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Girl Gone Wild
Joanne Rock
Journalist Hugh Duncan can sniff out international intrigue, but finding a juicy scoop in a Miami singles' club right under his nose? Could a voluptuous chef, singing a siren song while icing a Kama Sutra cream puff, be his next big story–or is she just a luscious piece of fluff?And if the kitchen contessa insists on giving out free samples–well, there's an offer no gentleman should refuse…Giselle Cesare has a history of stirring up trouble, and not just on her stove. Even so, the minute a handsome reporter wanders into Club Paradise, she knows she's struck gold. By the time their first date draws to a close, Giselle has hit on the secret to spontaneous combustion! Unfortunately, if Hugh persists in digging up her past, more than her sexplicit desserts will be exposed!



“You’re sure you’re okay with this?”
Hugh asked, lifting a hand to Giselle’s cheek and toying with a stray dark curl.
“I’m very fine with this. I think we can work around the article and not let it interfere with—” Giselle sidled closer, allowing her thigh to graze his— “what we both want.”
He caught her hips in his hands. He closed his eyes for a long moment. Feminine intuition told her she was testing the man’s restraint.
“How soon can you have your story written?” Patience wasn’t her strong suit on a good day. And with his hands on her, there was no way she could wait.
His fingers slid along the silky fabric of her dress. “I can hurry it, but it will take a few weeks.”
“Weeks?” She could hardly wait a few hours, let alone weeks, especially as his touch skated up her ribs, pausing just beneath her breasts.
“I’m very thorough in my work.” His thumbs drew idle circles skimming the edge of her bra.
“Oh, really?” Awareness flared through her, made her breath catch in her throat while her breasts tingled and tightened in anticipation. She wanted to tangle tongues, limbs and sheets with him.
“I never do anything in half measures.”
And that was the best promise she’d heard in a long while.


Dear Reader,
Chef Giselle Cesare has a whole week free now that she’s finally managed to get all four of her brothers out of her hair at once. Whatever will she do with a few days on her own now that her personal protection squad is out of town?
She’s cooking up seduction, of course! And journalist Hugh Duncan looks like he’s going to make the perfect target. That is, until she finds out what kind of stories Hugh wants to write. How can she think about hot nights with Hugh when he’s determined to dredge up a past that’s better off forgotten? Then again, it’s not often a girl gets a chance for seduction like this one….
If you enjoy Girl Gone Wild, I hope you’ll join me for next month’s SINGLE IN SOUTH BEACH story. Date with a Diva will be a June Blaze title and we’ll see what’s in the works for Club Paradise’s resident diva Lainie Reynolds. Visit me at www.JoanneRock.com to learn more about my future releases or to let me know what you think about the series so far!
Happy reading,
Joanne Rock

Girl Gone Wild
Joanne Rock


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Amy Mehl Romines, my Kentucky pal who taught me how to fake homemade apple pies and bluff my way through stir-fry. Thank you for nudging me out the door that night I ran off with my husband! You were a fun part of my happily-ever-after and you’ll always be my dear friend.

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

1
SOME MEN COUNTED SHEEP to fall asleep. Hugh Duncan spied on people.
Peering out of the dark windows overlooking a deserted stretch of Miami’s South Beach, he strolled through one of the quiet lounges at the back of the posh resort he was supposed to be investigating for his newspaper. At 4:30 a.m., the raucous partyers who had populated the hotel’s nightclub had just stumbled out into the early morning air, leaving this section of the resort suddenly quiet. Secretive.
Skirting around a secluded seating area in one corner of the minimalist Art Deco-style lounge, Hugh searched for a diversion to occupy his mind through what had always been his most restless hours of the day. He’d never been one to fall asleep until at least 6:00 a.m., preferring to roam the streets of whatever city he happened to inhabit, looking for his next story. Some kind of intrigue he could write about, dissect, rant over.
Nine times out of ten, he unearthed the kind of subjects he preferred by simply watching. Observing details in a manner he’d come to realize was unique. The quirky way he’d always been able to fixate on the small, the seemingly insignificant, gave him an edge as an investigative reporter.
It also annoyed the hell out of most people, but how many guys had turned their most irritating habit into a Pulitzer? Annoying or not, he continued to indulge the practice, even in the case of stories he didn’t want to write.
Like this one.
Sighing with frustration that South Beach’s most notoriously hedonistic resort could be so damn quiet, Hugh paused to absorb the colors emanating from a nearby erotic painting. Georgia O’Keefe-like in its simplicity, the picture of a red poppy flower in bloom bore disconcerting resemblance to a woman’s genitals. Then again, maybe men who’d been without sex for as long as he had simply started seeing women’s genitals everywhere they looked.
Damn.
Pivoting away from the picture, he considered heading for the next exit to see what he could find on the South Beach strip to entertain himself, when a woman’s voice lifted in song caught his ear.
Whoever warbled out “Summer Wind” might not have had the greatest vocal ability, but he had to appreciate the musical selection. He probably wouldn’t be able to find a cover of a Sinatra tune playing anywhere else on the strip.
Besides, he wouldn’t unearth any material for the story he was being coerced to write on Club Paradise if he left the premises tonight. A stupid assignment more suited to a features reporter than a hard-hitting investigative journalist, but his editor was determined to take a piece out of Hugh’s hide for an article he’d written that had stepped on the toes of British intelligence.
As if a month’s worth of crappy assignments would make Hugh stop writing the kinds of stories that truly needed to be told.
Winding through the back halls of Club Paradise, flagrantly ignoring the Employees Only signs on one door after another, Hugh followed the source of the “Summer Wind.” He could claim a distant, step-cousin-style relationship to one of the owners of the resort since his uncle had married founding partner Brianne Wolcott’s mother at some point. Of course, his whole family was one big mass of stepthis and ex-stepthat, and he’d never actually met Brianne. No one in the Duncan or Simmons families had much of a track record in the marriage and family department.
Still, the relationship ought to be enough to justify his presence in the employees-only sections of the resort, right?
Scents of garlic and basil assailed his nose as he neared the kitchen, making his gut rumble in hungry approval. When was the last time he’d eaten? Snacking wasn’t usually a part of his late-night spying rituals, but the distinct aroma of Italian cooking made him rethink his nocturnal surveillance traditions.
He paused just outside the door to the source of the incredible aromas, the feminine voice within hitting a high note and luring him with her siren’s song.
Curiosity beyond professional interest pulled him closer to the doorway. The dynamic Sinatra rendition, even without musical accompaniment, coupled with the incredible scents had him salivating for a glimpse of the songstress. And—truth be told—the recent glimpse of the poppy had probably stirred his interest a bit.
Damned suggestive artwork.
But the one benefit to being back on U.S. soil was the freedom to engage in casual sex—a pleasure he never afforded himself while abroad. And from the way his body had kicked into overdrive at the sound of the woman in the next room, he knew he couldn’t put off some serious fulfillment in that department for too much longer.
With the silent feet and stealthy grace that had long supported his nightly habit, Hugh nudged open the door and edged his way into the room.
Only to discover his efforts to be sneaky were totally wasted on the oblivious creature stirring up mayhem in the center of her kitchen.
She held a wooden spoon in one hand and a bag of decorator frosting in the other as she whirled between a granite-topped island and an eight-burner cooking range loaded with steaming cauldrons.
Dancing as she worked, a petite brunette in a sexy-as-hell red dress did a bump and grind as she bent over a shiny aluminum cookie sheet and applied frosting to some confection or another. Her abundant hair was pinned up on the back of her head in some little confining net, but a few wavy strands escaped to bounce in time with the rest of her.
Sinatra’s music had probably never enjoyed such an enthusiastic performance.
He debated breaking out in applause as her voice died on the final strains of her song. Odd, because he’d always been a disinterested bystander on his other nighttime investigative outings. Why the sudden urge to blow his cover and announce himself to this brown-eyed beauty?
Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the lithe little brunette emanated more sheer physical presence than many men twice her size. Or maybe it was because her dress happened to be the exact shade of the provocative poppy flower he’d spied in the hallway.
Then again, maybe it was simply because he’d never seen a woman so full of life, she practically bubbled over like one of those steaming pots on the stove. Before Hugh could make up his mind either way—to reveal himself or not—the woman launched into a rendition of “Witchcraft” as she twirled over to the range top to stir the cast-iron cauldrons wafting the rich aroma of what could only be spaghetti sauce. She dipped her wooden spoon into the first batch and spun it clockwise, counterclockwise, then back again before moving to the next pot where she repeated the process.
He watched, mesmerized, as the woman worked her own brand of witchcraft on him. Since when did he go for domestic goddesses who appeared totally at home in bare feet and wielding a spoon? His tastes usually ran to women on a mission. Only serious crusader types need apply. And this woman looked about as far from serious as a man could get. Especially when she licked the remnants of spaghetti sauce off the ladle after stirring the final pot.
She flung the instrument into the sink and paused in her singing long enough to kiss her fingertips in the classic Italian effusive gesture that meant “delicious.”
Damned if he didn’t feel that kiss from all the way across the cavernous room. The wealth of cool, stainless steel surfaces in the industrial kitchen didn’t come close to making the space less intimate.
Intrigued for all the wrong reasons, Hugh settled a shoulder into a wall of locked rolling carts filled with clean dishes. Willing away thoughts of the exposé he needed to write on Club Paradise in order to barter his journalistic freedom back from his editor, Hugh told himself it would be okay to mix business with pleasure just this once.
He definitely needed a domestic fling before he jetted out on his next foreign assignment. So what would it hurt to watch the apron-clad songbird dance around her kitchen for a little while and see what happened?
Hell, for all he knew, maybe the wild-eyed brunette would be the key to his first lead.

SOME WOMEN BELTED OUT hallelujahs when times were good. Giselle Cesare preferred Sinatra.
She tossed in a few extra choruses of “Witchcraft” just because she couldn’t bear for the song to end. Times were definitely good.
After too many years of being watched over, protected and insulated from as many life experiences as possible by her family, the head chef and part-owner of Club Paradise finally had a window of delicious freedom. Mouthwatering opportunity.
She didn’t intend to waste a second of it.
Tangoing her way across the kitchen in her bare feet—a transgression she never allowed herself during business hours and for which she’d have to mop before she closed up tonight—Giselle relished the feel of smooth ceramic tile beneath her feet as she arrived at the pantry. Humming and rummaging around for the fresh fruit she’d bought the morning before, she transitioned straight into “The Way You Look Tonight” as her fingers seized the prize she sought.
A pomegranate.
Giddy pleasure ran through her veins at the mixture of sensual thoughts that swirled around her head. A taste of the delicious fruit she held would be the first of many indulgences over the course of the next week.
Now that her brother Renzo was off on his honeymoon and her brother Nico was on the road with the hockey team he coached, Giselle had no burly protectors to scare away potential suitors. No hulking bodyguards to intimidate her dates into keeping their hands to themselves.
This week, she would date whoever she pleased, and lure the right man as far as she dared.
Which, of course, was very far indeed. Unsuspecting men of South Beach beware. Giselle Cesare was very much on the prowl.
And hungry.
As long as the food critic from the Miami Herald didn’t show up anytime soon and the club continued to increase revenues—a likely event now that they’d shaken off some of the scandals attached to the business—life promised to be very, very good.
In flagrant celebration of that fact, she spun on her toes until the silky red skirt of her dress twirled out from her body, exposing her thighs and her panties to a rush of breezy air à la Marilyn Monroe.
Delicious.
She whirled faster to keep her short skirt airborne, reveling in one of many sensual delights that would soon follow. Her toes ate up the tile as she crossed the kitchen, spinning her faster and faster until—
A man caught her eye from the edges of her peripheral vision.
A grinning, gorgeous man.
She nearly tripped in her haste to halt herself, feet tangling in confusion. Gorgeous men never magically appeared in her kitchen.
Then again, she usually had her very own gargoyles posted around the entrance to any room she happened to occupy. Is this how easy it would be to find a hot guy if she had been born into the world without a troop of overbearing brothers?
Her heart slamming an erratic pace between the dancing and the sudden enticement of the newcomer, Giselle took a deep breath and tried to gather her composure while she thought of the appropriate thing to say.
“I hate to disappoint you if you’re looking for a late-night snack, but the kitchen is officially closed.” Okay, so that wasn’t exactly the kind of come-on line she issued effortlessly to gorgeous men in her dreams, but she was damn rusty at this. There’d been a time in her life when she’d been a bit of a hellion just so she could wrangle some occasional freedom from her family’s relentless watch over the only daughter in the brood. But she’d been too busy pulling her weight to get Club Paradise off the ground this year to expend any energy on man-hunting.
The sexy stranger grinned back at her, never shifting his lazy stance against her stainless steel rolling cart full of sterilized dishes.
“Officially closed? Does that mean all the activity going on in here is of an unofficial nature?” He sounded amused at the prospect.
Giselle looked him over more carefully as she wondered whether or not to be offended. Was he laughing at her song and dance routine with his sly smile and all-the-time-in-the-world body language?
She examined more clearly his striking green eyes set in an angular face. His hair was every bit as dark as her own, sort of brown bordering on black, but his skin lacked the bronze hue of her Italian heritage. She had him pegged for Irish ancestry. Or maybe those deep green eyes were making her see something that wasn’t there.
He possessed a lean, rangy body with none of her brothers’ muscle bulk. Nevertheless, he had a definite don’t-mess-with-me stance that suggested he could hold his own.
She took in the dark khakis and black T-shirt covered by an unbuttoned jacket. With the eye of a woman who’d bought dozens of shoes for her four brothers over the years, Giselle recognized expensive leather moccasins that had seen some high mileage. In fact, from the lightly scratched face of the understated gold timepiece he wore to the premature laugh lines around his eyes, everything about the man said he’d seen a lot of living, though he couldn’t be too many years past thirty.
And the heat emanating from those green eyes assured her he wasn’t laughing at her.
A hungry shiver rippled over her skin.
“Unofficially, I’m doing some prep work for tomorrow,” she admitted, juggling the pomegranate to a nearby counter as she blew a stray lock of hair from one eye. Why, oh, why did she have to reek of garlic when she met the most intriguing man she’d laid eyes on in more years than she could count? “Giselle Cesare, executive chef.”
He straightened as he reached for her hand. “Hugh Duncan. Nice to meet you.”
If she thought it odd that he didn’t follow her lead and mention a little something about himself, she forgot all about it when his fingers enveloped hers. The warmth of his touch surrounded her palm, communicating some spark of life force that made her tingle with awareness.
Hello.
Her whole body seemed to sit up and take notice.
“Do you always have this much fun working, Giselle?” He relinquished her hand too soon, leaving her feeling just a tad bereft without the electric buzz of his touch.
“No. Tonight is special because I’m celebrating.”
“I take it if you refer to 4:30 a.m. as tonight, that means you’re a night owl who hasn’t gone to bed yet instead of a morning person who likes to rise before dawn?”
“Mornings are for sleeping,” she confirmed, although a man like Hugh Duncan could inspire a woman to use the morning for other things. Like taking handsome strangers to bed, peeling off their clothes and—
“I have to admit you’ve got me curious.” Hugh pinned her with a level look, his green eyes divining too much.
Had she spoken her wayward thoughts aloud?
“What exactly are you celebrating?” he prodded when she remained silent.
Relieved he hadn’t read her lascivious thoughts, Giselle backed up a step and gestured him to follow her deeper into the kitchen. “Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll tell you? The kitchen may be closed, but that doesn’t mean I can’t locate something snackable for a fellow night owl.”
When he didn’t move to follow her immediately, Giselle knew a moment’s panic. Hugh Duncan was her ticket to a week of sensual delights, and she had no intention of letting him slip away easily. The man had entered her turf after all, proving he must be at least moderately interested. And he wore no wedding band on his left finger.
Not that a girl could count on a missing ring as evidence of no commitment. Giselle had learned that the hard way the last time her brothers had been out of town over a year ago.
She couldn’t be in over her head already, could she?
“I wouldn’t want to impose.” His feet followed her more slowly, his gaze moving around the kitchen with unhurried thoroughness. “But it’s not often I run into such a tempting offer.” His gaze shifted back to her at the same moment the word “tempting” eased from his lips.
Giselle thought she’d have heart palpitations as she reached the small table where she’d planned to offer him a seat. But, damn it, now the whole issue of whether or not he was married danced irritatingly around the back of her brain. After the major screwup she’d committed by sleeping with a married man who’d claimed he was single, how could she not clear the air straight out of the gate?
She gripped the back of one of the chairs pulled up to the butcher-block table and hesitated. “It’s definitely not an imposition and I’d be glad for the company.”
Still she hesitated. Awkward.
“But?” Hugh Duncan stared at her with patient eyes, his slow pace putting her so much more at ease than her noisy, in-your-face family where everyone competed to talk at once.
“But I just want to make sure you’re not married or anything. Are you?” She’d rushed the words out so fast she’d be lucky if he’d even been able to decode them. “Married, I mean.”
To his credit, he didn’t laugh. If Nico was here, he would have busted a gut over that one. Instead Hugh simply met her gaze with unblinking sincerity. “No. One would hope that if I had a wife, I wouldn’t be crawling the halls of a singles hotel at this hour.”
Relief mingled with a quick pang of envy for the picture he created. Too bad most men didn’t view marriage that way. The philanderer she’d gotten caught up with most certainly hadn’t given a rip about being part of South Beach’s club scene despite his wedding vows.
Willing her thoughts out of that dark time in her life and back to the wealth of possibilities epitomized by Hugh Duncan’s timely arrival, Giselle withdrew the chair from the table and nudged it in his direction.
“Then by all means, Hugh, have a seat while I find something to tempt you with.” She flashed him her most flirtatious smile and hummed a few more bars of “The Way You Look Tonight.”
What to feed a man one wanted to seduce?
She’d been given an ideal window of opportunity with the sexy stud in her kitchen and now she’d even been granted the chance to cook for him, when the culinary arts were her lone claim to fame. If she couldn’t reel this guy in for a serious between-the-sheets encounter, she had no one to blame but herself.
Sure, the spaghetti sauce she had simmering on the stove would be delicious, but it didn’t really send the right message. The pomegranate on the counter was one of the most sensual fruits in the world, but it could be messy for a guy with no experience eating one.
Of course, then there was her specialty—the erotic pastries all of South Beach had gone wild for since the restaurant opened a few months ago. What man could resist light, flaky pastries shaped like a woman’s breasts and filled with sweet cream? He’d be putty in her hands in no time.
And maybe Giselle would have a shot at remembering what a man-induced orgasm felt like.
She already had her head buried in the refrigerator when she heard his chair scrape along the ceramic tile. She peered out at him while she dragged essentials from the icebox. He seemed to be getting more comfortable, pivoting his seat to face her, stretching out long legs encased in light brown trousers. She recognized the distinctively male characteristic from life with her four brothers—take up as much space as possible to maintain control of the environment.
“Are you going to give me a hint what you’re celebrating, or am I going to have to guess?” He propped an elbow on the table, his green gaze warm and intimate even from four feet away.
“You’d never guess.” She set the pastry in a low temperature oven to take the chill off while she stirred a small batch of frosting in a peachy, skin-tone shade.
Glancing at the difference between her own bronze skin and the fair hue of the frosting, Giselle added a dash of brown and yellow to the mixture. If the man was going to be thinking about breasts, he might as well at least be thinking about the proper pair.
“I don’t know about that. I’m a pretty good guesser.” He scrubbed a thoughtful hand along a squared jaw. “Any woman singing Sinatra probably has romance on her mind.”
She stopped stirring. “Romance?” Odd how the word made her nervous.
“Yeah. You know—a man, a woman and a lot of sparks?” He crossed his feet at the ankles as if utterly content to play guessing games.
And she had to admit he was pretty damn good at them.
Slowly, she began to stir again. “I might have been thinking about sparks, I’ll grant you that much.”
She wanted to glance his way again as she pulled the pastry out of the oven, but to create an erotic confectionery masterpiece she needed to concentrate on the task at hand.
“She says yes to sparks while romance remains questionable.” Hugh seemed to mull over the notion, the words spoken more softly than the rest. “I’d have to say that means you were celebrating a wild, out-of-control affair. Am I getting closer?”
The deep timbre of his voice in her kitchen did wicked things to her insides as she frosted the treat and put the finishing touches on the nipples with tiny pieces of cherry.
“You’re definitely getting closer.” Her words ended on a husky note as she eased the pastry onto a small silver serving dish and dusted powdered sugar around the rim. “I was simply celebrating the freedom to have a wild, out-of-control affair since my watchdog big brothers are all far away from South Beach this weekend.”
She hoped she didn’t overplay her hand as she swayed her hips with blatant suggestiveness when she walked toward him with the plate.
“All that singing and dancing over a basic freedom like the ability to conduct a sensual interlude?” His eyes lingered on her hips before lifting to meet her gaze. “It stirs the imagination to think how you might react when faced with the reality of a man who would give his right arm for a chance at that kind of encounter with you, Giselle.”
She paused beside him, her legs mere inches from where his own sprawled across the floor. Heat crawled over her skin and made her tingle with anticipation. But it was nothing compared to the flash fire that sizzled through her when she leaned forward to set his plate on the table. Her breasts moved through his line of sight, almost close enough to his mouth to feel his breath.
Or so she wanted to think.
“You won’t have to use your imagination for much longer.” Straightening, she took shallow breaths in the too-warm air that hovered between them. The urge to lick her lips grew almost overwhelming as she stared down at him. “All you have to do is take a peek at the dish I’ve made for you to see what I would do to tempt that sort of man.”

2
NORMALLY, HUGH WASN’T THE KIND of guy who enjoyed surprises. He’d learned at an early age that being unprepared could have dangerous consequences, and he’d forged a personal quest to make sure his stories kept people so informed they’d never be caught off guard.
But Giselle’s late-night offering was the kind of surprise a man relished. And one he sure as hell would never forget.
“What do you think?” She stood over him, the scent of her vanilla cream confection mingling with the more earthy, herbal aroma that clung to her skin.
Even though he was curious to see her facial expression, to search for hints of the game she played in her mischievous dark brown eyes, Hugh couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from the bare breasts served to him on a—no kidding—silver platter.
He sensed her shift beside him while he searched for the correct response. She tugged out the chair across from him and eased into it.
Finally he managed to look up at her own cleavage, enticingly displayed in the killer scrap of red silk she wore for a dress. A plunging neckline edged in a tiny red ruffle seemed to frame the object of his attention.
“Quite honestly, they look delicious.” With an effort his gaze continued up to her face, her flirtatious smile and finally her sugar-streaked cheek. “I can hardly wait for a taste.”
He reached across the table—surprising her a little if the sudden biting of her lip was any indication—and swiped the powdered sugar smudge from one high cheekbone.
She stilled beneath his touch, her skin as warm and soft as he imagined, before he pulled away to lick his finger.
“Very sweet.” Desperate to distract himself before he leaned across the table for a much more thorough sampling, Hugh scooped up the silver fork she’d provided and speared a bite of the explicit pastry.
“Thank you.” She leaned back in her seat and pulled a thin wooden stick from the knot of hair piled on top of her head. A silky brown mane fell about her shoulders while she tucked the stick into a black leather satchel alongside the table. “My pastries have developed quite a following among the locals.”
Hugh watched the dance of her wavy hair against the smooth column of her neck as he swallowed another bite of sweet pastry and wondered when he’d ever been so sensually bombarded on all levels. For a man accustomed to an austere existence in one unstable foreign country after another, Giselle Cesare provided an electric jolt to his system.
“I can see why. Tasty, as well as provocative. You don’t find that too often in a food.”
She quirked a dark eyebrow while a smile played about her lips. “Then you don’t know your foods well enough. Spend a little time with a chef and I guarantee you’ll change your mind on that score.”
He would have jumped at the chance if his mouth hadn’t been full. And perhaps that was a good thing, he realized as he gulped another bite, because he wouldn’t want Giselle to think for a moment he was dating her to unearth information on Club Paradise.
He could develop an exposé on the scandal-ridden resort with his eyes closed as soon as he knocked the considerable chip off his shoulder over having to write it in the first place.
Before he could decide how to proceed with the enticing woman seated across from him, she leaned forward to speak.
“So what do you do besides roam the hallways at the crack of dawn? Are you a hotel guest? A nightclub partyer who didn’t heed the last call?”
“I’m a wanderer. I’ve been out of the country for the last few months and I’m settling back into the rhythm of South Beach. I just followed the crowd into the Moulin Rouge Lounge around midnight.” He wondered fleetingly if Giselle had slipped an aphrodisiac into his pastry because the longer he sat across from her, the more he wanted to reach out and touch the warmth of her skin, inhale her exotic, spicy scent. “I checked out the club, strolled the beach. Next thing you know, it was closing time.”
“Next thing you know?” She rolled her eyes. “That’s four hours. I can never do anything for four hours without getting impatient. And I’m pretty sure I’ve never ‘strolled’ at any time in my life.”
Somehow that didn’t surprise him. He pointed his fork in her direction. “You’re more of a charge through life kind of person, I bet.”
“Exactly. I’ve never been very good at waiting for anything, and even back in my party girl days I never spent four hours at any single club. It was more of a trick to see how many places I could hit in that much time, you know?”
“You miss all the best parts when you rush.” He smiled, thinking about how much fun it would be to slow this woman down for four hours. Twenty-four hours.
She crossed her legs, extending one gorgeous calf toward him and inviting memories of what her legs had looked like as she twirled around the kitchen before. He’d never forget the sight of her bright red panties against her dusky skin.
Although she hadn’t revealed any more than a woman wearing a bathing suit, the fact that the peep show had been so unexpected had his mouth watering for a repeat performance.
She tucked a strand of wavy brown hair behind one ear. “What do you do when you’re out of the country? Do you travel for your job?”
Busted.
He’d been too busy thinking about how much he wanted to distract her from this line of conversation, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to admit his profession to the woman who worked for the subject of his next article.
Now, caught without an alibi and unwilling to lie to a sexy-as-hell female sending him definite “do me” vibes, he had no choice but to go with the truth. “I’m a reporter for the Miami paper. I thought I’d check out the resort on an informal basis before I make an official visit for a story.”
Okay, so he only told a portion of the facts. She didn’t need to know he’d stumbled across her tonight as part of his spying routine. She’d write him off as creepy before he could say so much as “nice to have met you.”
The come-hither vixen in the sexy red dress paled a few shades. Backed up visibly. “A reporter? From the Herald?”
“What? You have an ax to grind with the media or something?” No skin off his nose. He just hoped she wouldn’t rule him out on the basis of his job.
Because one way or another, he wanted to learn everything there was to know about Giselle Cesare.

PLEASE SAY SHE DID NOT JUST just serve an erotic pastry to a potential food critic from the biggest newspaper in the southeast.
It simply wasn’t possible. Giselle had worked too hard to distinguish herself as an up-and-coming chef. She’d poured every last dime of her share of the family inheritance into a portion of the resort ownership. No way could she afford to lose that money by screwing up this badly.
Leaping out of her chair, she set aside all thoughts of seducing Hugh Duncan as she wondered what else she could feed him that didn’t involve naughty depictions of female body parts.
She could still salvage this meeting. Maybe.
“An ax to grind? Who, me?” Her laughter sounded a bit manic even to her own ears. Oh, God, he was surely going to think she’d lost her marbles, as well as her desire to succeed in the restaurant business. “You want to try some calamari? It’s a house specialty in our Mediterranean dining room.”
Did he know the resort boasted three different eating facilities? She had no idea how familiar he would be with the way her kitchen operated.
Tugging open the refrigerator she stared into it, waiting for culinary inspiration to strike while a nervous sweat broke out across her brow. How had her day gone from awesome to gut-clenchingly awful in the course of half an hour?
She jumped when Hugh appeared at her side.
“I’m not hungry for anything but conversation. Care to join me?” He held his empty plate in his hand.
Giselle hurried to take the plate and the fork, letting the refrigerator door close behind her. “That’s fine, too. Did you want to take a tour of the dining areas while we talk?”
Of course, taking a walk meant she damn well better put her shoes on. What if he included in his review the fact that he’d caught her in the kitchen in her bare feet? She’d be doomed to health-code-violation hell.
The health department would close her down, her partners would kick her out as an owner and she’d never escape the smothering shelter of the Cesare family clan who always insisted she couldn’t make it in the world without their help.
Hugh’s hands on her shoulders steadied her as she slid into the three-inch heels she’d kicked off after the nightclub closed for the night.
“Wait. Stop.” His touch permeated the silky fabric of her dress as if it wasn’t even there. His fingers curved around to her back, his thumbs dipping into the soft terrain at the base of her neck.
Ten minutes ago she’d longed for a chance to have his hands on her. Now she stood paralyzed, unsure how to proceed from here with a man who held the balance of her career in his hands as surely as he held her body.
Her hot, aching body that still longed for him.
She blinked up at him. Waiting.
Hugh shook his head, his brow wrinkled in obvious confusion. “What did I miss here? We went from racy flirtation to I-can’t-stand-the-heat-so-let’s-get-the-hell-out-of-the-kitchen in record time, and I’m not quite sure how it happened. You seem upset that I work for the paper.”
He hadn’t made it a question, yet he seemed content to wait for her to speak. To explain.
“I’ve been trying to get your paper out here for weeks to review my food.” She cleared her throat in an effort to remove the hesitant sound from her voice. She wouldn’t compound tonight’s problem by appearing ungrateful to the poor unsuspecting food critic who only wanted a taste test and wound up walking in on the chef flashing her panties in a moment of unbridled enthusiasm. “And while I realize it is often customary to make a surprise visit to a restaurant in order to sample the average food preparation capabilities on any given night, I can guarantee that my welcome would have been much different if you’d at least made your visit during business hours.”
Hugh’s hands slid from her arms. “I’m no food critic, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Yet you’re here from the newspaper and you’re working on a story about the club.” She lifted a skeptical brow. Just because she’d never seen the man’s name on a restaurant review didn’t mean he couldn’t write one.
“Yes.” He frowned, perhaps realizing how unconvincing he sounded. “But I haven’t even thought of what angle I’m going to take on the story yet, so I’m not sure that food will come into play.”
“Well, just in case, I’m going to make certain I don’t feed you any more X-rated cream puffs, okay?” She finished putting her shoes on and was surprised to find herself closer to eye-level with Hugh Duncan as she did.
The bright green of his steady gaze made her belly turn a little flip. What a waste that this god of a man had just happened to walk into her life at one of the few times she could have actually had some fun with him, and now she’d need to keep her hands off.
Fate had a really sadistic sense of humor.
Hugh peered over the progress of her spaghetti sauce on the stove. “Then how about we forget all about food and restaurants and go for a walk on the beach? Assuming you can leave the sauce, that is. I have no idea how much baby-sitting this sort of thing requires.”
A food critic who didn’t know much about cooking? Giselle couldn’t decide if he was putting her on or if there remained a chance he wouldn’t realize how much of a faux pas she’d committed by dancing around the kitchen barefoot.
Hope flared to life inside her along with remnants of desire. “It needs to simmer for hours. But isn’t there some sort of ethical problem with me…fraternizing with the reporter who’s doing a story on my resort?”
He shrugged. “If there is, it’s me breaking all the rules, not you.” He glanced down at the high heels she’d donned. “Those shoes will never cut it on the beach, though.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “You’re really serious? You want to walk on the beach at this hour?”
Her brothers would have warned her that the drunks would be out in full force just before dawn, and that no woman belonged in a deserted area like that alone. She really shouldn’t go…
Still, he held out an arm. “If we hurry we can still see the sunrise.”
He’d appealed to the one hot button Giselle Cesare had never been able to resist—her sense of adventure.
Even knowing she’d probably regret it, Giselle didn’t stand a chance of saying no. With the strains of Sinatra growing louder in the back of her mind, she reached for his arm and hoped she could still find a way to take this sexy stranger to her bed before her week of freedom ended.

HUGH WATCHED GISELLE’S LONG legs eat up the beach as she ran to chase a flock of seagulls. Dispensing with her high heels on the sprawling back patio of Club Paradise long ago, she shouted at the birds and sent them fleeing in a cloud of white feathers as they trekked back toward the resort.
The sensuous woman who baked erotic pastries and sang while she cooked obviously harbored another side. The youthful free spirit who liked to chase birds seemed totally at odds with her provocative red dress and her dark eyes full of naughty promise.
She turned to him now, the dark hair that had earlier been loosely coiled at the back of her head bounced around her shoulders, the dark mass highlighted by intermittent coppery strands that glinted in the warm pink light cast by the rising sun.
She’d brought peaches to the beach with them and she ate hers with relish, the juice spilling down her chin as she waited for him to catch up.
He’d been an idiot to invite her out here, to develop any sort of friendship with a woman who might be hurt by a story he crafted on the resort that employed her.
She turned to walk in-step beside him as he came shoulder to shoulder with her. “The sunrise is gorgeous. I can’t believe how many times I’ve seen the sun come up through the windows of the hotel and yet I’ve never hauled my butt out here to be a part of it.”
Shading her eyes, she glimpsed toward the eastern horizon, balancing the last of her peach between two fingers.
He could have stared at her all day, taking in the little details about her full, juice-slick lips or her Sophia Loren curves in the fire-engine red dress. But he forced himself to also listen to her words, to pay attention to what she said and not just what he wanted to do to her.
“I’ve missed Miami. I always like coming back to the great sunrises.” He hadn’t realized as much until he told her. For years he’d tried to tell himself he didn’t have a home, that he was simply a wanderer by nature.
But he’d been born here, still had a stepaunt in town who he liked to visit once in a while. He’d lived in Miami for nearly a decade before his mother took him overseas to be with her new husband of exotic foreign descent. Only to be diplomatically trapped inside an ass-backward country that viewed him and his mother as “property” of the man she’d married for more months than he cared to remember.
He shook off the thought, distracting himself from unpleasant memories by watching another drop of juice roll down Giselle’s chin and drop to her breastbone.
He might have reached out to swipe the liquid if she hadn’t finished the fruit then. And tossing the pit into a wire trashcan they passed, she turned to him. “You mentioned you were overseas until recently?”
Pissing off diplomats from a myriad of countries and generally making his editor mad. But he’d written a hell of a story. Not sure how much he should tell Giselle, he opted for the truth. “Yes, but that’s work-related. It’s up to you whether or not we want to open that door. I don’t want you to think I’m mixing business with pleasure.”
Pausing, she dug her bare bronze toes into the soft white sand. “And which did we say this was again?”
She made a back-and-forth gesture between them with her finger, referencing the definite spark of connection that linked them.
He drew close to her, near enough to catch a slight whiff of her fragrance beneath the earthy aromas of the kitchen that still clung to her. “I don’t know about you, but I decided this is definitely pleasure.”
She nodded, a curly strand of her dark brown hair brushing against her cheek as she did. “Then maybe we could forget the business aspect of this relationship altogether so we don’t have to worry about it. I’ll be the first to admit I don’t know a damn thing about the newspaper business, but is there any chance you could hand off the story on Club Paradise to another reporter?” She drew an idle pattern in the sand with her toe. “I’m not just the chef in charge of overseeing the restaurants. I’m also a part owner in the corporation that runs the whole property, so if we were to, you know…take many walks on the beach together, it could get a little awkward.”
Did she really say what he thought she just said? “Part owner?”
“The controlling partnership is divided among me and three other women.” She met his gaze with a straightforward honesty too rare in people according to his experience.
He’d read all about the split ownership in his research, and knew a little bit about it from letters he’d exchanged with his aunt. He didn’t have a chance to mention it before Giselle hastened on.
“Two of us were working at the club last year when the former owners absconded with the profits, and the other two women who joined us were connected to the old partnership. We pulled together to keep the business afloat and create something bigger and better.”
Ah, damn. All of which he’d gleaned from the old articles he’d printed off on Club Paradise. Even though he’d never actually met his sort-of distant cousin Brianne to quiz her about the resort, plenty had been written about the embezzlement scandal attached to the hotel’s former incarnation as a popular couples resort.
But he’d been too furious about an assignment he’d considered beneath him to really pay much attention to the names of the key players.
Apparently he’d started off his job by drooling over one of them.
“That might be a problem.” For the first time in his journalism career, he knew a moment’s regret at having so thoroughly aggravated his editor. “I definitely don’t have the option of handing off this assignment.”
A fact he regretted all the more the longer he stared at the amazing woman in front of him. A guy didn’t stumble into a walking sensual feast like Giselle Cesare every day.
“But you don’t have an ethical problem with hanging out with me, even though you might have to write about the restaurant, right?” She edged forward a bit, her lips suddenly much too near his own for any rational thought to actually take place.
“No.” Of course there wouldn’t be an ethical problem if he wrote a simple freaking piece on the food.
Unfortunately, he’d never written just a simple story on anything in his entire career.
“Then there shouldn’t be any problem if I decided to do this…” She stretched up on her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck, planting her mouth to his in a kiss that would have set off fire alarms if they’d been indoors.

3
FOR A WOMAN WHO HAD BUILT a career around understanding all the subtle nuances of taste, Giselle marveled that she couldn’t quite define the exquisite flavor of Hugh’s kiss.
She’d been dying for a drink from his lips since the moment she’d laid eyes on him, and had finally flung herself in his arms for lack of a better strategy. Now that she was right where she wanted to be, she struggled to identify the darkly complex taste of desire as intoxicating as any burgundy wine. Her knees swayed at the onslaught of sensation, and she held on to him for dear life on the quiet stretch of South Beach that didn’t normally see much action until noon.
Lucky for her, she and Hugh were changing that in a hurry.
“Giselle.” He murmured her name against her mouth, levered himself away from her by a fraction of an inch.
She couldn’t seem to clear her head enough to answer. In fact, the only response she could think of involved more mind-drugging kisses. So she simply waited and tried to remember how to breathe.
“You’re sure you’re okay with this? With me? The article?” He lifted a hand to her cheek and skimmed her jaw with his palm. His fingers toyed with a stray dark curl.
“I’m very fine with this.” She had faith in her abilities as a chef, and the more she talked to Hugh the stronger her impression that he wouldn’t use his position to hurt her or her business. “I think we can work around the article and not let it interfere with—” she sidled closer, allowing her thigh to graze his. Heat streaked through her like a flash fire “—what we both want.”
He caught her hips in his hands, steadied her when she would have fallen against him. He closed his eyes for a long moment, providing her with a secret thrill. Feminine intuition told her she was testing the man’s restraint and, damn, but she liked that idea.
“Maybe you should make that decision after you see the article.” His green eyes bored into hers. Intent. Serious. And maybe a little worried? “I wouldn’t want you to ever regret having been with me.”
Normally, when a man tried to protect her from anything, Giselle’s first instinct was to bristle. She’d been practically smothered to death by masculine attempts at protection in her family, so she didn’t usually appreciate it from anyone else. But the warm concern in Hugh’s eyes, the sincerity of his fear, softened any resentment she might have felt.
“How soon can you have your story written?” Patience wasn’t her strong suit on a good day. And this week she was operating on an even tighter schedule than normal given that one of her brothers would be back in a week.
Nico had sent plenty of her dates running. No matter that women thought he was gorgeous, something about his multibroken nose spoke volumes to other men and made them give him a wide berth. And, as a result, forced them to stay away from Giselle, too.
She didn’t want to wait around only to have Hugh flee.
His fingers slid along the silky fabric of her dress, whispered over her hips and up to her waist. “I can hurry up the process in this case. But it often takes me a few weeks to gather my research.”
“Weeks?” She’d been wondering how she could wait a few hours.
Hugh’s touch skated up her ribs, paused just beneath her breasts.
“I like to be very thorough in my work.” His thumbs drew idle circles on her ribs just below the hem of her bra.
“Oh, really?” Awareness flared through her, made her breath catch in her throat while her breasts tingled and tightened in anticipation.
Just looking at the man made her want to jump him. That sinfully dark hair falling over his brow, combined with the thoughtful way he looked at her—and really saw her—made her want to tangle tongues, limbs and sheets with Hugh.
“Definitely.” His hands flexed against her, pressing lightly into the folds of her dress. He leaned closer to whisper against her ear. “I never do anything in half measures.”
Ooh. She liked the sound of that. And she most certainly liked the feel of what he was doing to her.
She might have moved in for more kissing if she hadn’t caught a glimpse of movement on the beach a few feet away. An older couple Giselle recognized as guests at Club Paradise strolled past them, smiling and winking as they set out for a morning walk.
Given the hour of the day, she really shouldn’t be openly trysting here, on the property of the business she ran. “You’re right. Patience could be a very good thing in this case.”
She tugged him closer to one of the resort’s beach-front tiki huts that housed a minibar and a few stools for patrons seeking shelter from the sun.
He followed her underneath the cool cover of dried palm leaves threaded through the framed roof. “Then you don’t mind waiting?”
“Well I can’t wait for weeks.” Her protective force would be back in seven days. Surely he could write a story before then. Especially if given a little incentive.
She slid her hand beneath his jacket to rest on the solid muscle of his chest. “How about if I help you with your research so you can finish up all the faster?”
The wall of muscles rippled under her fingers.
“Works for me.” His voice grew more strangled as she skimmed her fingers lower. He caught them in a steady grip, halted her progress just as she hit his abs. “My editor will coordinate the auxiliary stories off mine. In other words, if he wants to send a food critic, that’s her call, not mine. I tend to write more hard-hitting news.”
“Hard-hitting?” She frowned, not sure she liked the sound of that. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned fluff? She decided not to mention her favorite part of the paper was the society page.
“Yeah. Something with some news value.” He propped an elbow on the bar as he warmed to his topic. “I’ve been meaning to take a closer look at the reports on the scandals going on here before I went overseas last year. Did they ever find all the embezzlers who cleaned out the hotel’s profits? There were a few guys involved. Melvin Baxter was the front man, and then there was his silent partner. I’m trying to remember his name….”
The intoxicating current of desire that had flowed through her veins moments ago now morphed into a painful morning-after hangover at the mention of the embezzlement scandal. The reminder of how she’d unwittingly helped one of the criminals…
“Giselle?” Hugh peered at her more closely.
“No.” She wouldn’t allow herself to go there. She’d had enough of the recriminations. The guilt. And if she ever felt the need for more, all she had to do was initiate a conversation with her partner Lainie Reynolds. The woman’s skill with a dark glare had the power to remind Giselle of every way she’d done the woman wrong by inadvertently sleeping with her husband. “They never did capture them all.”
Hugh stared out to sea, his eyes roaming the distant horizon as the sun filtered across the Atlantic. “But they got the first guy. Melvin Baxter, king of the local Rat Pack. That’s what they called them, I remember. A group of slick players who took the whole city on a wild ride.”
“Enough.” Her skin turned icy at the memory. Her judgment in men had sucked back then because she’d never been allowed to exercise it. What made her think her B.S.-alert system worked any better now? “I don’t care to remember the club’s darkest hour.”
Hugh smiled as if totally oblivious to her discomfort. She made a mental note that the man’s keen observation skills seemed to go down the toilet when he got wrapped up in a new idea.
“The power of journalism is that it can shed new light on those dark places, Giselle. That’s what I do best.” His cocky smile might have been a tad arrogant, but then again Giselle didn’t have a problem with people who were certain of themselves.
She just had a problem when those people wanted to resurrect a past she’d tried hard to bury.
“I think some things are better left alone.”
“You’d never make it as an investigative reporter with that kind of thinking.” He grinned as he plucked a wind-tossed strand of hair out of her eyes.
While Giselle struggled to think of a way to redirect this conversation before it unsettled her anymore, Hugh snapped his fingers.
“I’ve got it.”
“What?”
Hugh’s eyes seemed to turn an even brighter shade of green. “The name of the silent partner in the old management group that ran this place. It was Robert Flynn.”
Robert.
Giselle gripped the planked surface of the bar in the tiny tiki hut for support as the name from her past knifed right through her.
Not that she still cared about the man who’d lied to her in the very worst way. No, the pain in her chest had nothing to do with a broken heart and everything to do with her guilt at having been sucked in by him. At having deeply injured his wife.
The woman who was now her partner.
Who would have guessed a man named Robert Flynn would be married to a woman named Lainie Reynolds? In her family of old world values, women always took the man’s name when they got married. Geesh. She was so freaking naive.
Combine the different last names with Robert’s lack of a wedding ring, and before she knew it, she’d slept with another woman’s husband.
“That was it, wasn’t it? Robert Flynn?” Hugh tilted his head as if to meet her gaze even though she stared at the sandy floor of the open hut.
“Yes.” She closed her eyes for a long, bracing moment, unwilling to let Robert cheat her out of something good with Hugh. She’d already lost more than enough to Robert Flynn, thank you very much. “That’s him. He’s one of the men they never captured.”
Giselle met his gaze, read the interest in his eyes.
“Sometimes renewed coverage by the media can lure criminals out of hiding. Ever see America’s Most Wanted? It’s the same premise.” He reached behind the minibar and pulled out two glasses, then poured them both a glass of water from a jug on the counter.
Giselle accepted the offering even though this pseudo-date was rapidly crashing and burning. She couldn’t allow Hugh to write any story that would “lure” Robert Flynn back to town. Having that man within a fifty-mile radius of Club Paradise would have explosive consequences for them all. She needed to squelch the idea as soon as possible.
“Apparently Flynn is living in comfort in the Cayman Islands and local authorities don’t have a prayer of extraditing him.” End of story.
Too bad the chemistry between her and Hugh—and her growing desire to learn much more about this man—wasn’t as easily dismissed.

NOW SHE WAS TALKING his language.
Hugh had made a name for himself in journalism by delving into stories full of problematic foreign ex-traditions and crooks in hiding.
He’d parlayed that talent into something even bigger and more important as far as he was concerned. He wouldn’t trade his specialty of shedding light on harmful foreign policy for anything. No woman would ever decide lightly to enter a foreign country hostile to females with her young son in tow again if Hugh could help it. Information about frightening foreign customs hadn’t been readily available when his mother had decided to pack him off to a little known Middle Eastern hellhole at a young age, but Hugh had made it his mission in life to ensure things were different now.
For as long as he was a journalist, he would always choose to write those kinds of stories over some fluff piece on the local tourist scene. But if he had to write something about Club Paradise, at least he finally had an intriguing angle.
He’d have his story written and his path cleared to Giselle’s bed within the week. And if the article broke the way he anticipated, there would surely be a few follow-up pieces that needed to be written. A fact which would keep him in South Beach long enough to revisit that bed.
Often.
“Looks like I’ve found the angle I need.” He downed the rest of his water and set the glass back on the wooden bar inside the small tiki hut. Now he was ready to start his research. Sleep could wait once adrenaline started fueling him this way.
Giselle, on the other hand, seemed to have grown quiet over the last hour since the sun had fully risen. She was probably feeling the effects of having been up so long since she didn’t have the benefit of a new journalistic undertaking to keep her going.
She looked ready to speak, but Hugh swooped closer to spare her the effort. He kissed her with all the longing that had been plaguing him since he’d laid eyes on her. She molded to him, her soft curves and pliant limbs conforming to the hard angles of his body.
A vision of the pastry she’d fed him flitted through his brain as her breasts flattened against his chest. He couldn’t wait to see the real thing, to taste her nipples instead of the bright red cherries she’d served him.
And just like that he wanted her naked. Needed her naked.
With a groan of regret he pulled away, knowing he wouldn’t be able to fulfill his end of their bargain if he continued to kiss her. Especially since a lush hotel full of exotically decorated bedrooms loomed fifty yards away from their tiki hut retreat.
“I’m going to write this story faster than I’ve ever penned anything in my life.” He stroked a hand through her mane of thick, glossy curls and calculated the days until he could feel that hair spilling over his bare chest. “If I come by later, do you think you could answer some questions for me?”
She blinked, hesitated.
“I can ask someone else if today isn’t a good time. It’s just that I usually end up with a handful of simple questions after my first round of research. You might be able to answer them faster than I could scout around for the information.”
Biting her lip as if weighing indecision, she finally nodded. “Okay. I’ll probably be awake around two this afternoon. I’m living at the hotel for a few months while we build our business, so you can just ask for directions to my room at the desk.”
Picturing the two of them together in a hotel room—especially a room at the hedonistic singles playground Club Paradise—painted wicked visions in his mind.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea considering our deal to wait until after the story runs?” He was having a hard time keeping his hands to himself in broad daylight on a public beach. How would he ever maintain distance in a decadent bedroom?
“We can head to the kitchens if we get too tempted. Where are you going now?” She smoothed her palms over the lapels of his lightweight jacket.
Even that simple touch set him on fire. Something about this woman lit a torch to his insides in a way no one else ever had.
He backed away before he gave in to the urge to scoop her off her feet and beg her to tell him the exact location of her hotel room. Right then. “I’m going to head into the Herald offices to check out the archives.”
She looked distraught but Hugh didn’t dare to hope that was because he had to leave. He might know a hell of a lot about luring criminals out of hiding by hitting the right story buttons, but he was man enough to admit he didn’t have a clue when it came to understanding female emotions.
Scrambling for a gesture that would make it all okay, he reached for her hand and kissed the back of her soft, bronze skin. Inhaled the perfumed scent at her wrist that lingered even in the growing heat of another South Beach scorcher. “Until later.”
As he straightened, he spied a hint of a smile at her lips. A trace of the woman he’d seen dancing around the kitchen while singing Sinatra at the top of her lungs.
Something inside him shifted. Lightened. For a chef who baked erotic pastries for fun and liked dancing barefoot, Giselle Cesare had a surprisingly deep, potent effect on him. An effect he couldn’t wait to explore in detail as soon as he finished this story.
Robert Flynn would be headline news before the guy knew what hit him, and Hugh could get back to what he’d wanted to do ever since he’d glimpsed Giselle’s bright red panties.
Indulge in pure and simple uncomplicated sex that would leave them both hungry for more.

4
GROGGY WITH SLEEP AND HUNGRY for more of the delicious dreams she’d been having about Hugh, Giselle blinked her way awake in the Pleasure Parthenon later that day. Disoriented, it took her a moment to realize the phone was ringing beside her bed.
Squinting at the clock in Club Paradise’s Grecian-inspired theme room, she could see it was already almost 2:00 p.m. Hadn’t she told Hugh she’d be awake by then? She really should get up. Shower.
Too bad the damn phone kept ringing.
“Hello?” She balanced the receiver against her ear, determined to remain horizontal for as long as possible. Sun filtered past the heavy white drapes and a set of sheer white curtains dotted with scattered gold beads, but not enough to keep her eyes open.
“Were you still sleeping?” The sexy male baritone was no longer just in her dreams. Hugh’s voice floated over her sleepy senses, stoking steamy fantasies that still danced around the edges of her brain.
“Yes.” She shifted beneath the covers, her bare skin sliding against the silky soft cotton sheets. “In fact, you interrupted a very nice dream.”
“You have my apologies.” His voice soothed her, the unhurried rhythm of his speech encouraging her to sink deeper into the pillows and simply listen. “From the tone of your voice, I’m guessing this dream was of a sensual nature.”
“My, my, but you have very acute hearing if you could figure that out just from the way I sound.”
“But am I right?”
She twined the white phone cord around one finger and twirled the length in small circles, heat swirling through her veins. “You are one hundred percent correct, Mr. Duncan. Care to keep guessing what exactly I’ve been envisioning in my dreams?”
He whistled low on the other end of the phone. “Definitely. I’m usually damn good at guessing since it goes with the job. But you’re the kind of woman who serves erotic pastries to total strangers. Who knows what sort of sensual terrain your unconscious mind might cover while you’re sleeping? I have the feeling there wouldn’t be many fantasies off-limits to you.”
“You’d be right again.” Her voice hit a husky note that had nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with Hugh turning her on.
It had been far too long since she’d played provocative games with an enticing male. And frankly, she couldn’t remember ever playing with a man quite so intriguing.
“Can I ask one question before I start guessing?” His voice sounded so close, she could almost imagine him lying right there beside her, his hands on her bare skin.
“Ask me anything.” The phone made her feel even more bold, daring.
“What are you wearing right now?”
Her whole body shivered in answer. Her breasts tightened, ached beneath the sheets. Licking her lips, she told him the naked truth. “Nothing.”
The strangled sound on the other end wasn’t quite discernible.
“Hugh?”
“Sorry.” He sighed out a long breath. “That particular mental image blew me away. But it also helped clue me in to what you’re dreaming about.”
“Really?” She shifted to her back, the light touch of silky sheets antagonizing a body that craved the sure possession of a man’s hands.
“If you’re lying there, warm and naked and all alone between the sheets in a hedonistic haven like Club Paradise, what could you possibly be thinking about besides having someone lying there next to you?”
Her hips twitched at his words, heat flowing deep within her belly to warm her thighs and awaken her sex. She pressed her legs more tightly together, but instead of helping ease the ache, the movement only intensified it.
“You’re right so far,” she admitted, needing so much more from Hugh than words. “But that’s not the half of it. Are you going to be here soon? I’m all alone in the Pleasure Parthenon, and I’d be happy to show you.”
Another strangled sound. “I’m going to be a little delayed because of work, although the Pleasure Parthenon sounds like a great place to be right now. You think you could be my hands until I can get there?”
Her heart thrummed in her chest at the thought of him being with her later. She didn’t want to think about the fact that they’d made smart plans to postpone getting involved with one another until after he’d finished his story. With her body set to slow burn and Hugh’s voice sizzling through her consciousness, she wasn’t overly concerned with making smart decisions at the moment.
“I don’t think I could ever mistake my hands for your hands.” Not that the knowledge could stop her pulse from fluttering wildly at his wicked suggestion.
“But if I guided your every move, then it would be me doing the touching.” He paused, his breathing deep and rhythmic in her ear. “Come on, Giselle, let me slide beneath those covers with you.”
She arched her back, mentally welcoming the idea of Hugh’s taut, lean body stretched out beside her. “Mmm.”
“You know where I want to touch you first?”
She shook her head, unconcerned he couldn’t see her. In her mind, he was right there with her anyhow.
“You’ve got this unbelievable waist—a sweet little curve that I was dying to put my hands on this morning.”
Her hand slipped beneath the covers, skimming down her hot skin to curl around her waist, inciting unexpected pleasure and wrenching a moan from her lips. “That feels good.”
“What about if you travel a little farther south? I would definitely want to touch your hip next.”
“Really?” Extending her arm, she slid her hand down to one hip, her fingertips grazing the swell of her bottom. “And then what would you do? Would you be so lust-ridden that you’d have to kiss me?”
“Oh, I’m definitely kissing you by now.” He lowered his voice another notch, his words funneling straight in her ear, intended for her alone. “And I’m reaching up to those amazing breasts of yours to cop my first real feel.”
Giselle twisted to her side, her breasts tight and aching for that touch. Her hand cupped one mound, rolling the taut nipple between two fingers. A sigh hissed between her teeth, her thighs twitching with restless need.
“That feels so good.” She snuggled deeper into her pillow, burying the phone in the fluffy down as she made herself more comfortable. “But can you…touch more of me?”
There was a pause on the other end. “I don’t know how much of you I can touch without…losing it. You don’t know what the idea of you naked right now is doing to me.”
Her hands danced down over her belly, traced her hip. “Then can’t you leave whatever it is you’re doing and come over here?”
She would gladly throw away caution to have Hugh with her. Above her. Inside her.
“It’s not as easy as it sounds.”
“It’s very easy. Walk away from what you’re doing, get in the car and take the first causeway to Miami Beach.” What better setting for a tryst could there be than the Pleasure Parthenon? They could feed each other grapes and turn on the wine fountain. She could dance naked for him before they engaged in every conceivable sex act.
“But I can’t get to my car when I’m cruising over the Atlantic at forty thousand feet.”
Hazy pImages** of her entwined with Hugh faded.
“You’re what?”
“Remember how we decided we could be together as soon as I turned in my story? Well, I followed up on the lead you gave me about Robert Flynn and, you’re right, he’s in the Cayman Islands. I’m headed down there now to try to find him.”
The sensual tide that had been flowing through her moments ago dried up to nothing, leaving her suddenly cold and empty. “You’re on a plane to some remote island in the hope of finding Robert Flynn?”
She barely managed to push the name from her lips.
“Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky and find the right piece of information that will drive him back to the States. But I need to talk to him. Sometimes crooks like this are so arrogant they think it can’t hurt to talk to the media.”
How could a woman’s life go from so damn promising one minute to absolute shambles the next? And if Robert Flynn came back to Miami the consequences would be devastating for everyone involved in Club Paradise. No doubt about it, the man was the key to many hidden wounds.
But the new man in her life seemed hell-bent determined to resurrect her former lover.

HUGH WAITED. AND WAITED.
“Giselle?” He hadn’t wanted to change the topic of their phone exchange earlier, but he couldn’t exactly engage in full-fledged phone sex when he flew on the Herald’s private jet. He might be the only passenger, but there was a pilot in the cockpit a few yards away.
“I’m here.” Her voice sounded a million miles away when moments ago she’d seemed right there with him. She’d turned him on so thoroughly with her sexy phone play he would probably still be willing away the hard-on an hour from now. “I’m just…surprised.”
Hugh straightened in his seat, determined not to alienate this woman he had set his sights on. He’d never been the kind of guy who would make do with any willing woman, and could count the women he’d been with on one hand. Giselle Cesare was special. Different. And this stupid story he had hanging around his neck like an albatross would definitely not come between them before they even got started.
“There’s no need to worry. With any luck I’ll be back in twenty-four hours.” Or twelve if fate really smiled on him. And damn it, he’d carved a reputation as one of the most respected journalists in the Western World because he was both talented and lucky. A small-time embezzler like Flynn wouldn’t elude him for long. “I’ll write my story on the plane ride home so that when I return, my first stop will be the Pleasure Parthenon.”
Where he would discover every pleasurable secret Giselle and her goddess body had to offer before he returned to his real assignments overseas.
Odd that he already wondered if merely exploring her body would be enough. Somehow with Giselle he found himself intrigued by her mind, her playful sense of adventure.
“Don’t you ever sleep?” She sounded distracted, as if she was already slipping away from him when he hadn’t even begun to know her yet.
“Not when I’m on a quest.”
“Then I guess I’d better let you get back to it, Hugh. Maybe we’d better not—”
“Wait a minute.” He refused to hear whatever else she might have to say until he’d clarified one important point. “Just so we’re clear on this, the quest is not my story, Giselle. The quest is you. I only want to get this taken care of so I can get back there and follow this attraction wherever it might take us.”
“But there’s a lot you don’t know—”
Whatever Giselle was saying was cut off by the pilot on a tinny speaker about two feet from Hugh’s ear. The volume had been turned up to full blast.
“Just to give you a heads-up, Hugh, I’m getting ready to take her down. I need you to cease and desist the cell phone or laptop or whatever you’ve got working back there.”
The pilot’s voice halted just in time for him to hear Giselle’s again.
“—and if you had talked to me first—”
Shit.
“Giselle, I apologize, but we’re getting ready to land now and the pilot asked me to cut the phone connection. I missed some of what you said just now, but I promise I’ll call you at the club tonight and we’ll figure out a way around this.”
She huffed out a frustrated sigh and, after a clipped goodbye, hung up the phone. Stowing his gear in an overnight bag, Hugh wondered what information Giselle might have about Flynn. Could she know something that might have bearing on his story?
Peering out the narrow window that overlooked the misty Atlantic, Hugh wished he’d had more time to ask. But right now, his main mission was to unearth one of Florida’s most wanted men so he could write a story that would at least maintain journalistic integrity. How could his editor complain as long as he tied Flynn back to Club Paradise?
The sooner he turned in his piece, the faster he’d be able to enter the Pleasure Parthenon without worrying about conflict of interest. Which meant he’d be sliding between the sheets and into Giselle’s open arms in no time.

STAKING OUT THE FAR CORNER of the club’s new Dominatrix Domain suite, Giselle hugged her arms around her shoulders more tightly and wished she didn’t have to hold this emergency meeting of the Club Paradise ownership. She’d worried over her phone call from Hugh for an hour before hauling herself through the shower and getting dressed. Now, as the clock neared 6:00 p.m., she realized she had no choice but to spill what she knew—limited though it might be. Her co-owners had a right to arm themselves for the fallout if Flynn came back into their lives.
Why couldn’t she have been attracted to someone with a more simple job, like another chef or a gardener or even a politician like the cutie-pie Jackson Taggart her co-owner Summer Farnsworth had snagged last fall?
As if they shared a psychic connection—a phenomenon that Summer happened to be studying at the moment—her friend strolled in through the propped open door to the unfinished suite.
“So what do you think?” Summer started without prelude, unfurling her arms to encompass the interior of the Dominatrix Domain. As the ambience coordinator for the club, she supervised the design and decor of all the theme rooms. “Do you love it?”
Giselle pried her thoughts out of her own worries long enough to take in the black leather furniture highlighted with bright purple pillows and clear crystal accents. Soft gray carpet and light blue walls gave the room a mystical-magical air that softened the still-life arrangement of studded leather collars gracing the coffee table.
“It’s nice. Loaded with attitude yet not scary-type dominatrix-y. I love all the purple.” She hoped she put enough enthusiasm in her voice, but she could see by Summer’s concerned expression that she wasn’t faking very well.
“Is everything okay? You sound distracted.” She squinted, studying Giselle carefully. “And your aura isn’t as bright as usual.”
She was saved from responding by Brianne Wolcott’s appearance. Endlessly leggy and more confident than Giselle would ever dream of being, Brianne had left a lucrative career in the film industry to buy into Club Paradise.
“I’m in for the meeting, ladies, but as soon as we’re through, Aidan is taking me to the Keys for a long weekend.” Brianne dug into a shopping bag slung over one arm and produced a length of chocolate-colored leather. “I even bought leather shorts so I can be a real Harley girl.” The club’s resident security expert winked with lightheartedness wrought from genuine happiness.
Giselle sure felt like crap that she was about to wreak Hurricane Flynn on both her and Summer.
And their fourth partner…
“I’m here.” Lainie Reynolds, CEO and the big guns behind Club Paradise, breezed into the room with her designer sunglasses propped in her perfectly combed hair. “Sorry I’m late, but I was coercing accounting into making the rest of Summer’s funds available so she can finish the Dominatrix Domain. It looks magnificent.”
Was it Giselle’s fanciful imagination, or did cynical Lainie seem to be in a particularly good mood today? Why did Giselle have to deliver this bomb just when things were practically civil between them? She couldn’t even remember the last time Lainie had tilted her haughty nose in the air when she walked by.
While her partners raved about Summer’s design job in the revamped resort that had progressed from a shaky start to a thriving enterprise in the last six months, Giselle settled a hand over her belly to ease a case of manic butterflies.
“I have bad news,” she blurted, deciding any more waiting would kill her.
All heads turned toward her.
“That’s why I called the meeting.” She sank deeper into one of the sleek leather chairs that populated the sitting area, clutching the satiny purple throw pillow to her chest. As if purple satin would ward off Lainie’s upcoming fury.
Thankfully, her co-owners sat, Brianne settling herself in the chair opposite Giselle while Summer simply dropped onto the arm of the seat. Lainie plunked her briefcase on the glass-topped coffee table and took over the couch as if setting up her personal command central from which to lambaste her enemies.
Swallowing hard, Giselle reminded herself this wasn’t her fault. Okay, sleeping with Lainie’s ex-husband had been somewhat her fault, but resurrecting the two-timing bastard from the West Indies was not.
That blame she could lay squarely at a certain journalist’s feet.
“So?” Lainie nudged her, leaning forward slightly as impatience creased her forehead.
“I met a reporter from the Herald in the kitchen last night—this morning actually, at about five. I thought he was a food critic at first.” She decided to skip the part about serving him erotic pastries. No need to emphasize the fact that she’d practically thrown herself at the man. “But apparently he’s been assigned to do a story on the resort.”
Lainie smiled as she withdrew some papers from her briefcase. “Sounds like fantastic news to me. And I just happen to have a list of potential story ideas for the media here.”
“Too late. He’s already got an idea.” She gripped one of the little crystal pendants decorating the four corners of the satin pillow until it bit into her hand. “Hugh wants to do an article on Robert.”
Summer gasped, but Giselle kept her eyes trained on Lainie, who merely blinked before offering up a solution.
“Then we’ll simply have to convince him otherwise.” She waved the sheaf of papers in her hand more emphatically, her sleek blond hair never moving out of place. “That’s why I’ve got a list of readymade story ideas, so we can steer the media away from the club’s unsavory past.”
Brianne scooched forward in her seat. “You said his name is Hugh? Is it Hugh Duncan by any chance?”
“You know him?” Hope perked to life inside her. Maybe Brianne could intervene. Stop this train wreck in the making.
“I’ve never met him, but my mother keeps in touch with him. One of her million husbands was this guy’s uncle, I think.” Brianne rolled her eyes, writing off the matter with a shrug. “I don’t know how close she is to Hugh, but apparently he’s some big, Pulitzer-winning journalist or something.”
All eyes turned to Giselle. Questioning. Hopeful. As if she could somehow encourage Hugh to write a Pulitzer-winning story on the resort. This was so not good.
“There’s more.” Giselle braced herself for the worst. “I also happen to know this journalist is already on his way to the Cayman Islands to interview Robert or possibly find enough information to goad him out of hiding.”
For all of a nanosecond, Lainie paled. A rare hint of the emotion that might lurk behind her thorny, don’t-mess-with-me exterior.
Brianne moved to the couch to sit beside Lainie, whether to insert herself into Giselle’s line of vision or to simply offer a bit of unspoken support to their CEO, she couldn’t be sure.
“What on earth would ever prompt him to think he could entice a wanted man to come back to the scene of his crime?” Brianne shook her head, her auburn hair swinging around her shoulders with the movement. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Maybe he’ll play upon Robert’s weakness,” Summer offered, kneeling down beside the coffee table. To act as a buffer between Lainie and Giselle when the fur started to fly? God, she hoped so. “Perhaps this writer thinks Robert could be tripped up by his own arrogance. Flynn certainly fits the profile.”
No argument there. The superslick South Beach business mogul had thought nothing of courting Giselle when she’d first started as a chef at Club Paradise back when it had been a couples’ haven. Robert had been married to a prominent Miami attorney who was as gorgeous as she was smart, yet he lavished Giselle with romantic trinkets, spending such long stretches of time with her it had never occurred to her he could possibly have a wife or a home outside the club.
Not until the gorgeous, intelligent wife showed up at the Club with a rock on her finger the size of an iceberg did Giselle realize she’d been appallingly naive. And she’d had more to worry about than a broken heart. She had a scorned woman ready to do her bodily harm. Or worse—to snuff out her fledgling career as a chef.
Giselle might have never worked at the resort again except that, before Lainie could fire her, they’d learned Robert had fled the country along with all of Lainie’s money. The only thing left of value for her was a part ownership in a hotel robbed of all its liquid assets.
Somehow in the devastation of realizing she was flat busted, Lainie had overlooked the injury done to her heart in an effort to retool the resort into a brand-new enterprise. Giselle had worked her tail off to stay off of Lainie’s radar after that, and when she’d come up with enough cash to buy into the controlling partnership of the revamped resort, Lainie had grudgingly given her a place in the four-way partnership.
“We all know he’s an arrogant bastard,” Lainie supplied, seeming to shake off her initial shock. “And if this reporter is successful in drawing him out, the scandal that closed down Club Paradise a year ago will be all over the papers again. That may or may not hurt business at this point.”
The exotic South Beach property had weathered its share of negative publicity when Summer’s past had been splashed all over the headlines last fall. But this story had the potential to be much bigger. Especially with a reporter like Hugh behind it.
“What I would like to ask,” Lainie continued, her gaze narrowing as she stared across the coffee table at Giselle, “is how you happen to know this journalist’s whereabouts today. And if you realized he was going to the Caymans at 5:00 a.m., why wait until 6:00 in the evening to tell us?”

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