Читать книгу Girl Gone Wild - Joanne Rock - Страница 9

NORMALLY, HUGH WASN’T THE KIND of guy who enjoyed surprises. He’d learned at an early age that being unprepared could have dangerous consequences, and he’d forged a personal quest to make sure his stories kept people so informed they’d never be caught off guard.

But Giselle’s late-night offering was the kind of surprise a man relished. And one he sure as hell would never forget.

“What do you think?” She stood over him, the scent of her vanilla cream confection mingling with the more earthy, herbal aroma that clung to her skin.

Even though he was curious to see her facial expression, to search for hints of the game she played in her mischievous dark brown eyes, Hugh couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from the bare breasts served to him on a—no kidding—silver platter.

He sensed her shift beside him while he searched for the correct response. She tugged out the chair across from him and eased into it.

Finally he managed to look up at her own cleavage, enticingly displayed in the killer scrap of red silk she wore for a dress. A plunging neckline edged in a tiny red ruffle seemed to frame the object of his attention.

“Quite honestly, they look delicious.” With an effort his gaze continued up to her face, her flirtatious smile and finally her sugar-streaked cheek. “I can hardly wait for a taste.”

He reached across the table—surprising her a little if the sudden biting of her lip was any indication—and swiped the powdered sugar smudge from one high cheekbone.

She stilled beneath his touch, her skin as warm and soft as he imagined, before he pulled away to lick his finger.

“Very sweet.” Desperate to distract himself before he leaned across the table for a much more thorough sampling, Hugh scooped up the silver fork she’d provided and speared a bite of the explicit pastry.

“Thank you.” She leaned back in her seat and pulled a thin wooden stick from the knot of hair piled on top of her head. A silky brown mane fell about her shoulders while she tucked the stick into a black leather satchel alongside the table. “My pastries have developed quite a following among the locals.”

Hugh watched the dance of her wavy hair against the smooth column of her neck as he swallowed another bite of sweet pastry and wondered when he’d ever been so sensually bombarded on all levels. For a man accustomed to an austere existence in one unstable foreign country after another, Giselle Cesare provided an electric jolt to his system.

“I can see why. Tasty, as well as provocative. You don’t find that too often in a food.”

She quirked a dark eyebrow while a smile played about her lips. “Then you don’t know your foods well enough. Spend a little time with a chef and I guarantee you’ll change your mind on that score.”

He would have jumped at the chance if his mouth hadn’t been full. And perhaps that was a good thing, he realized as he gulped another bite, because he wouldn’t want Giselle to think for a moment he was dating her to unearth information on Club Paradise.

He could develop an exposé on the scandal-ridden resort with his eyes closed as soon as he knocked the considerable chip off his shoulder over having to write it in the first place.

Before he could decide how to proceed with the enticing woman seated across from him, she leaned forward to speak.

“So what do you do besides roam the hallways at the crack of dawn? Are you a hotel guest? A nightclub partyer who didn’t heed the last call?”

“I’m a wanderer. I’ve been out of the country for the last few months and I’m settling back into the rhythm of South Beach. I just followed the crowd into the Moulin Rouge Lounge around midnight.” He wondered fleetingly if Giselle had slipped an aphrodisiac into his pastry because the longer he sat across from her, the more he wanted to reach out and touch the warmth of her skin, inhale her exotic, spicy scent. “I checked out the club, strolled the beach. Next thing you know, it was closing time.”

“Next thing you know?” She rolled her eyes. “That’s four hours. I can never do anything for four hours without getting impatient. And I’m pretty sure I’ve never ‘strolled’ at any time in my life.”

Somehow that didn’t surprise him. He pointed his fork in her direction. “You’re more of a charge through life kind of person, I bet.”

“Exactly. I’ve never been very good at waiting for anything, and even back in my party girl days I never spent four hours at any single club. It was more of a trick to see how many places I could hit in that much time, you know?”

“You miss all the best parts when you rush.” He smiled, thinking about how much fun it would be to slow this woman down for four hours. Twenty-four hours.

She crossed her legs, extending one gorgeous calf toward him and inviting memories of what her legs had looked like as she twirled around the kitchen before. He’d never forget the sight of her bright red panties against her dusky skin.

Although she hadn’t revealed any more than a woman wearing a bathing suit, the fact that the peep show had been so unexpected had his mouth watering for a repeat performance.

She tucked a strand of wavy brown hair behind one ear. “What do you do when you’re out of the country? Do you travel for your job?”

Busted.

He’d been too busy thinking about how much he wanted to distract her from this line of conversation, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to admit his profession to the woman who worked for the subject of his next article.

Now, caught without an alibi and unwilling to lie to a sexy-as-hell female sending him definite “do me” vibes, he had no choice but to go with the truth. “I’m a reporter for the Miami paper. I thought I’d check out the resort on an informal basis before I make an official visit for a story.”

Okay, so he only told a portion of the facts. She didn’t need to know he’d stumbled across her tonight as part of his spying routine. She’d write him off as creepy before he could say so much as “nice to have met you.”

The come-hither vixen in the sexy red dress paled a few shades. Backed up visibly. “A reporter? From the Herald?”

“What? You have an ax to grind with the media or something?” No skin off his nose. He just hoped she wouldn’t rule him out on the basis of his job.

Because one way or another, he wanted to learn everything there was to know about Giselle Cesare.

PLEASE SAY SHE DID NOT JUST just serve an erotic pastry to a potential food critic from the biggest newspaper in the southeast.

It simply wasn’t possible. Giselle had worked too hard to distinguish herself as an up-and-coming chef. She’d poured every last dime of her share of the family inheritance into a portion of the resort ownership. No way could she afford to lose that money by screwing up this badly.

Leaping out of her chair, she set aside all thoughts of seducing Hugh Duncan as she wondered what else she could feed him that didn’t involve naughty depictions of female body parts.

She could still salvage this meeting. Maybe.

“An ax to grind? Who, me?” Her laughter sounded a bit manic even to her own ears. Oh, God, he was surely going to think she’d lost her marbles, as well as her desire to succeed in the restaurant business. “You want to try some calamari? It’s a house specialty in our Mediterranean dining room.”

Did he know the resort boasted three different eating facilities? She had no idea how familiar he would be with the way her kitchen operated.

Tugging open the refrigerator she stared into it, waiting for culinary inspiration to strike while a nervous sweat broke out across her brow. How had her day gone from awesome to gut-clenchingly awful in the course of half an hour?

She jumped when Hugh appeared at her side.

“I’m not hungry for anything but conversation. Care to join me?” He held his empty plate in his hand.

Giselle hurried to take the plate and the fork, letting the refrigerator door close behind her. “That’s fine, too. Did you want to take a tour of the dining areas while we talk?”

Of course, taking a walk meant she damn well better put her shoes on. What if he included in his review the fact that he’d caught her in the kitchen in her bare feet? She’d be doomed to health-code-violation hell.

The health department would close her down, her partners would kick her out as an owner and she’d never escape the smothering shelter of the Cesare family clan who always insisted she couldn’t make it in the world without their help.

Hugh’s hands on her shoulders steadied her as she slid into the three-inch heels she’d kicked off after the nightclub closed for the night.

“Wait. Stop.” His touch permeated the silky fabric of her dress as if it wasn’t even there. His fingers curved around to her back, his thumbs dipping into the soft terrain at the base of her neck.

Ten minutes ago she’d longed for a chance to have his hands on her. Now she stood paralyzed, unsure how to proceed from here with a man who held the balance of her career in his hands as surely as he held her body.

Her hot, aching body that still longed for him.

She blinked up at him. Waiting.

Hugh shook his head, his brow wrinkled in obvious confusion. “What did I miss here? We went from racy flirtation to I-can’t-stand-the-heat-so-let’s-get-the-hell-out-of-the-kitchen in record time, and I’m not quite sure how it happened. You seem upset that I work for the paper.”

He hadn’t made it a question, yet he seemed content to wait for her to speak. To explain.

“I’ve been trying to get your paper out here for weeks to review my food.” She cleared her throat in an effort to remove the hesitant sound from her voice. She wouldn’t compound tonight’s problem by appearing ungrateful to the poor unsuspecting food critic who only wanted a taste test and wound up walking in on the chef flashing her panties in a moment of unbridled enthusiasm. “And while I realize it is often customary to make a surprise visit to a restaurant in order to sample the average food preparation capabilities on any given night, I can guarantee that my welcome would have been much different if you’d at least made your visit during business hours.”

Hugh’s hands slid from her arms. “I’m no food critic, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Yet you’re here from the newspaper and you’re working on a story about the club.” She lifted a skeptical brow. Just because she’d never seen the man’s name on a restaurant review didn’t mean he couldn’t write one.

“Yes.” He frowned, perhaps realizing how unconvincing he sounded. “But I haven’t even thought of what angle I’m going to take on the story yet, so I’m not sure that food will come into play.”

“Well, just in case, I’m going to make certain I don’t feed you any more X-rated cream puffs, okay?” She finished putting her shoes on and was surprised to find herself closer to eye-level with Hugh Duncan as she did.

The bright green of his steady gaze made her belly turn a little flip. What a waste that this god of a man had just happened to walk into her life at one of the few times she could have actually had some fun with him, and now she’d need to keep her hands off.

Fate had a really sadistic sense of humor.

Hugh peered over the progress of her spaghetti sauce on the stove. “Then how about we forget all about food and restaurants and go for a walk on the beach? Assuming you can leave the sauce, that is. I have no idea how much baby-sitting this sort of thing requires.”

A food critic who didn’t know much about cooking? Giselle couldn’t decide if he was putting her on or if there remained a chance he wouldn’t realize how much of a faux pas she’d committed by dancing around the kitchen barefoot.

Hope flared to life inside her along with remnants of desire. “It needs to simmer for hours. But isn’t there some sort of ethical problem with me…fraternizing with the reporter who’s doing a story on my resort?”

He shrugged. “If there is, it’s me breaking all the rules, not you.” He glanced down at the high heels she’d donned. “Those shoes will never cut it on the beach, though.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “You’re really serious? You want to walk on the beach at this hour?”

Her brothers would have warned her that the drunks would be out in full force just before dawn, and that no woman belonged in a deserted area like that alone. She really shouldn’t go…

Still, he held out an arm. “If we hurry we can still see the sunrise.”

He’d appealed to the one hot button Giselle Cesare had never been able to resist—her sense of adventure.

Even knowing she’d probably regret it, Giselle didn’t stand a chance of saying no. With the strains of Sinatra growing louder in the back of her mind, she reached for his arm and hoped she could still find a way to take this sexy stranger to her bed before her week of freedom ended.

HUGH WATCHED GISELLE’S LONG legs eat up the beach as she ran to chase a flock of seagulls. Dispensing with her high heels on the sprawling back patio of Club Paradise long ago, she shouted at the birds and sent them fleeing in a cloud of white feathers as they trekked back toward the resort.

The sensuous woman who baked erotic pastries and sang while she cooked obviously harbored another side. The youthful free spirit who liked to chase birds seemed totally at odds with her provocative red dress and her dark eyes full of naughty promise.

She turned to him now, the dark hair that had earlier been loosely coiled at the back of her head bounced around her shoulders, the dark mass highlighted by intermittent coppery strands that glinted in the warm pink light cast by the rising sun.

She’d brought peaches to the beach with them and she ate hers with relish, the juice spilling down her chin as she waited for him to catch up.

He’d been an idiot to invite her out here, to develop any sort of friendship with a woman who might be hurt by a story he crafted on the resort that employed her.

She turned to walk in-step beside him as he came shoulder to shoulder with her. “The sunrise is gorgeous. I can’t believe how many times I’ve seen the sun come up through the windows of the hotel and yet I’ve never hauled my butt out here to be a part of it.”

Shading her eyes, she glimpsed toward the eastern horizon, balancing the last of her peach between two fingers.

He could have stared at her all day, taking in the little details about her full, juice-slick lips or her Sophia Loren curves in the fire-engine red dress. But he forced himself to also listen to her words, to pay attention to what she said and not just what he wanted to do to her.

“I’ve missed Miami. I always like coming back to the great sunrises.” He hadn’t realized as much until he told her. For years he’d tried to tell himself he didn’t have a home, that he was simply a wanderer by nature.

But he’d been born here, still had a stepaunt in town who he liked to visit once in a while. He’d lived in Miami for nearly a decade before his mother took him overseas to be with her new husband of exotic foreign descent. Only to be diplomatically trapped inside an ass-backward country that viewed him and his mother as “property” of the man she’d married for more months than he cared to remember.

He shook off the thought, distracting himself from unpleasant memories by watching another drop of juice roll down Giselle’s chin and drop to her breastbone.

He might have reached out to swipe the liquid if she hadn’t finished the fruit then. And tossing the pit into a wire trashcan they passed, she turned to him. “You mentioned you were overseas until recently?”

Pissing off diplomats from a myriad of countries and generally making his editor mad. But he’d written a hell of a story. Not sure how much he should tell Giselle, he opted for the truth. “Yes, but that’s work-related. It’s up to you whether or not we want to open that door. I don’t want you to think I’m mixing business with pleasure.”

Pausing, she dug her bare bronze toes into the soft white sand. “And which did we say this was again?”

She made a back-and-forth gesture between them with her finger, referencing the definite spark of connection that linked them.

He drew close to her, near enough to catch a slight whiff of her fragrance beneath the earthy aromas of the kitchen that still clung to her. “I don’t know about you, but I decided this is definitely pleasure.”

She nodded, a curly strand of her dark brown hair brushing against her cheek as she did. “Then maybe we could forget the business aspect of this relationship altogether so we don’t have to worry about it. I’ll be the first to admit I don’t know a damn thing about the newspaper business, but is there any chance you could hand off the story on Club Paradise to another reporter?” She drew an idle pattern in the sand with her toe. “I’m not just the chef in charge of overseeing the restaurants. I’m also a part owner in the corporation that runs the whole property, so if we were to, you know…take many walks on the beach together, it could get a little awkward.”

Did she really say what he thought she just said? “Part owner?”

“The controlling partnership is divided among me and three other women.” She met his gaze with a straightforward honesty too rare in people according to his experience.

He’d read all about the split ownership in his research, and knew a little bit about it from letters he’d exchanged with his aunt. He didn’t have a chance to mention it before Giselle hastened on.

“Two of us were working at the club last year when the former owners absconded with the profits, and the other two women who joined us were connected to the old partnership. We pulled together to keep the business afloat and create something bigger and better.”

Ah, damn. All of which he’d gleaned from the old articles he’d printed off on Club Paradise. Even though he’d never actually met his sort-of distant cousin Brianne to quiz her about the resort, plenty had been written about the embezzlement scandal attached to the hotel’s former incarnation as a popular couples resort.

But he’d been too furious about an assignment he’d considered beneath him to really pay much attention to the names of the key players.

Apparently he’d started off his job by drooling over one of them.

“That might be a problem.” For the first time in his journalism career, he knew a moment’s regret at having so thoroughly aggravated his editor. “I definitely don’t have the option of handing off this assignment.”

A fact he regretted all the more the longer he stared at the amazing woman in front of him. A guy didn’t stumble into a walking sensual feast like Giselle Cesare every day.

“But you don’t have an ethical problem with hanging out with me, even though you might have to write about the restaurant, right?” She edged forward a bit, her lips suddenly much too near his own for any rational thought to actually take place.

“No.” Of course there wouldn’t be an ethical problem if he wrote a simple freaking piece on the food.

Unfortunately, he’d never written just a simple story on anything in his entire career.

“Then there shouldn’t be any problem if I decided to do this…” She stretched up on her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck, planting her mouth to his in a kiss that would have set off fire alarms if they’d been indoors.