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Midnight Touch
Karen Kendall


Some men know exactly how to touch a woman… Sick of being told what she can't do, blue-blooded Kate Spinney has distanced herself from her arrogant, overly entitled family. Now living in Miami, Kate finds herself adrift in the land of spiked heels, thong panties and one very, very spicy hottie named Alejandro Torres — whose main goal seems to be showing her what she can do…to every delicious inch of his body!But Alejandro is living two lives: the one he shows Kate, and another as co-owner of a salon and spa. And what he actually does at the salon is his carefully guarded secret. Kate must never discover his hidden identity. Especially since nearly every woman in Miami is dying for his touch…









KAREN KENDALL

Midnight Touch





TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND


With thanks to all my Florida friends who have

brightened my new life here! And especially to

Sandra, Adolfo, Hugo, Carla and Stany for helping

me get the cultural details/Spanish straight.

I couldn’t have written this book without you.




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

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

Coming Next Month




1


IF WORD GETS out, I’m a dead man.

Alejandro Torres looked furtively behind him to make sure he wasn’t spotted; then ducked into the backroom of After Hours. A real man wouldn’t live this way, slipping into the darkness, blending with the shadows, unable to reveal to anyone what he did for a living.

He told himself that CIA operatives were in the same boat, but unfortunately there was one key difference: ops guys carried concealed weapons and cool gadgets. Alejandro carried a concealed pumice stone and very uncool purple foam toe separators.

CIA agents—in theory—sought to protect truth, justice and the American way. Alejandro sought to protect his machismo: keep his cojones from shriveling to the size of peas and dropping off into the dust.

His code name was Señor Manos. Not quite 007, but then, this wasn’t MI6—After Hours was an upscale salon and day spa in Coral Gables, one of the ritzier sections of Miami.

It was way too hot for a cloak, and he’d never needed a dagger yet, but the secrecy was urgent. Alejandro shuddered. If any of his buddies on the soccer team found out what he was up to, things wouldn’t be pretty. He should never, ever have filled in for that MIA nail technician!

It was one thing to be a financial partner in a spa. It was quite another for a six-foot-four Peruvian male to be a closet manicurist. But there seemed to be no turning back now: he was in demand, even at the outrageous prices he’d begun charging to dissuade appointments.

“Señor Manos,” said a high, breathy female voice. “I’ve been waiting all week for this.”

The voice came from the shadows of the pedicure chair, from behind a pair of tanned, candlelit knees that were not pressed firmly together.

In fact, the knees were a foot apart from one another, which was alarming, since they wore a short skirt. Not that Alejandro hadn’t spread his share of female knees in his thirty-four years—he certainly had. But he didn’t wish to spread this pair, not even a little bit. Those were married knees. Knees of a three-time mother.

Nevertheless, as a salon and spa owner, he was accomplished at lying to women. Just part of doing business. “And I, mi corazon, have also been waiting all week. You have toes to melt a man.”

The client giggled. “Oh, honey. Do I really have man-melting toes? I don’t believe anyone’s ever said that to me.”

“Then you have obviously been with the wrong men.” He smiled and seated himself on the low stool in front of the basin area of her pedicure chair. “How’s the water temperature?” He dipped his hands in.

“It just got hotter, thanks.” She giggled again, and then sighed with pleasure as he took her left foot in his hands and tried not to stare up her skirt, which was quite difficult.

His balls had sagged immediately as he assumed the position. They drooped in shame as he began a preliminary massage with soft liquid soap—an extra service that After Hours provided to their clients.

Heather Carlton, the woman in his chair, moaned with pleasure and Alejandro’s manhood pulled a complete turtle, retreating from the horror of this abasement and servitude.

He actually didn’t mind the foot massage, as long as the foot in question wasn’t too large and gruesome. It was scrubbing the calluses, pushing back the cuticles, cleaning under the nails and filing them that he really despised. And the polishing.

Bad enough that he knew how to do all of it, having grown up helping out in his mother’s salon. Beauty Boy, the kids at school had called him, taunting him mercilessly. On one particular, ignominious afternoon, a gang of bullies had jumped him after classes, beaten him to a pulp and then decked him out in a wig and a full face of makeup. He’d laid there groaning until he could force himself up and find a gas station restroom so he could wash it all off.

His mama had scolded him and grounded him for fighting, but he’d never told her what really happened. She was a single mother in a country not her own, and he was all she had, besides her partner and best friend Carlotta Perez. He didn’t want Mama to feel guilty that he had to help her after school and on weekends.

Heather’s moans of bliss subsided as he rinsed her feet and applied a grainy scrub to exfoliate them and slough off dead skin cells.

“You really have magic hands,” she said.

“Gracias.”

“How did a big, handsome guy like you become a nail technician? I can’t figure it out.”

Alejandro laughed. “By accident. My family’s been in the salon business for years.” And now, even though Mama’s passed on, I can’t seem to get away from it, since Tia Carlotta has no retirement savings and needs me to turn a tidy profit for her….

Those were the things that he couldn’t say aloud. The issues that explained why he was stuck in the particular rut of life he found himself in. There were other things he couldn’t say, either. Such as:

I hate doing this and that’s why I’m getting an MBA on the side. But until I’m done with school and figure out how to franchise After Hours in every big city in the U.S., I have to meet client demands. If the clients are demanding my touch, and will pay as much as you’re paying for me to lay my magic hands on you, then so be it.

Heather drained her free glass of wine and hinted strongly that she’d like another. After Hours, to Tia Carlotta’s great suspicion, served alcohol and was open until midnight Tuesday through Saturday. He’d bought out most of her interest, relocated the old salon, renamed it and given it a new marketing twist.

Miami was a late-night, party town. They needed to cater to their clientele, and giving them a hot, pre-party spot to get beautiful and tipsy was the perfect solution. The tipsier the clients got, the happier they were and the more money they spent.

Alejandro rose from his stool and held out his hand for her glass. In Peru, his mother’s country, the women waited on the men. “Chardonnay or pinot grigio, mi amorcito?”

“Ooh, say that again.”

“Say what?” Alejandro asked. “Mi amorcito?”

“Well, I like that, too, of course. But the other.”

“Pinot grigio?”

“Yes. It sounds so sexy when you say it.” She sighed and stretched, flashing him abundant cleavage and a swatch of emerald-green crotch.

Crazy woman. “Pinot grigio,” Alejandro repeated, averting his gaze. “Is that what you would like, then? Not the chardonnay?”

“Grinot pigio,” she said. “Yes, please. Mi, uh, corazon.”

He bit his lip to keep from laughing. Maybe she was drunker than he’d thought. “Of course. I’ll be back in a moment.”

He opened the door and slipped out, leaving her alone with the ocean wave music, the candlelight and her wine-buzz. All clear in the hallway. He straightened his shoulders and headed for the little coffee-and-wine area up front, where the customers could help themselves.

For liability reasons, Alejandro and the staff were careful not to serve more than one or two glasses of wine. After that, if the client wanted more, it was available on a self-service basis.

“Are you drinking on the job again?” his partner Marly teased him, as he poured Heather’s wine. She was the salon’s master hairdresser, and had recently become engaged to Florida’s governor, Jack Hammersmith.

“Always, mi vida.” He winked. “Actually, my client just asked me for a glass of grigot pinio. No, grinot pigio.”

Marly laughed. “Pinot grigio?”

“Well, that’s what she meant to say.”

“I think Heather was lit when she came in here,” their tiny blond receptionist, Shirlie, reported from behind the checkout counter. “She sorta rolled through the door. And I also think she wants you, Alejandro.” Shirlie snapped her gum and grinned.

“There’s a newsflash.” Marly’s voice was dry. “Yet another spoiled Coral Gables housewife panting after our Alejo.”

He hunched his shoulders. It was actually getting embarrassing, the number of female clients who were trying to bed him.

Nicky, another hairstylist, skipped up and sang into a faux fist microphone, making up the lyrics as he went along. “Yo touch, baby, yo touch, it’s just tooooo much!” He followed that with an air-guitar riff. Then he folded his hands behind his head and gyrated his pelvis. Alejandro averted his gaze from the painful sight.

“Nicky, don’t quit your day job, okay?”

“You’ll be sorry when I’m the next American Idol, sweets.”

Alejandro retreated with the wine, calling over his shoulder, “If you ever even pass the first round of American Idol, I will eat an entire box of your highlighting foil.”

“Fine,” Nicky shouted after him, hands on his black, leather-encased hips. “You better work up an appetite for aluminum, then.”

Alejandro did a quick scan of the hallway and then ducked back into the treatment room. He refused to sit out in front with the other manicurists, because of the risk of being seen by someone he knew. He’d only sat out there a couple of times before deciding that he’d never live it down if one of the guys on his soccer team walked by on his way to Benito’s restaurant and got an eyeful of their star forward with a bottle of nail polish.

Forget Beauty Boy. They’d call him maricon—fag—or chivo, an even ruder Peruvian term that meant goat. They’d also run him right off the team, talent be damned.

Heather had slid even farther down into the chair, which had caused her skirt to hike up several inches. Not for the first time, Alejandro wondered if he shouldn’t just swallow his pride and move up to the front with the others. It would save him from would-be seduction scenes like this one. Beauty Boy! Beauty Boy! The old taunt echoed through his head. He just couldn’t do it.

“Your wine, señora.” He handed Heather the glass.

“No, no, please don’t call me that—it makes me feel a hundred years old.”

And it reminds you that you’re a married mother of three. Tsk, tsk. “Apologies, mi amorcito. If it’s any comfort, you look all of twenty-two.”

“Now you’re talking, honey.”

Alejo assumed the position again and began sawing away at the calluses on Heather’s feet, while she sat shamelessly flashing her emerald-green crotch and a come-hither smile.

He wasn’t coming any more hither than he already was. He rinsed off her feet, dried them, drained the basin and began her foot and calf massage with scented lotion. She began to make little noises of pleasure, soft moans and small mewls, while he ignored her and tried to be professional.

Once he was done, he wiped his hands on a towel, removed the lotion residue from her toenails and adjusted the light so that he could see better. Heather returned to her wine, blinking resentfully at the stronger light.

She’d chosen a dark red polish color called Sex on the Subway. Coincidence? He thought not. Who were the people who made up these cosmetic colors, anyway?

Alejandro applied two coats to her toenails and then topped it with a clear polish, while she managed to drain the second glass of wine in record time. She stared at him through slitted, smoky eyes that she’d taken great pains making up.

He was cleaning up the last toe on her right foot with a wooden cuticle stick and a bit of acetone when she said huskily, “What ish thish thing between us, Alejandro?”

Alarmed, he repeated, “Thing?”

Then she lurched forward and stuck her left foot, wet polish and all, into his crotch. “Oh, baby! Is that a python in your pants?”

He looked down, his jaw working. Red nail polish—all over his trousers. He searched for tact. Remember, she’s a client.

She blinked at the mess, giggled and covered her mouth with a hand. “Oops. Sorry…”

He gently removed her foot and wiped her ruined toenails with a paper towel soaked in acetone. He didn’t bother with his pants—they were history. “Señora, I think the wine may have gone to your head.”

She put a hand on her heart. “No, it hasn’t. I feel this ’lectricity in the air when I’m with you, and I can tell you feel the shame way.” She glanced meaningfully at his, er, python, which wasn’t feeling at all aggressive. In fact, it had practically shrunk up to his chin.

He had to step carefully. “Indeed, señora, you are very beautiful, and a man would have to be dead not to, ah, desire you. However, you are a married woman and a mother—I could not possibly act on such an attraction. It cannot be.” There, was that dramatic and mournful enough? He hoped so.

“Just because I have kids doesn’t mean I’m dead.” To his horror, Heather began to cry.

He stared at her, aghast.

“You think I’m a tramp, don’t you?”

“No, no, no, no, no! I think you’re a lovely lady,” Alejandro said desperately. “Really.”

“You think I’m ugly.”

“No! You are gloriously, stunningly beautiful.”

“Then you think I’m fat.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“I do not think you’re fat. You’re like a—” he searched wildly “—a gazelle!”

“Now you’re calling me an animal?”

“It was a compliment! Gazelle—you know, graceful. Svelte! Dainty.”

“You don’t waaaaaaant me,” she moaned.

“I do. I want you, Heather, more than—than words can say. Madly. Passionately.”

“You do?”

He nodded, his hand over his heart. “But first, we must paint your toenails, yes?”

She gave a woeful sniff. “Uh-huh.”

“Excellent. Now, give me your scrumptious foot, mi corazon. Let me make it as lovely as the rest of you.”

Heather stuck out her foot and her lip at the same time while he thought wildly of what disease or disability to claim so that he could get out of this mess.

She sulked for a while.

Syphilis? Or erectile dysfunction? Eeny meeny miny mo, catch a whopper by its toe…please, lady, just let me go!

Then the heavens intervened. “By the way, you should know that I’m not really in the mood anymore, Alejandro.”

Praise God and all His angels. Alejo dredged up a wounded expression. “But…I am devastated.”

She shrugged and tossed her hair over her shoulder. Then she folded her arms across her chest and pressed her knees firmly together. If he hadn’t been so relieved, he might have poked his eyes out with the cuticle stick.

Women. Hard enough to understand them when they were sober. He couldn’t keep up with their lightning changes of mood then, much less adding alcohol to the equation. All he knew was that he’d been spared, thanks be to Jesus.

Alejandro polished Heather’s toes for the second time that night, and then escaped from the room, only to run into Peggy Underwood, his other partner.

Peg, the spa’s massage therapist, stuck her hands into the pockets of her white lab coat and looked pointedly at his crotch. Her eyebrows climbed into her hair. “Alejo, did your client try to Bobbitt you?”

He could feel his face sizzling. “No. She, um…”

“Tried to play footsie with your tootsie?”

“That about covers it.”

Peggy grinned. “Sweetie, it’s gotten to the point where we can tell which women are your clients. The ones who come in for their pedicures in short skirts. They’re absolutely shameless!”

“Yeah, tell me about it. I can’t keep doing this, Peggy. If my buddies find out…” He shook his head.

“Alejandro. Since you’ve been doing pedicures, our revenue on them has shot sky-high. Like it or not, your fifty-dollar pedicures are bringing in over two thousand dollars a week, and don’t tell me to hire someone else, because it’s you they want. Shirlie tells me we get calls all the time, asking for the guy who looks like Jesse Metcalfe from Desperate Housewives. If you’re not available, they say they’ll wait.”

“But it’s humiliating!” he complained. “You don’t understand. Peruvian men don’t give manicures or pedicures. They just don’t! You have no idea what will happen if this gets out. I will be branded rosquete, be the butt of jokes, kicked off the soccer team!”

“What’s a rosquete?” Peggy asked.

Alejandro shuddered. “It’s very rude. It means big doughnut, and it’s used to describe gay men.”

Peg snorted with laughter.

“It’s not funny!” he hissed. “Not at all.”

“Sorry,” she said, trying and failing to smother her mirth.

“I’m telling you, I cannot do this anymore.”

She sobered. “Alejo, it’s just until we get the business loans paid down. You said it yourself.”

“Yes, and my MBA loan, and—There’s no end in sight. Meanwhile I’m dying inside every time I touch a woman’s foot or hand!”

“Sweetie, how many men would beg to be mauled by beautiful women all day long?”

He growled.

“Plenty of Asian men do nails. Why shouldn’t you?”

He growled again.

“I know, I know. But we’ll keep your secret. None of the clients even know your real name, Señor Manos, and your friends just think you’re an owner. It will be fine. Our secret. Just for a few more months.”

He groaned and swiped a hand over his face. “You don’t understand. Latino men do not give manicures!”




2


THE NEXT MORNING, Alejandro sat in dark slacks and a pressed white shirt in his marketing class, one of the requirements for the Executive MBA program at the University of Miami.

As usual, his gaze strayed from the professor’s scintillating discussion of economics to the profile of Kate Spinney, a fellow classmate.

Kate’s face was all angles and planes and chiseled features—like a young Katharine Hepburn. Even in her baggy, frayed khaki pants and oversize man’s blue oxford shirt, her feet stuck into beat-up, brown penny loafers, Kate was gorgeous. And as far as he could tell, completely unaware of her looks.

Penny loafers. God, they were ugly! Women in Miami did not wear such things. They wore high-heeled, strappy, sexy sandals. They wore ankle bracelets and toe rings. They did not wear men’s shoes or shapeless clothing.

But Alejandro had observed Kate for months now, and he couldn’t imagine her in sexy, strappy heels or low-slung, skintight pants that bared her belly.

When it came to fashion, she was a walking disaster, and when it came to social grace…His mouth twisted wryly. Kate certainly hadn’t been born in the South.

At the meet-and-greet cocktail party that kicked off the first semester of the program, she’d stood forlornly in her loafers, clutching a bottle of beer in her scrawny hands. She’d shredded the label using her ragged, unpolished nails within minutes, and she shook hands like a man: no nonsense, vice-like grip, brief nod and sketchy introduction. “Hi, I’m Kate Spinney from Boston.”

No, “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” or “Nice to meet you.” Just the identifying tag and the impersonal hand-squeeze. That was Kate.

She had the intellectual capacity of a mainframe computer, and Alejandro wondered why she wasn’t studying business at Harvard or Yale or Wharton. Overall, she seemed the sort of person who belonged in Miami about as much as a hooker belonged in a convent.

He was curious; intrigued. And he didn’t know why, since his tastes in women usually ran to black hair, C-cup and size eight. Kate had springy, crazy, ginger-brown hair, tiny breasts that he’d guess were an A-minus and she’d be lucky to be a size two. In short, she was built like a string mop. And yet…he thought about her.

She wasn’t an everyday, average woman, and he’d detected a hidden sense of humor behind her Yankee reserve. Every once in a while her green eyes went warm and sparkled with a sense of the ridiculous, etching lines of sweetness around her mouth. There was more to Kate than met the eye.

He turned his attention back to Professor Kurtz, a big burly guy with small eyes in a slab of face. But Alejandro couldn’t stop his eyes from wandering back over Kate’s messy, wiry curls and the way they clung to her delicate neck.

Kurtz was waxing poetic on the intricacies of supply and demand, using a certain brand of baby lotion as an example when Kate called out, “Excuse me, but that’s incorrect.”

All eyes in the small auditorium swiveled to her, and then to Kurtz and then back to her.

The professor bristled. “What do you mean, incorrect?”

“I mean that your information is wrong. In 2002, Johnson & Johnson wasn’t even marketing that product.”

“My information is reliable.”

“Johnson didn’t put that new lotion formula onto the shelves until spring of 2003. They were still product-testing in 2002. I know this because Spinney Industries is their main competitor, and we introduced our version of that lotion in October of 2001, gaining the edge in the market.”

Kurtz blinked his small eyes rapidly. After a pause, he said, “Fine. Thank you, Miss Spinney.”

“You’re welcome. And it’s Ms., please.”

A collective rustle went through the class, some students hiding grins and snickers behind their hands. Kate appeared oblivious to this and the glare that Kurtz sent in her direction. She just swung her loafer-clad foot over her knee and bounced it gently as the lecture went on.

When she got tired of that position and put her feet flat on the ground, flexing them, Alejandro saw that the side stitching of her loafer had pulled free, leaving the sole flapping open and baring her little toe. Kate Spinney of the Spinney Industries family couldn’t afford new shoes?

Ridiculous. The watch on her wrist was Tiffany, and he’d also seen her wear a Piaget. Her purse, though it was battered and worn, was an Hermès Kelly bag, which cost thousands of dollars new.

He found the sight of her little toe oddly endearing. She propped her chin on one hand and seemed entirely unconcerned that she’d just embarrassed their professor in front of the class.

From his position in the row behind her, he could see her doodling in the margins of her yellow pad. So far he could make out a bicycle, a sailboat and a beach umbrella. Literal, no-nonsense drawings, very illustrative of Kate’s personality. He squinted to make out what she was sketching now, and chuckled when he saw a steak with eyes and legs. It looked uncannily like Professor Kurtz.

“Mr. Torres? Do you have something to add to the lecture?” the professor asked sharply.

Kate, along with a few others, turned and looked at him. So she knew who he was…He winked at her. She blinked, then raised a corner of her mouth uncertainly and turned back around.

“No, no. I just had something in my throat,” Alejo said to Kurtz. “Sorry.”

The professor pontificated some more with no further interruptions, and soon the class drew to an end. “You’ll be pairing up next week to begin the big semester project,” he told them. “So keep that in mind. And please read chapters four through seven in your text.”

Alejandro followed Kate out of the room and caught up with her easily in the hallway. “Kate? I admire you for speaking up back there.”

She turned to face him, her green eyes wary over her high, aristocratic cheekbones. “Thank you.” She edged away a couple of steps.

He closed the gap again. “I was wondering if you’d like to work together on Kurtz’s project.” He smiled down at her.

Surprise danced along those high cheekbones. Then her lips curved, and he caught a glimpse of a possible imp under her cool facade. “Are you sure you want to throw your fate in with mine? Kurtz doesn’t like me much, especially not after today.”

“I’m not worried about that. So what do you say?”

She took another step back from him, and he realized that she was used to more personal space. He didn’t move any closer this time.

“What’s your background and experience?” she asked, all business.

Now she was starting to annoy him a little. That nose in the air, her head cocked as if to use the cheekbones for weapons. “My background and experience? I’ve worked in my, uh…family business since I was about eight years old. And I have a university degree in finance.” He looked a challenge at her. “What’s yours?”

“I interned for years at Spinney Industries, worked full time there for three years. Before that I earned a BA at Harvard, in English.”

“Oh. Harvard.” Alejandro clicked his tongue. “Then I’m afraid I can’t possibly work with you on the project.” He shook his head regretfully.

Her brow beetled. “Why not?”

“It’s just not up to my standards. I’d be slumming.” He kept a straight face as he met her gaze.

“Slumming?” she said, her tone incredulous. “I beg your pardon?”

“No need.”

She made a strangled noise, and he grinned at her. “I’m feeling very egalitarian today, though. I might be willing to have a cup of coffee with you, even though you come from such a no-account family.”

Her mouth worked for a moment and then she laughed. His gamble had paid off: Kate did have a hidden sense of humor. “I’m so flattered.”

“Don’t let it go to your head. So, caffeine? We have fifteen minutes before statistics class.” He put a hand on her back to steer her forward, but she stiffened immediately. Apparently Ms. Spinney didn’t like to be touched. Alejandro removed his hand and she took a deep breath. Interesting.

They walked across the street to a little coffee house, where he discovered that Kate liked her coffee black, just like he did. She pulled a wallet out of her beat-up bag and tried to pay for hers.

“No, no,” he said. “I’ll get this.”

“You don’t have to buy my coffee.”

“I want to.”

“No, really—”

“I am buying your coffee, Kate,” he said with finality. He didn’t care if, as a Spinney, she probably had a personal net worth bigger than the entire tax base of Peru. He stepped in front of her and put five dollars on the counter. Then he looked down at her little toe, poking out of its loafer. He winked at her. “You need to save your money for new shoes.”

Her mouth opened and closed, and then a tide of red washed over her face. “I can afford new shoes. I just happen to like these. They’re comfortable. Broken in.”

“Is that what you call it?” From his superior height, Alejo noticed that one ear poked out of her untidy curls, and even the tip of it was red. “Because you may have noticed that your little piggy, there, is well on its way to the market.”

Her lips twitched in spite of her obvious embarrassment. “No, you’ve got it wrong. Remember, it’s the big toe that goes to market. The little one runs all the way home.”

“Right, I’d forgotten. Well, the poor little guy has a ways to go, if he’s running the whole distance back to Boston.” He handed her one of the paper cups of coffee.

“Thank you. And he just ran away from Boston, so he’s not likely to be running back there anytime soon. But I appreciate your concern.” She took a sip of the coffee, her eyes glinting very green in the morning sunlight.

Alejandro eyed her over the rim of his own cup, as he drank some. “And why did he run away? How did he end up in Miami, of all places?”

His teasing had relaxed her some, since she blew out a breath and said, “Well, the other nine toes in the family shoe were cramping his style a bit. So the little piggy skipped off to business school as far away as possible.” She gave him a wobbly smile.

She was so…adorably uptight. Alejandro wondered what it took for Kate Spinney to relax. He wondered if she relaxed in bed, and what that fragile body looked like naked. Athletic, he guessed.

She seemed edgy just talking in the abstract about her family. So he changed the subject. “Well, some of us are glad that the little piggy ended up here in Miami. She’s awfully cute.”

Red washed over her face again. “I think you gave her a sex change,” she said dryly. “And I’ve been warned about smooth-talking Latin men like you.”

It was his turn to stiffen. “I’m half Peruvian, half American,” Alejandro said. “And we smooth talkers don’t like to be referred to as Latin. We’re from individual countries, and don’t appreciate them being lumped all together.”

“Sorry.”

“About calling me a smooth talker, or a Latin?”

“A Latin.”

He smiled. “That’s okay. You didn’t know.”

“You are a smooth talker.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Why, thank you. I do other things smoothly, too, mi corazon.”

“And a flirt.”

Alejandro found a table and pulled out a chair for her. “I stand accused of terrible crimes. I’m guessing they don’t flirt at Harvard?”

She sat down gingerly, almost suspiciously.

“No, of course not,” he said, deliberately provoking her. “Yankees don’t know how to flirt.”

“We do, too—”

“Well, then, Ms. Spinney, I hereby challenge you to a flirt-off.”

She snorted into her coffee cup. “A flirt-off?”

He nodded. “Yes. And if I win, you have to buy a new pair of shoes—shoes of my choice.”

“What if I win?”

“You won’t. I’m a professional.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Like I said, it’s not going to happen. So you really shouldn’t worry your pretty little head over it, Kate,” he said, doing his best to wind her up.

“As we’ve discussed, my pretty little head,” she replied in ominous tones, “is Harvard-educated and dislikes patronizing men.” But she softened the statement with a reluctant smile.

“Maybe so, but you don’t have the slightest idea how to flirt. Flirting requires charm, and you’re no southern belle. It’s one of the things I like about you.”

Her green eyes narrowed at him. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Say things that are insulting and then turn them around?”

“We smooth-talking Latins just have a way with words.” Alejandro grinned at her, loving the outraged expression on her face. She looked very sexy when outraged. In fact, if she were to ditch the awful pants and unspeakable loafers and sit there barefoot in just the shirt…maybe unbutton it a few more inches so that it hung off one shoulder….

Kate looked at her watch. “We have to get back. We’re going to be late.”

“That’s another thing you’ll have to learn about, now that you live in Miami. Living on Latin time, la hora latina. We are always late. Without exception.”

“That drives me crazy. It’s so rude!”

“You’ll have to get used to it, if you’re going to hang out with me, amorcito.”

“What did you just call me? And who says I’m going to hang out with you?” But her lips twitched.

Alejandro drained his coffee and stood. He took their cups and dropped them in the trash. “I just called you little love, and of course you’re going to hang out with me. We’re going to work on the project together.”

“I haven’t agreed to that yet….”

“Well, no. But you will,” he said calmly.

Her eyes flashed. “Oh, yeah? You’re awfully sure of yourself, sport.”

He nodded. “You’re shy, Kate. I’ve watched you and you haven’t mingled much. Do you even know anyone else well enough to ask them?”

She started walking faster, her beat-up loafers making clopping noises on the pavement. The sole of her left one flapped with each step, flashing her little toe.

“Hey,” he said gently, and put a hand on her arm. She stopped, but wouldn’t look at him. “It’s not a criticism, you know.”

“Most people say I’m stuck up or standoffish. How can you say I’m shy when I told Kurtz he was wrong in front of the whole class?”

“Ah, but that’s different. It has to do with facts and figures, with intellect. You’re very sure of your brains, Kate. It’s socially that you’re inhibited.”

Her arm quivered slightly, and once again, she stepped away, creating space between them. “I appreciate your analysis, Doctor. Can I get off the couch, now?”

He had a sudden image of her lying naked on his brown leather sofa at home, wearing nothing but that little crease between her eyebrows. He wanted to get her off, all right.

“Thanks for the coffee,” she said. “I’ll think about the project and let you know.” And Kate spun on her battered heel and walked quickly to the nearby ladies’ room, where he couldn’t follow her.

Alejandro tried not to stare at her ass as she pulled open the door, but failed miserably. He might be moonlighting as a manicurist right now, but he was still, after all, a man and not a rosquete.

He was also determined to work with Ms. Spinney on the marketing project. Because she intrigued and piqued him…and he knew instinctively that it was the only way to get into her baggy khaki pants.




3


KATE STARED OUT at the Atlantic Ocean from the window of her Key Biscayne condo and reveled in her loneliness. She didn’t know a soul in the high-rise, and she rather liked it that way. All her life people had known her by her name, her parentage, her family.

Here in Miami she could blend in and be anonymous. Oh, there were countless acquaintances she could call if she wanted to tap into a built-in social network, but she didn’t. She wanted to break out of the Spinney mold and just be a regular person, live a regular life.

As she watched the waves cresting on the shore, she thought about the gorgeous, slick Latin guy in her marketing class. He was funny and she half-liked him, even though he set off all kinds of warning bells in her head.

He was too good-looking, and too charming. But he was also intelligent and had unerringly taken the right tack with her. Kate was used to people tiptoeing around her family name and money; treating her with a certain amount of deference or awe—unless, of course, they came from the same type of background, in which case they didn’t give a damn.

But Alejandro had mocked her instead of deferring to her, which was refreshing, not to mention amusing. She wiggled her bare toes on the hardwood floors and glanced at her beat-up loafers. Her father would call them disgraceful and her mother wouldn’t notice. Her brother wouldn’t care. And Gerta, her parents’ housekeeper, would make her leave them in the mudroom.

You need to save your money for new shoes, Alejandro had said to her, knowing full well that she was a Spinney and that her family’s business supported entire towns. And he’d insulted Harvard. The corners of her mouth turned up. He had a nerve, didn’t he? She liked that about him. She hated people who kissed her ass.

She wasn’t sure she liked his flirting, though. And she didn’t like her body’s response to his touch. She didn’t trust him. But that was nothing new—she hadn’t been brought up to trust anyone.

“Don’t be naive,” her father had told her from the time she was ten. “You’ve been born a very wealthy little girl. People—and later, men in particular—will try to use you for your money.”

Kate watched an opportunistic seagull dive and snatch something from the water before wheeling away. She envied its freedom—but more than that, she envied that the bird knew what to do with it.

She’d created some freedom by leaving Boston and putting hundreds of miles between herself and her family, but it still felt peculiar. She did a lot of rambling on her own, felt lonely much of the time, and second-guessed her decision to leave. But it was time.

The poor little rich girl: oldest story in the book. And yet she lived it, cliché that it was. Money was supposed to create freedom, wasn’t it? Yet all too often it tied people down. Tied them to a certain lifestyle, or ways of thinking, or to a monolithic business dedicated to making more and more of the green stuff. And for what purpose? So that it could be counted, guarded, fought over, invested, lost or stolen.

Filthy lucre: that was how she’d come to think of it. Most of her family loathed each other or didn’t speak to one another for various financial reasons having to do with Spinney Industries.

Kate sat cross-legged on the floor in only her oxford shirt and underwear, staring vaguely out to sea. She was quiet for a would-be revolutionary. But as her thirtieth birthday approached, she felt an urgent need to discover the Kate side of her as opposed to the Spinney. To break some rules. To defy some conventions. She even had a secret desire to—just once—dance on a table in a bar. Why should Paris Hilton have all the fun?

But so far it remained only a renegade impulse that her brain wouldn’t allow her body to follow. Spinneys didn’t do such things, unlike Hiltons.

The phone rang and she almost ignored it, but finally got up to see who it was. She didn’t get many calls these days, since she hadn’t given many people her Florida number.

It was a 617 area code, not surprising, and it was—her heart sank—her unpleasant cousin, Wendell Spinney IV. The last time she’d seen him, he’d made fun of her hair, insulted her and then voted not to allocate funds for a Spinney donation to the Special Olympics.

What did he want? She thought about letting it go to voice mail, but she’d only have to call him back.

“Hello?”

“Katydid. It’s Wendell.”

She loathed the nickname. “No, Katy didn’t. What’s up, Wendell? Need a good stock tip?”

“I’m doing pretty well on my own, thanks. But I’m headed down to Miami and I need a place to stay.”

“Why are you coming down here?”

“Business,” he said vaguely. “Now, about accommodations—”

“That’s easy—the Mandarin Oriental.”

“I’m not paying those prices.” Wendell loved status goods but was incredibly cheap when it came to anything else.

“How about a Motel 6, then?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Go to the Spinney compound in Palm Beach. You’ll be a lot more comfortable there than in my condo. And there’s a chef.”

“Alistair is there with Lisa and the kids. And don’t tell me to just avoid him. It’s not possible with those brats.”

She sighed. Just when she’d found some peace…

“C’mon, Katy. Where’s your sense of family? Besides, I need someone to show me around town.”

“Wendell, I’m the wrong person to show you around. I do absolutely nothing but work.” Miami was an intimidating town to explore by herself, and she didn’t seem to possess the easy familiarity that made other students quick friends.

A brief hope flickered in her: maybe Wendell had become a nice person in the few months since she’d last seen him? Doubtful. Kate grimaced. And she certainly couldn’t dance on a table with him in the picture.

“I’ll be there from the sixth to the tenth,” he said. “Can you pick me up at the airport? And Katy, you do have a guestroom there?”

“Yes,” she admitted reluctantly. “But no bed.”

“You get a bed. I’ll bring my own sheets.”

“Get a bed? Just for you?”

“What’s the matter, Katy? Can’t afford it?” Sarcasm dripped from his voice. “You need one anyway.”

That’s debatable. But she said, “E-mail me your flight info.” Great. It looked like she’d have Wendell’s pudgy, pompous ass here whether she wanted it or not. It never ceased to amaze her how he didn’t blink at going where he wasn’t wanted.

Kate didn’t want any of her family down here, but she especially didn’t wish to see Wendell. However, she felt a certain sense of obligation and kinship—his nuclear family was just as screwed up as her own. Their mothers had been identical twins, down to their matching drug habits. The only difference was that Kate’s mother was hooked on barbiturates and Wendell’s had been hooked on cocaine. A martini too many on top of it all had stopped her heart when Wendell was three.

“See you soon, Katy,” he said into her ear. “Au revoir.”

She hung up the phone. Why had she answered it? Get a bed. The nerve of the guy! Kate scooted on her butt over to her laptop, which lay on the floor since she still had no furniture in her living room, either.

She logged onto the Internet, found the Web site of a well-known outdoor equipment manufacturer, and zeroed in on what she was looking for. Kate grinned evilly. She’d get a bed for Wendell, all right. One of the blow-up variety. He’d be right at home on the big air bag.

When her order was complete, Kate wandered out onto the balcony and let the wind blow through her hair, inhaling the damp, salty scent. The air here in Miami was thick with humidity, very different from the crisp, briny Cape Cod breeze.

Below her she saw people sunning by the pool, sailboats and yachts out in the ocean; the occasional fishing boat. She’d started to relax and just people-watch when she heard the phone ring again. Tension coiled in her neck and shoulders as she stepped through the door and picked it up. “Wendell, what do you want now?”

“Who is Wendell?” said a deep, amused male voice with a slight South American accent. “Your boyfriend?” The timbre vibrated right down her spine and coiled into her stomach.

“Who’s calling?” she asked, even though she recognized the voice immediately. A shimmer of unwilling excitement went through her. She shook it off.

“Alejandro, from the MBA program.”

“How did you get my number?”

“From the student roster, Kate. How are you?”

“Uh, fine.” A pause ensued, and she tried to remember her manners. “How are you?”

“Fine.” The tremor of laughter still echoed in his voice. “So who is Wendell?”

She dragged her bare toe across the sheen of the hardwood floor, leaving a streak. “He’s my cousin. My obnoxious cousin, who’s invited himself to stay, even though I hinted that he should call a hotel.”

“I see,” said Alejandro. “Well, maybe you should take pity on him. He’s probably saving money for new shoes, too.”

Kate snorted. “No need. Not only could Wendell dress in suits made of hundred dollar bills, but he’s the type of person who actually travels with shoe trees and polish. So his footwear tends to last longer than mine.”

“Ugh. I dislike him immediately,” Alejandro said. “But at least I don’t have to kill him, now.”

“Excuse me?”

“Because he’s not your boyfriend.”

Kate didn’t know how to respond. “You’re flirting again,” she accused him, suspicious.

“It’s a genetic flaw,” he told her. “I am unable to help myself.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that. But you can kill Wendell if you want to. He’s very annoying.”

Alejandro laughed, and she loved the sound of it, rich and deep like flavored chocolate. “Kate, mi corazon, if he’s so bad then why are you letting him stay with you?”

“He’s family,” she said gloomily.

“Enough said. How long will he be there?”

“Five days. Unless I can persuade him to leave sooner. I’m hoping the blow-up bed will do the trick.”

“A blow-up bed won’t get rid of anyone with determination. You’ll have to make things more uncomfortable than that.”

“I’d love to, but I’m not sure how. You can’t stick nails into an air mattress.”

“Hmm.” Alejandro thought for a moment. “Is this Wendell an animal person?”

“No. Not at all. Why?”

“Because I have a friend who could loan you a pot-bellied pig.”

Kate choked on a laugh. “A pig? You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m not. And does this Wendell smoke?”

“God, no. He’s rabidly anti-nicotine and germ-phobic. The guy travels with his own sheets.”

“Then you need a smooth-talking Peruvian to puff cigars in your living room, too.”

“Are you trying to invite yourself over?”

“The Yankee catches on.”

Kate thought about it, and then said cautiously, “I actually like the smell of cigars, as long as they’re good ones.”

“And I will bring a large dish of cau-cau, which your cousin will be forced to try out of politeness.”

“What’s cau-cau?”

“Tripe. The stomach lining of a cow. It makes most gringos gag, and my Tia Carlotta loves to cook it.”

Kate shivered. “That will send dear Wendell right over the edge.”

“So when am I coming to dinner? I’m inviting myself for purely altruistic motives,” he reassured her. “Only in order to save you, you see.”

“Yeah. I am touched by your selflessness, Al.”

“No, please not Al. You may call me Alejo, though.”

“Alejo,” she repeated, liking the exotic sound of it.

“Yes. Perfecto. Now, Alejo is coming to dinner on what evening, mi corazon?”

“You are shameless,” she told him.

“Sí.” His tone remained warm and amused.

She decided to relent. “I can’t believe I’m doing this, but it’s for a good cause—Wendell-fumigation. You can come to dinner on Saturday, okay?”

“I am there. Gracias.”

“And you’ll bring the cigars and the…that nasty stuff.”

“Well, as a Peruvian, I don’t think it’s nasty, but sí. You wish me to bring the pot-bellied pig?”

Kate almost said no. Then she looked around. Spinneys didn’t bring the barn into the parlor…but Just Kate might. What the hell. She had no carpet for it to soil. And it might be very entertaining to see Wendell’s reaction to it. A woman who danced on tables might have a pig in her condo, right?

“I really can’t believe I’m doing this. But yes. I’ll need the pot-bellied pig on the sixth, the night he arrives. It doesn’t bite or anything, does it?”

“Not usually. It does squeal, though. And it makes other strange pig noises.”

“What does it eat?”

“Purina Mini Pig Chow, of course.”

“Of course. Silly me, I should have known that.” Purina made pig chow? “Is this animal house-trained? Do I take it for walks?”

“Exactly. It’s just like a dog with a snout and a curly, non-waggable tail. It even fetches. So, Kate, does this mean we’re going to work together on the marketing class project?”

“Is that why you’re helping me get rid of my cousin?”

“Maybe.”

“We don’t even know what the project is yet,” she said. Why did he want to work with her so much? What was his agenda? Her money? Her mouth twisted.

“We know that it’s a hands-on project, and that we’ll be working in teams. He’ll tell us the rest next week.”

Hands-on. Did Alejandro, self-proclaimed genetic flirt, want to get his hands on her? The thought sent a flash of heat through her body. She’d never had a Latin Lover. The term cracked her up. It sounded so purple, so over the top.

“So what do you say, Kate? Will you trade a partnership for a pot-bellied pig, a cigar and some tripe?”

“Limited liability partnership,” she said, hugely entertained. “And I need it in writing that the pig won’t bite.”

He chuckled. “I can’t possibly put that in writing. There’s no guarantee with animals. But I’ll throw in a roll of duct tape and we have a deal. What you do with it and the pig is your concern. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Kate peered over the railing at three buns-up bathing beauties who were abundantly endowed and wore nothing but neon thongs. “Alejandro, you’ve got to explain something to me. The women down here in Miami—how can they walk around wearing nothing except butt-floss? It’s indecent!”

“Butt…floss, did you say?”

“Yes. These women down by the pool—they’d get arrested for indecent exposure in Boston.”

“Why?”

“Their br—bodacious ta-tas are hanging out! Among other things.”

“Kate, they’re just breasts and buttocks.”

“Yeah, I noticed. Where I come from, we cover those things up. We don’t display them to the entire United States and all of South America, too.”

“What a shame. You’re such a Yankee, mi amorcito. Women are beautiful. Why not appreciate them?”

“I’m not your little love-morsel, you flirt. And it’s fine for women to be attractive, but I think they can be that way without baring their cracks to the planet.”

He laughed softly.

“And the flashy men! What’s with all the Rolexes and gold bracelets and rings? Talk about conspicuous consumption.”

“You’re not in Boston anymore, Dorothy. It’s just a different style here. Casual but elegant.”

Don’t you mean tacky?

“You will get used to Miami soon. And,” he said provocatively, “I think you’d look wonderful in a thong yourself.”

“You couldn’t get me into one of those if I were dead, sport.” She shuddered. “And people wonder why there are shark attacks in Florida?”

She watched, scandalized, as one of the bathing beauties sat up, rubbed oil shamelessly all over her bare gazangas, and then lay back down tits-up. Unbelievable.

“When in Rome, Kate.”

“At least in Rome they wore togas!”

“Yes, before and after the orgies.”

“Orgies? How did we get onto this topic, Alejandro?”

“I believe you asked me how Miami women can wear thongs. It’s because they’re not uptight like Yankees.”

“I am not uptight.”

“Describe your own bathing suit, then.”

“It’s a navy blue one-piece.”

He chortled. “That says it all, Kate.”

She felt like growling. “Well, if I’m so uptight, then why do you want to work with me? Why are you riding to my rescue with a pot-bellied pig?”

A long pause ensued. Finally he said, “Because I think you’re bright and beautiful and in a class by yourself.” All traces of teasing were gone from his voice.

Kate’s knees wobbled, and she sat down abruptly on the rough cement of her balcony. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. “Who paid you to say that?”

“Nobody paid me, tesorito. What’s the matter, you can’t take a compliment?”

A lump formed in her throat and she knew she needed to get off the phone before she embarrassed herself. “I can accept a compliment,” she insisted. “But I’m thinking you need an eye exam, since you’re a little young for cataracts. I’ve got to go, Alejandro. See you in class Monday.”

“Oh, very flattering. I say something nice, and I’m told I need an eye appointment. I suppose I need a cane and some Viagra, as well?”

“You tell me,” she said, before she could stop herself.

“I’d be more than happy to show you that I don’t.”

Kate experienced a flash of heat, but she just laughed.

He cleared his throat. “It’s been a pleasure talking with you, my stiff-necked little Yankee. Enjoy your weekend.”

“You, too.” Suddenly she didn’t want to end the conversation, but she’d already given the signal. She wondered what gorgeous, strapping Latin men did on weekends in Miami, then looked down at the row of juicy bottoms in their thongs again and decided she didn’t want to know.

Despite her Harvard degree, Alejandro had the last word. “And Kate? While I maintain that I don’t need Viagra, you definitely need new shoes.”




4


KATE STARED AT the forty-seven-pound miniature pot-bellied pig outside her building’s freight elevator. It stared right back with a porky little grin.

“Meet Gracious,” said Alejandro, who had her on a leash just like a dog.

Kate was torn between helplessly admiring his biceps and chest in the tight, black T-shirt he wore, and fascination with the animal. The men she knew wore loose golf attire or heavy, cable-knit wool sweaters. They didn’t look as if they’d stepped off the set of Miami Vice. And if they had anything on a leash, it was more likely to be a springer spaniel or a golden retriever, not Vietnamese livestock.

Alejandro was perfectly proportioned, like a classical statue out of a coffee table art book. His torso stretched in a triangle from wide shoulders down to a trim waist over long, lean legs. Snug denim covered those. The black T-shirt was tucked into the jeans, he wore no belt, and on his feet were black European-style slip-on shoes of high-quality leather. The only other accessory he wore was that killer white smile of his. Oh, and the dreadful gold chain around his neck—but she decided to ignore that.

“Gracious,” he said as they rode up to her floor in the elevator, “likes raisins, dried fruit, grapes, melon and veggies. Her favorite thing in the world is dried apricots.”

Gracious was black with light brown eyes and fuzzier than Kate had expected, though the fuzz was wiry and her skin was visible in places. She had pink discolorations on her snout that looked like big freckles. Kate swallowed as the pig cocked her head at her and came forward to sniff at her ankles. She made a grunting noise and looked up at Kate with surprising intelligence. The animal was quite cute in a homely way.

“How did you, er, meet Gracious?” Kate asked, starting to regret her impulsive decision to board the pig while Cousin Wendell mooched her guest room.

“She belongs to my next-door neighbor, and periodically she gets under the fence and hangs out in my yard.”

“And your neighbor is okay with loaning her out?”

“He’s an artist with a great sense of humor. I told him that Gracious was needed for a family pest-control situation.” Alejandro grinned.

They exited the elevator and walked to her apartment, where she unlocked the door and held it open. “You’re sure that Gracious is house-trained?”

“Positive. She even has a litter box. She’ll also go outdoors, though. She’s happier outside during the day, but unless she has her baby pool it’s just too hot right now.”

“Baby pool?”

He nodded. “Pigs don’t sweat, and they overheat very easily. So my neighbor always has one of those kiddie pools going for her. You’ll need to take her for regular walks, twice a day minimum.”

“Wendell will just love this.” Kate smirked.

Alejandro handed her the pig’s leash while he hauled a bag of food and a large plastic under-bed storage container into her condo. “I’ll have to go back down for the litter. I left it in the car.” He took a moment to look around. “Nice place, Kate. But what do you sit on?”

“The floor. I’ll get around to furniture one of these days.”

“Where do you study? Do you pull a chair up to the stove?”

“I read and work on my laptop in bed.”

His eyes gleamed, and suddenly she had an image of his lean, muscular body and smooth brown skin against her cool white sheets. The moisture disappeared from her mouth; it felt filled with sand.

She rejected the image. She was here in Miami to get an MBA and figure out who Just Kate was, not to party naked with a dangerously attractive, highly unsuitable Peruvian man. She didn’t want to lose her identity to some guy before she even had a handle on it herself. Especially not a guy who was so smooth that he could probably talk her clothes into flying off her body by themselves.

Kate frowned and changed the subject, before she could reflect that partying naked with Alejandro could fit in quite nicely with that revolution she was planning—and might even lead straight to the table she wanted to dance on.

“Gracious is probably here illegally. I doubt the zoning in this building allows livestock, so I’ll use the freight elevator when I take her out and just hope nobody sees me.” Alejandro nodded. “I have a bag of toys for her. If she doesn’t have toys to play with, she’ll root, meaning you could find tiles or molding pried up.”

While he went to get the toys, the pig walked over to the window and stood looking out at the view. She sat down on her haunches.

Kate eyed her and went to the refrigerator to see if she had any acceptable piggy cuisine. Alejandro had said something about grapes, hadn’t he? She pulled out a bowl of seedless purple grapes and plucked a couple off the stem. Then she walked back into the living room and sat down a few feet from the animal.

“Look what I have, Miss Piggy. Would you like one?”

Gracious trotted over immediately and snuffled the grape out of her palm. She made happy little porcine noises as she consumed it, and Kate laughed. She scratched the pig’s head, surprised that she didn’t smell bad at all.

They’d made friends by the time Alejandro got back—the pig sat leaning into Kate’s thigh, her eyes closed as she savored having her ears rubbed.

“She’ll sleep with you if you let her,” he said. The gleam shot back into his eyes, as if to say that he would, too. “But if you don’t want her on your bed, you can just fold up a blanket on the floor for her.” He walked to the sliding glass door and looked out at Biscayne Bay.

“You have an amazing view.”

While he looked out at the water, she couldn’t help looking up at him. Up the length of those long, masculine legs to the certifiably fine ass and the casual cock of his hips. He was so close that she could smell the detergent he used to wash his jeans and the leather of his shoes. She caught a whiff of breezy aftershave, too.

Gracious seemed to understand and empathize with her appreciation of the man. She emitted a little squeal. Kate got up to get her another couple of grapes, and felt small next to Alejandro. He turned his head and looked down at her, his eyes black, enigmatic and beyond the outer boundaries of sexy. The adjective that leaped to mind was compelling.

If she didn’t look away from those eyes she was going to do something stupid. So she dropped her gaze to his chest again, the defined contours of muscle clearly visible under the black cotton. “Kate,” he said softly.

She leaped away, fixating on the first thing she saw, the shallow plastic box for the pig’s litter. “So what do you use to line this with?”

“A large trash bag.” He’d dropped some into the sack of litter, and now he pulled one out and shook it open for her.

“I can’t believe I’m resorting to these measures to get rid of my cousin,” she babbled.

He shrugged. “It does seem a little out of character. I mean, you had no problem telling Kurtz he was wrong. So why can’t you tell this cousin to go somewhere else?”

She picked at her ragged cuticles.

He watched her, seemed about to say something, and then looked away and shut his mouth.

“I don’t know. This is different. Wendell is a pain in the ass, but…he doesn’t really have anyone else. And he’s family.”

“You’ve hinted that you came down here to get away from your family.”

“Yes. Sometimes it’s harder than you might think.”

“You are close to them?”

She expelled a breath. “Close? I’m not sure how to answer that. We certainly fight a lot. We see each other a few times a year, since most of us have seats on the board, and everyone’s scheming and maneuvering to get their particular interests and projects green-lighted. So there are alliances…” She stopped. You’re talking too much, Kate. “It’s not exactly the Brady Bunch.”

Gracious started to turn circles and dig at the molding in a corner of the living room. “What is she doing?”

“Do you need to go out, little one?” Alejandro asked. He picked up the end of the leash and looked at Kate, tongue in cheek. “Señorita, would you care for a romantic stroll on the beach with Miss Piggy?”

“Sure, I’ll tag along.” Kate sent him a sidelong glance. “But you might want to liquor her up before you make any smooth moves on her.”

He raised an eyebrow and glanced sharply at her. “What are you implying, Kate?”

“Nothing.”

“I’ll have you know that my intentions—at least regarding Gracious—are purely honorable.”



ALEJANDRO THOUGHT KATE looked even more beautiful in knee-length, baggy khaki shorts—they were awful, but at least he could see her long, slim legs—with her hair flying around her face in the wind.

Gracious had a difficult time on the beach with her short little legs sinking into the sand, but she was able to sample various aperitifs: seaweed, driftwood, even a rotting fish. So she was happy enough.

They got some odd looks regarding the pig, but other than a couple of kids who ran up to pet her, nobody bothered them.

Alejo wanted to bother Kate, however, in the worst way. He wanted to kiss each of those arrogant cheekbones, taste her smart Yankee mouth, steal her breath away. But he did none of those things, contenting himself with teasing her and savoring the way she looked all wild and free and windblown.

“I see that you went to the most exclusive grocery store aisle for your new shoes, Kate.” He gestured to the rubber flip-flops on her feet.

“Yeah, I saved up and had them custom-made,” she said dryly. “Like them?”

“They’re gorgeous.” If ever a woman was in dire need of a pedicure and a manicure, it was Kate Spinney. But to say so crossed the line between teasing and just plain rude.

“They bring my total for shoes up to six pairs—the loafers, some cross-trainers, snow boots, ski boots and one pair of serviceable black pumps.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

She shook her head.

“My last girlfriend had one-hundred and forty-six pairs of shoes.”

Kate goggled at him. “Was her name Imelda? What does any human being do with that many shoes?”

Actually, she’d liked to wear a lot of them in the bedroom, but he didn’t think it was a good idea to mention that. Alejandro shrugged. “She was very stylish.”

Kate shoved her hands into the pockets of her wrinkled shorts and grimaced. “Oh. How nice for her. And you, I guess.”

He liked the fact that the topic of his ex-girlfriend obviously irritated her. But he also took his cue. “She wasn’t nearly as beautiful as you are.”

Kate snorted, sounding very much like Gracious. In fact, the pig’s head came up and she looked around for other porcine companions. Disappointed, she went back to rooting in the sand.

“Do they teach you to do that at Harvard?” Alejandro asked, grinning.

“Yeah. We take Barnyard Noises 101 our first semester. Didn’t you know that? It’s part of the language requirement. You probably took something useless like French.”

“Spanish. I knew a lot from my mother, but I needed the grammar and the spelling.”

“Ha.” Kate shot him a look. “You needed a blow-off class.”

He laughed. “Okay. Guilty as charged.”

“Where did you go to school?”

“Right here at Miami.”

“Wasn’t it hard to study with the beach and the night-life and all?”

He shrugged. “Nah, you get used to it. You start to take it for granted. I’ll admit that Miami is probably not the intellectual capital of the world, but the university is a good one.”

“So are you from a big family?”

“No. Not here. I do have extended family in Peru. But growing up, it was just me and my mother and Tia Carlotta, her friend.”

“Friend or friend?”

Alejandro stopped and looked down at her. “Kate, are you asking me whether my mother was a lesbian?” He dissolved into laughter.

“What?” she said. “So what if I was?”

“It’s just that she’s spinning in her grave right now,” he gasped. “And Tia Carlotta would grind you up and stuff peppers with you. It’s just a rude thing to ask about! What’s your mother’s sexual orientation?”

“Sorry,” she muttered. “I guess I am pretty…direct. As for my mother, I don’t think she really has a sexual orientation. She just plays a lot of golf, and she’s heavily involved with the symphony.”

Gracious was pulling them ever closer to the water, leaving little hoof tracks in the wet sand. Alejandro tugged her back a little, and she tried to be clever and bypass him by going around Kate. The result was a tangle, with Kate somehow snugged up against his chest.

To be honest, he could have solved the problem quite easily. But he could smell the sweet citrus scent of her hair as it blew across his chin, and his arm seemed to fit perfectly around her, and then she looked up at him with those wary green eyes. “Alejandro?”

He really couldn’t help it. He bent his head and kissed her, tasting and parting her lips—those lips that were way too soft for the words that came out of them.

She went rigid for a moment, and then relaxed in his arms and melted into him with a sigh.

He brought his free hand up and cupped her jaw, tangled his hand in her hair and kissed her even more deeply, exploring her mouth with his tongue, touching hers, stroking. Kate made an incoherent sound and backed away, only to catch the heel of her flip-flop in the sand and fall over Gracious.

Their tender moment ended in an explosive squeal, flying sand and an undignified shriek. So much for romance.

He was Mr. Smooth. But as Alejandro helped Kate up, dusted her off, calmed the pig and steered all of them back to the stretch of sand outside her condo, he knew one thing: he definitely wanted to keep kissing this woman. He wanted to kiss her in much steamier places, and without anything baggy and ugly obscuring her body.

“Don’t do that again,” Kate said, avoiding his gaze.

“Why not? You liked it.”

“Because I’m not sure why you did it.”

“I did it because I liked it, too.”

“Is that the only reason?”

He stared at her, half amused and half annoyed. What, did she think he was after her money?

Her hair flew out around her face in all directions, courtesy of the wind. With her thin frame, she looked like a suspicious Yankee dandelion. “Should there be another reason?”

Kate avoided the question with yet another one. “Besides, how do you know I liked it? I might have been faking it, melting into your arms just so I could yank off your nuts.”

“Dios mio!” Alejandro dropped the pig’s leash and took Kate by the shoulders, while she looked up at him with mingled fear, belligerence and hope. Then he dropped his mouth to hers again. “You, mi vida, are a head case.”

He parted her stubborn mouth with his and slid inside, finding sweetness where she pretended only vinegar lived. He found her sharp tongue and sucked it until it softened and mated with his. He could taste her reluctance but also a growing excitement, a core of wildness that he wanted to split open and savor.

When he raised his head, he played to that wildness. “You know where I’m going to do that next, mi amorcito? Hmm?”

She gazed up at him and shook her head.

“Between your legs.”

Grinning, he caught the hand that came up to smack him and wrapped it around the pig’s leash instead. “Good night, Kate. See you in class.”

She appeared to have lost her voice. When she found it again she yelled after him, “I’ll see you in hell, sport.”

He turned and grinned at her as he walked away into the night. “Great. I hear they have plenty of beds there.”




5


THE LATIN LOVER had kissed her. Kate still couldn’t quite believe it. Or rather, she could believe he’d done it, but not that she’d let him. She lectured herself sternly.

He’s a hound. He’d seduce anything in a skirt, and he’s just after you because of the Spinney money and the challenge. Remember, he said that flirting is a genetic trait in him—he can’t help it. So what are you doing, letting him stick his tongue into your mouth? What are you doing, allowing him to talk to you that way?

But his dirty words had given her a dirty thrill. Heat, moisture and electricity had flashed to the very place he’d said he wanted to kiss next. And they flashed there again as she thought about him.

She poured a little Purina Mini Pig Chow into a bowl for Gracious, amused that the pig started drooling and making noise as soon as she saw the bag. Then her amusement vanished.

Is that what I’m doing? Drooling and squealing over Alejandro Torres? Well, that’s disgusting.

Still, the guy could kiss. And his chest! She could tell, even through the T-shirt, that his torso rippled with muscle. Was his family business a chain of gyms? Did he work on engines all day? No—no grease under the nails. In fact, they were immaculate. But whatever Alejandro did, it was very male-oriented.

Kate found herself wondering just what he looked like without his shirt. Then she wondered what it would be like to kiss him without his shirt, be captive against that solid, hard chest. And finally she dispensed with his pants, too—who needed those, after all?

Alejandro strutted stark naked through her mind, and then turned around and strutted back. He winked at her. Kate turned down the air-conditioning, since the temperature seemed to be rising in the condo.

The problem was that however outrageous, the man made her feel things, made her feel alive. Shocks had rushed through her as soon as he touched her lips, threaded his fingers into her hair, hauled her against him. She’d almost liquefied.

Spinneys didn’t liquefy. She was certain of it. None of those prune-faced people peering out from the gilt frames in her parents’ formal living room had ever had a sexual urge: impossible. Spinneys didn’t make love; they bred the next generation.

Spinneys especially didn’t hook up with very tan, muscular hunks o’burnin’ love who could model tighty whities on a billboard or star in a Bowflex commercial. But…maybe Just Kate did. And hadn’t Maria Shriver married Arnold Schwarzenegger?

Hadn’t Kate come down here to Miami to escape being a Spinney? Break out of the preppy WASP mold? Wasn’t her goal to shake her booty on that table and have a good time?

Yes, it was.

So where did that leave her as far as twining tongues with Mr. Latin Lover? He’d probably helped dozens of women dance on tables. So maybe she shouldn’t act so predictably, Waspishly outraged at his words. Maybe she should hold him to his dirty promise, and use him for her own ends. Maybe Just Kate had a new boy toy, and the power could be all hers. She just had to figure out how to take it.



THE FLUORESCENT LIGHTING in the auditorium flickered and vibrated, hurting Alejandro’s eyes and annoying him. Thank God there were only fifteen minutes left of marketing and then they only had to get through the last class of the day: stats.

He’d come in a couple of minutes late as usual, earning a glare from Kurtz. And Kate hadn’t saved him a seat—stupid to be disappointed, since she’d tried to slap him for what he’d said to her, but he was. So he sat in the back row in case he fell asleep.

“Now for your semester projects,” Kurtz announced. “They will be worth fifty percent of your grade, so be thorough. I want you to work in pairs, and each pair will identify a business in the Miami area that you feel could benefit from a marketing analysis, new direction and plan. You will complete the analysis, come up with that new direction and forge a business plan that supports and executes the new approach. It’s a bonus if you can get the business to actually implement it, but of course I won’t grade you on that aspect. Any questions?”

Kurtz clarified a few things that students had concerns about. Alejandro wondered if Spinney Industries had a Miami office he and Kate could study. Or there was always Benito’s, the restaurant around the corner from After Hours. Benny hadn’t been doing so well lately, since a bottle of chianti had fallen on a customer’s head and given the guy a concussion. Benito was worried about a lawsuit, and his concerns had affected his cooking.

Alejo waylaid Kate as she exited the auditorium. “Hello, mi amorcito.”

“Well if it isn’t the Latin Lover,” she said with a smirk.

Interesting. He’d been expecting the silent treatment. “No, no. You can’t call me that. It’s far too generic. I’m unique. You wouldn’t just kiss any Latin Lover, would you, Kate?”

“Lower your voice,” she snapped, looking around to see if anyone had heard. She was so repressed it made him smile. He pushed her even harder.

“You’re embarrassed to kiss me? Why is that? Are you afraid that once we sleep together, I’ll wave your panties around like a flag? I won’t, you know.”

“Aren’t you presuming a hell of a lot, sport?” Her cheekbones flashed at him and her eyes glinted dangerously.

He looked into her eyes for a long moment and watched her color rise adorably. “No,” he said simply.

She flushed scarlet. “Wrong answer.”

“You’re sure about that?”

Kate didn’t reply. A pulse beat, wild and irregular, in her throat. It told him all he needed to know.

“So, about the project. We are still teaming up, aren’t we? Or are you welshing on our deal, concerned about your self-control around me?”

Her mouth opened, and then she shut it with a snap. “Listen here, sport. I don’t welsh on deals and I don’t have any issues with self-control. Got that?”

He nodded. Did she call everyone sport when she was angry at them? It was vile. “So why don’t we both think of a few businesses over the next couple of days and get back in touch?”

“Why don’t we just meet tomorrow?”

Because I’ll be fondling ladies’ feet all day. “I work tomorrow.”

“What is it that you do, again?”

“Accounting,” he lied. It was sort of true. He did keep the books for the business.

“Can’t you meet for lunch? It’s nowhere near tax season,” she pointed out.

He shook his head with regret. “I have a client whose books are in bad shape.” Yeah, if Peggy doesn’t start balancing the checkbook when she orders supplies, I’m going to wring her little red-headed neck. Again, it wasn’t a total lie….

“Well, okay. I guess we can talk about it when you come for the delicious tripe dinner with Wendell on Saturday,” she said. “And now that I know your true colors, I won’t even feel bad about inflicting him on you. You deserve him.”



IT WAS A sad fact of life that Wendell Spinney IV, Kate’s cousin, looked much more like a pig than, well, a pig. Wendell had been born with sparse blond hair, a wide, moon-shaped face, florid skin and a nose that had an unfortunate tendency to turn up at the end. While he didn’t snort, per se, he wore a permanently disgruntled expression that made him look as if he were about to do so.

Kate stared ahead impassively as they walked from her car to her residential building. Like most of the high-rises in Miami, it was tall, sleek and white. Glass doors protected the entrance and inside was a veritable jungle of tropical plants and a small fountain, as well as a modern concierge desk well-manned by helpful staff.

Her cousin swept his muddy-blond hair off his forehead and complained for the seventeenth time about the humidity. “Tell me again why you decided to move to Hell’s Sweaty Armpit?” he asked, the damp circles under his own arms growing.

“Business school,” she reminded him.

“And what’s wrong with Wharton?”

She sighed. “Everybody we know goes to Wharton.”

“So? That’s a good thing. And it’s still in America. You don’t have to learn Spanish up there.”

“Careful, Wendell—your flabby racist underbelly is showing. I happen to like Miami, humidity and all, so if you want to stay in my condo, you’d best watch your mouth.”

He curled his lip. “And if you want my votes for your muscular dystrophy charity then you’ll watch yours.”

She’d forgotten how loathsome Wendell could be, but apparently she was going to remember over the next five days. Goody. They stepped into the elevator and she punched the correct button. They rode up in silence.

The elevator opened at her floor, and they got off, Wendell rolling his suitcase behind him. They arrived at her door and she opened it, ushering her cousin inside.

Immediately he went to the sliding glass doors and took in the view. “Not bad,” he said. “What did you pay for this place?”

Typical Wendell. Before she could answer, the clatter of mini-pig hooves on the hardwood floors had him turning around. “Katy, what in the—” His jaw went slack at the sight of the porcine visitor.

“Wendell, this is Gracious. She’s staying with me for a few days, while her owner is out of town.”

“The hell she is! I’m staying with you for a few days.”

“So is she.”

Wendell squinted at the pig in disbelief. “I’m not living with a barnyard animal.”

Gracious grunted at him, backed up, sat down and squealed, laying her ears back. Then she looked up at Kate, clearly echoing Wendell’s sentiments. Kate translated the squeal to mean, “I’m not hanging out with that fat, preppy cretin.”

“You’re both going to have to deal with one another,” she said, her lips twitching.

Gracious heaved herself to her feet and waddled over to sniff out Wendell’s suitcase. She nudged it with her snout and knocked it over.

“Hey!”

She laid her ears back and cocked her head at him. Then she started snuffling around the zipper.

“Get away from there!” Wendell ran forward, waving his arms, but didn’t have the desired effect. Gracious snorted, squealed and redirected her energies: she charged him.

Wendell changed directions on a dime and fled in the other direction, but the pig was fast—who knew?—and pursued him into the kitchen, knocking against his calf with her snout. Wendell leaped for the counter and hauled himself up onto it belly first, his legs flailing. “Kate, do something!”

Gracious appeared very pleased by his response. Kate could have sworn she was grinning. She squealed and then snorted for punctuation.

“You threatened her, Wendell. For all intents and purposes, you charged her first. She was just standing up for herself.”

“Lock her up!” he yelled.

“Gracious, come here.” Kate tugged gently on the pig’s collar, and after a couple of tries got her to follow her into the bathroom. “Look, sweetie, there’s a nice fuzzy rug to lie on, okay? I’ll get you an apricot. Don’t let the mean man hurt your feelings.”

“Mean man?” Wendell hollered. “For God’s sake, Katy! Do you have a goat in the bedroom? Chickens in the pantry?”

Kate shut the door on Gracious and went back to the kitchen, hands on her hips. “Wendell, you can come down now. Let me show you to your room.”

He slid off the granite countertop and onto the floor with a grunt. Then he stalked to his suitcase, wiped imaginary specks of pig drool off the zipper, and towed it after him to the guestroom, where he eyed the air mattress with even more outrage. “You can’t expect me to sleep on that! I told you to get a bed.”

“That is a bed.”

“No, that’s a rectangular balloon.”

“Wendell, this room is going to be my office and I don’t want it filled with a huge guest bed that will hardly ever be used. It’s going to be occupied by a desk and a chair and a filing cabinet.”

“You said you would get a bed.” His tone was belligerent.

Kate looked heavenward. “Take it or leave it. If it bothers you so much, I can make you a reservation somewhere.”

Wendell grumbled a bit more and partially unpacked his suitcase into the room’s closet, pointing out that she had no chest of drawers, either. Then he requested a cappuccino.




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