when she walked toward him with the plate.

“All that singing and dancing over a basic freedom like the ability to conduct a sensual interlude?” His eyes lingered on her hips before lifting to meet her gaze. “It stirs the imagination to think how you might react when faced with the reality of a man who would give his right arm for a chance at that kind of encounter with you, Giselle.”

She paused beside him, her legs mere inches from where his own sprawled across the floor. Heat crawled over her skin and made her tingle with anticipation. But it was nothing compared to the flash fire that sizzled through her when she leaned forward to set his plate on the table. Her breasts moved through his line of sight, almost close enough to his mouth to feel his breath.

Or so she wanted to think.

“You won’t have to use your imagination for much longer.” Straightening, she took shallow breaths in the too-warm air that hovered between them. The urge to lick her lips grew almost overwhelming as she stared down at him. “All you have to do is take a peek at the dish I’ve made for you to see what I would do to tempt that sort of man.”