Читать книгу The Sex Diet - Rhonda Nelson - Страница 7

“YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING.”

The perky receptionist behind the counter of Clearwater Bed and Breakfast smiled uncomfortably. “Er…no. I don’t have a reservation in your name, Ms. McCafferty.”

Samantha McCafferty absently scratched her arm and squelched a vicious stab of irritation. The damned antihistamine was wearing off and if she didn’t get another dose soon, she’d undoubtedly break out in ugly red hives from head to toe. That would certainly negate any appeal she might hope to garner through this sex diet, Samantha thought as she pictured her swollen, hive-covered face wearing a seductive smile. Ugh. Not pretty. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She didn’t have time for this inconvenience. She needed that medicine now.

“Look, I don’t care whether you’ve got my name in your system or not,” Samantha told her, making a valiant effort to keep a note of annoyance from her tone. “I have a standing reservation. I’ve been vacationing here since I was a child, and have continued the tradition into my adulthood.” She smiled sweetly. “The first week of September, in the Oleander Suite. Put me there.” Before I turn into one giant red blob, Sam thought, covertly scratching her side. Oh, the pains one endured to be attractive.

The receptionist—Tina, according to her name tag—winced regretfully. “I’m afraid that room is already booked.”

“What?” Samantha felt the first stirrings of genuine alarm and leaned forward anxiously. That couldn’t possibly be right. This had to be a mistake. Her entire plan—Operation Orgasm—centered around this vacation. She was three days into the sex diet—the one guaranteed to make her attractive to the opposite sex—for pity’s sake and, if the way the guy in seat B2 on the flight down had been acting had been any indication, it was definitely beginning to work. She couldn’t afford for things to get screwed up now. Annoyed, she scratched her thigh.

“It’s booked,” Tina said apologetically and lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “Everything is booked. Has been since they announced the Belle of the Beach contest.”

Oh, no! Samantha mentally wailed. This could not be happening. Everything could not be booked. Surely Hank wouldn’t do this to her. He couldn’t have. Not this time, dammit. She’d kill him.

Samantha had been so busy pondering the everything-is-booked statement that it took a moment for the rest of what the clerk had said to filter through her turbulent thoughts, but when it did her brow furrowed. “The Belle of the Beach contest?” It sounded vaguely familiar, she thought. Had Hank mentioned it?

Tina gestured a manicured hand at a flyer on the wall. “Yep. It’s this weekend. The winner gets an all-expense-paid trip to the Bahamas, as well as a new SUV and ten grand in prize money.”

Samantha whistled low, gazed at the glitzy flyer. She could certainly use ten grand. She’d been steadily setting aside a nest egg since she’d graduated from college for a down payment on a future house, but living expenses combined with her student-loan debt had hindered her progress.

She made a good living as a dietician at one of Aspen’s posh spas—Cedar Crest—but the cost of living was staggering and, for reasons she didn’t fully understand, she’d recently decided it was time to return to her southern roots, move back to Orange Beach, Alabama, where she’d grown up.

Samantha had lost her parents at sixteen—victims of a drunk driver—and had moved in with her grandmother, her only living relative. Then, sadly, two years later, Gran had passed away, leaving her completely orphaned. Were it not for Hank Masterson—her longtime friend and, lamentably, the unrequited love of her life—and his parents, Samantha didn’t know what she would have done. The Mastersons were her godparents and had done everything they could to help make her way easier. She’d appreciated their help, but staying in Orange Beach and attending community college just hadn’t seemed right, particularly after Hank had moved away to Tuscaloosa.

Four years older than her, Hank had graduated from the University of Alabama the year she’d graduated from high school. Samantha had fully expected him to return to Orange Beach—had been particularly hurt that he hadn’t—and, when he’d decided not to come home, Samantha had decided it was time for her to leave as well.

The decision had been difficult, but one that she didn’t regret. She’d needed the space, the change in scenery. She’d traded sea and sand for mountains and snow and could honestly say that the move had been just the therapy she’d needed at the time. She’d moved to Colorado, attended college and made yearly pilgrpImages** back to Orange Beach, back to the Clearwater B&B where she’d spent so much time as a child. But over the past several years, each time she’d come home, it had grown increasingly harder to make the trip back out west.

Because Hank had returned.

He now owned the old B&B. Samantha had literally spent years of her life here in this old ante-bellum house snugged against the Gulf of Mexico. She loved it here, loved the salty breezes and the squish of sand between her toes. She sighed a wistful breath, clawed at a place behind her ear. She couldn’t wait to move home, but knew that until she had a substantial down payment for a house, that dream would simply have to wait. She’d take a significant cut in pay when she did make the move and she didn’t want a giant mortgage hanging over her head when that time came. Unless a windfall landed in her lap, a few more years in Aspen would be in order.

Samantha smirked wryly. And that would undoubtedly be the case, she thought as she eyed the Belle of the Beach poster. She had about as much of a chance to win that heaving bosom, bronzed-body contest as she did to land Hank with this crazy sex diet—nil.

Like most men on the planet—with the exception of one painfully poignant moment years ago when he’d been drunk and she’d been stupid—Hank didn’t seem to realize that she existed.

A sad smile drifted over her lips as she recalled that almost-kiss. She could still feel the butterflies in her belly, could still remember the frantic, desperately hopeful beat of her heart, the rush of anticipation…then the subsequent burn of humiliation when his eyes had widened and he’d stopped just short of settling his lips over hers. He’d sworn, then apologized, and Sam had pasted a brave smile on her face and pretended like the rejection hadn’t hurt. But it had. Dearly.

He had no way of knowing it, of course, but that almost-kiss had been a favor in many ways. It had forced her to come to a hard truth, had forced her to realize that no matter how desperately she might want him, he would never want her. She’d resigned herself to be content with their friendship. Did she love him? Without a doubt. Would she always love him? Most definitely. But what good was love that wasn’t returned? She’d turned her focus else-where—her career, then more recently on Operation Orgasm and making herself attractive.

To put it in the gentlest of terms, Samantha had been a late bloomer. She’d been a frizzy-headed, rail-thin, freckled, bespectacled wreck and she knew it.

Pictures didn’t lie.

Thankfully over the past year, she’d found a good stylist and had learned how to tame her curly strawberry-blond locks, she’d gotten contacts and, by supplementing her diet with high-calorie protein milkshakes—science could put a man on the moon, but no cure yet for brain freeze?—she’d packed on twenty solid pounds in the past year. She actually had curves and had increased her bustline a full cup size, a feat she was most proud of. Sure, the contacts were a plus, and her new hairstyle was certainly flattering, but the breasts…now they were powerful. All she had to do was draw her shoulders back a little and bam!—self-confidence surged through her. Remarkable.

A woman had to strike while the iron was hot and luckily, she’d inadvertently stumbled upon the one thing she sincerely hoped would guarantee her success—a sex diet.

Several months ago, Samantha had accidentally found what she suspected was the perfect combination of foods to heighten sex appeal, stimulate the emission of pheromones and rejuvenate lumbering libidos. Her gaze turned inward as she remembered that bizarre day. She’d planned her menu, balanced nutritional values just like she always had. But this one week, in particular, had resulted in heightened sexual arousal in the woman and, more important, reciprocated interest in the men.

That week, trendy Cedar Crest—which prided itself on social graciousness and decorum—had all but turned into an orgy of sexual depravity that would have made the legendary parties at the Playboy mansion seem tame by comparison. The lodge had practically vibrated from the lusty sounds of sex.

Samantha had been astounded with the results and, just to make sure that it hadn’t been a fluke, a month later she’d served the same menu plan to a completely new batch of clients—with the same results. She’d decided that if it could work for the Viagra set, it could certainly work for her.

It had to, because being chronically, perpetually, miserably sexually frustrated was slowly driving her mad. If she didn’t have an orgasm soon, she’d undoubtedly need a little padded cell devoid of sharp objects.

But how could she not be sexually frustrated when everywhere she looked there was another reminder of her nonexistent sex life? Movies, books, commercials, television, the Internet. Hell, you couldn’t thumb through a magazine without seeing a half-naked woman or a ripped guy with six-pack abs. And why? Because sex sells. And why did sex sell? Because, with the exception of very few, everyone wanted it, most especially herself. Young, old, rich or poor, mankind had that one thing in common—the desire, the need, the drive to procreate. Samantha’s own desire had been steadily humming for a while now, but in recent months had begun to screech and wail.

She’d grown tired of reading about/watching romance and never having any for herself—it was torture. Weary of the achy feeling in her chest when she saw couples holding hands or stealing a kiss—more torture. Tired of that hollow unfulfilled sensation deep in her belly when she found herself locked in the tight jaws of unrelieved sexual frustration. Which was woefully often. She expelled a heavy breath.

In short, she was tired of never having sex, of being an OV—orgasm virgin.

But by the end of her vacation, if this diet progressed the way it should—and she had no reason to suspect that it wouldn’t—that at least would be one less thing for her to be weary of.

Granted when the week was over she might still be alone…but at least she wouldn’t be pathetic, for pity’s sake. At least—provided she found a skilled lover—she would have had a real honest-to-goodness back-clawing, earth-shattering, screaming orgasm. The one and only time she’d ever had sex, it had been a miserable, awkward experience, which had lasted less than a successful bull ride. The combination of alcohol, loneliness, curiosity and screaming hormones had perpetuated the rash decision and, ultimately, she’d wasted her virginity on a bumbling, overzealous nerd who didn’t know any more about the act than she did.

She wouldn’t make that mistake this time—this time she was prepared.

Using her inherent Type-A tendencies, Samantha had planned this vacation down to a T, knew precisely what she wanted and how to go about getting it. Between the combination of the sex diet, her newly improved looks and a beach full of single horny men, surely to God she could find one interested in having a little recreational sex with her. Find one who would know how to do the business properly, so that she would at least be satisfied when it was over. Her lips curled into a slow smile.

Hopefully multisatisfied.

Her gaze strayed to the flyer once more and a prickle of irritation strummed across her frazzled nerves. Just her luck that the one week she’d have the added bonus of diet-induced sex appeal, the beach and B&B would be crawling with tanned, toned and thonged competition.

“Would you like me to call and try to arrange other accommodations for you?” perky Tina asked.

Samantha blinked out of her reverie. “No,” she said, exasperated. “I would like to have the accommodations I reserved.”

Her smile faltered. “I’ve told you—”

“I don’t care what you’ve told me,” Samantha interrupted tightly. She clawed at her belly, an insistent reminder that she needed those antihistamines now. Her ace-in-the-hole sex diet had one distinctly uncomfortable disadvantage—it primarily consisted of seafood…which she just happened to be mildly allergic to. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

She’d invested—and ingested—too much to turn back now.

Her entire plan hinged on this vacation. She blew out a frustrated breath. “Where’s Gladys?” Samantha asked impatiently. Gladys would take care of this snafu and all would be well.

“Somewhere on the Pacific Ocean.”

Sam blinked. “What?”

“She got married last week. She’s on her honeymoon.”

Gladys got married? Crusty old Gladys snagged a husband? Hank had definitely not mentioned that, Samantha thought absently as she managed a sick smile. That she would have remembered.

Sam contemplated that disheartening little revelation and wished that she were a big enough person to be happy for Gladys without feeling sorry for herself, but apparently she wasn’t, because all she could think was how more pathetic her life seemed now that even Gladys had gotten married.

That settled it, Samantha thought determinedly—she’d get laid this week and have a damned orgasm, or die trying.

“Well, that’s nice,” Sam finally managed weakly. “What about Hank?”

Another prickle of irritation surfaced. Quite honestly, she’d wanted a minute to freshen up before she saw Hank—a moot point since he didn’t care what she looked like—but she couldn’t help but look forward to seeing his reaction to her new-and-improved self. She didn’t expect him to turn into a lust-crazed maniac—she wasn’t stupid enough to even so much as hope that would happen—but a flicker of surprise would be nice. Vain? Yes. But after the effort she put into making herself more attractive, she thought she deserved a little gratification.

Tina blanched. “H-Hank?”

“Yes, Hank,” Samantha replied slowly, intrigued by Tina’s oh-hell expression.

“Er…he’s not here at the moment.”

Samantha’s eyes narrowed as she watched Tina gnaw nervously on her bottom lip. “I can see that,” she said patiently. “Where is he?”

Tina paused, heaved a protracted sigh with a roll of her eyes. “He went to fish a sand crab out of the pool,” she admitted begrudgingly, and lifted a small walkie-talkie from the desk. “I’ll call him.”

From the tone of her voice, a pelvic exam conducted by Captain Hook held more appeal.

Tina depressed the call button and spoke into the black-and-neon-green gadget. “Hank, could you come to the front desk please?”

Static, then, “Is there a problem, Tina?”

Jeez, Samantha thought, just hearing his voice made the fine hairs on her arms stand on end, forced her to repress a shiver. A current of electricity zinged up her spine, tingled her nipples and buzzed her sex with warmth.

Hank Masterson was the epitome of the quintessential beach bum—tall, tanned, built, blond and gorgeous. He had the clearest, most beautiful sea-blue eyes and a lazy, slumberous smile that made a woman’s brain melt and her blood simmer. He exuded easy, effortless charm and had cornered the market in sex appeal. In addition to being absolutely gorgeous, he had a great personality and a brilliant head for business. Hank was the total package and if a woman ever managed to hook his attention even for a little while, she had better net him while she could. Men like Hank were few and far between.

And, Samantha thought with a grim, melancholy stab of regret, completely out of her reach.

She might be able to go from geek to chic for a week, but a permanent transformation was more than she could reasonably hope for. Besides, she knew Hank well enough to know that over the years he’d considered her as many things, but regrettably potential girlfriend or lover had never been one of them.

A smile caught the corner of her mouth. The word nuisance leapt immediately to mind. As children, Hank had grudgingly tolerated her presence with the sort of martyred stoicism reserved for pesky little girls. But miraculously, by the time she’d reached her teens, she and Hank had developed a very close friendship—one they’d maintained over the years via e-mail, phone calls and yearly visits—and she would have liked nothing better than to parlay that special connection into something more.

Hank, though, had never been remotely interested.

Her lips twisted with wry humor. Hell, if it hadn’t been for that ill-fated almost-kiss, she wouldn’t have been convinced he’d even noticed that she was a girl. God knows, he’d always treated her just like one of the guys. He’d never displayed the least amount of modesty around her, had routinely stripped and gone skinny-dipping right in front of her drooling, flaming face and, oftentimes, had even shared intimate details of his relationships with other women with her. Things, she was sure, he shared with his male cronies. Items that had made her squirm with longing and jealousy, made her want to break things and scream.

Of course, she’d never done any of those things. She’d always smiled, listened and teased and been her typically amiable self because she’d rather be flayed alive and dipped in boiling oil than to admit her feelings were anything more than platonic, that she’d wanted more from him than a chuck under the chin or a friendly pat on the back. Samantha knew that if Hank ever discovered her true feelings for him, she’d go from being his friend to an object of pity—which was completely intolerable.

When she’d first considered the sex diet, for one blazingly beautiful dramatic moment, Samantha had allowed herself the luxury of dreaming that it would work on him—after all, being drunk almost had—that he would take one look at her, be utterly bowled over by his attraction for her, that he’d curse himself for a fool for never realizing what a prize she was.

Then she’d burnt herself with the curling iron and reason had returned—if he hadn’t figured out what a prize she was after all this time, realistically, what were the chances of that happening now?

None.

She’d long ago resigned herself to be content with the relationship they had. She’d wasted enough time lamenting what might have been and had decided to put the remainder of her energy into an attainable goal—finding a lover for this week who would and could induct her into the Big O Hall of Fame.

Hank could, without a doubt—just thinking about it made her thighs quiver with repressed longing—but there was a huge difference between could and would, and she knew he wouldn’t.

“We have a small reservation error, yes,” Tina glumly admitted.

“Another one?” Samantha detected a slight hint of annoyance in his tone.

Tina closed her eyes miserably. “Yes.”

A deep sigh, then, “All right. I’ll be right there.”

Clearly hers wasn’t the only booking error dear Tina had flubbed up, Samantha thought and offered up a sympathetic smile.

Tina’s nervous gaze found hers. “He’ll be here in a minute.”

Samantha nodded, confident that Hank would see to this mess, and absently scratched the inside of her arm. She was quickly running out of time—she needed an antihistamine and a shrimp-cocktail snack. More blasted seafood, the main ingredient of this damned diet. Besides, every moment spent standing at this desk was a moment she could be using to size up possible lovers, officially put her diet to the test.

Her lips curled. Who knew? With a little pheromone therapy and a little luck, hopefully she’d score.

HANK MASTERSON DEFTLY DEPOSITED a crab onto open sand away from the pool area and made his way back around the front of the house to handle another Tina screwup. God, how he missed good old dependable Gladys. Gladys, who despite her cranky nature and the cigarette perpetually crammed in the corner of her mouth, could work the computer reservation system blindfolded and handle any crisis—real or imagined—without his input.

But all good things eventually come to an end and the old adage had held true with his help, because Gladys had been wooed away from Clearwater by a man who had more to offer her than Hank—a few million and a yacht. Hank had hired Gladys’s granddaughter as a favor—“She’ll be fantastic!” Gladys had assured—and he’d wrongfully assumed that efficiency and competence would run in the family.

Not so.

So far Tina had fried two top-of-the-line computer systems, had lost his backup copies of past guest registers and had managed to single-handedly sabotage every electronic device save the walkie-talkies since she arrived. Hank figured it was only a matter of time before those went, too.

The only thing that saved her from a pink slip was the fact that, despite her penchant for tearing things up, she was very personable, had good phone skills…and she was related to Gladys. Hank sighed. He couldn’t in good conscience fire Tina, when her grandmother had been like a second mother to him over the past several years.

Still, Hank thought as irritation pulled at a muscle near his mouth, there were times—like now—when the idea held immense appeal. Between wrapping up the busy season and this godforsaken Belle of the Beach contest, things on his little stretch of sand were really hopping. He needed a dependable desk clerk. He didn’t have a single bed left and he’d had to call in a temp agency to assist his overworked kitchen staff. A full house made for a fatter bank account, so other than being pleasantly exhausted—and having a receptionist from hell—he really couldn’t complain. Hank blew out a breath, loped up the front porch steps and emptied the sand out of his shoes. All in all he—

“Hi, Hank,” Candy, one of the Belle contestants, called from the front porch swing.

Hank stilled for a fraction of a second, morphed a wince into an amiable smile and returned the greeting. Candy wore a come-pump-me grin and her eyes glittered with blatant invitation. Despite the fact that he’d ignored every suggestive overture and turned down the opportunity to see her tattoo several times over the past couple of days, Candy nonetheless continued to stalk him. Considering the fact that she wore a bikini which bared all but her nipples and narrowly covered her crotch, Hank grimly suspected the tattoo was on a part of her anatomy best avoided.

As a rule, he avoided all female guests at the B&B who seemed interested in pursuing a little recreational vacation sex. It wasn’t good for business. There were too many other available women in the world to take an unnecessary risk and so far he’d never been uncontrollably tempted. Tempted? Yes. But beyond the scope of his control? No.

Granted things had been harder this week, what with the half-naked gorgeous Belle contestants parading along his stretch of sand. But he could handle it. He pushed into the foyer, felt the welcome blast of cool air from the air conditioner. In a few days this contest would be over and he’d have the time to find a suitable partner, one not on his guest roster and not affiliated with this damned contest. He’d simply have to wait it out and—

Hank’s thoughts fractured and his step faltered as his gaze landed on the most delectable backside he’d ever seen.

Sweet Lord, he thought as perspiration suddenly dotted his upper lip and a bolt of heat threatened to incinerate his groin, another hottie.

Hell, she didn’t even have to turn around for him to know that she was absolutely gorgeous and absolutely, unequivocally hot. A mass of light-red curls tumbled sexily over her shoulders and down her slim back. She had a tiny waist, nicely flared hips and legs up to there. Unlike every other woman around here, she had no tan to speak of and her skin glowed with a pale, peachy health. A sweet fruity scent assaulted his senses, her scent he knew, and the very essence of that smell triggered something hot, wild and primal within him. Curiously it seemed vaguely familiar.

Pure unadulterated lust chugged through his veins, sped purposefully toward his groin. His skin prickled and his mouth parched. She was temptation on legs and every instinct he had went on full-tilt red alert, causing a roaring through his head. This went beyond the typical run of the mill lust, was somehow sharper, keener, more intense. Less manageable, Hank thought ominously.

There was only one remedy for an attraction like this, Hank thought grimly—absolute quarantine.

He’d have to avoid her like the damned plague.

She turned around then and recognition sucker-punched him, driving every bit of breath from his lungs. Hank felt his eyes bug and his jaw drop. The roaring he’d heard just seconds before ceased abruptly and was replaced with a screeching howl akin to a jet engine gearing up for takeoff. His vision blackened around the edges as he pulled her familiar face into sharp focus.

Samantha McCafferty?