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Suite Seduction
Leslie Kelly
Ruthie Sinclair is having one of those days. First she discovers she has to wear the bridesmaid's dress from hell to her cousin's wedding.Then her lackluster boyfriend runs for the hills when she suggests they get a little "closer." Is it any wonder she's having erotic dreams about a sexy stranger? Only, in the morning that stranger is still in her bed….Robert Kendall has never slept better in his life–not that he slept much! Free-spirited, sexy Ruthie is the perfect woman for him and he wants to get to know her a lot better. Only, Ruthie's convinced that the best sex of Robert's life was a mistake. So what else can he do but keep her in his bed until he gets it right?



“If my dreams are like this, who needs a restful sleep?” Ruthie murmured
Now convinced Ruthie was awake, Robert didn’t pull away when she reached for him again. Then he nearly lost it when she said hoarsely, “I want your hands all over me.”
“Here?” Robert whispered against her neck, moving his palm until it scraped her pebbled nipple under the lace.
“Yes. Please, yes.”
She didn’t have to ask him twice. He pushed her camisole up, and he was unable to withhold a smile of male satisfaction as her breasts fell free. She moaned when he slid his hands over them, catching her nipples with his fingers. Then, unable to wait, he lowered his mouth, replacing his fingers with his lips.
She nearly came apart. “I need you,” she whispered, reaching down to the waistband of his trousers. Realizing Ruthie wasn’t in the mood for slow and easy, Robert followed her lead, undoing his slacks and letting her push them from his hips.
As he stepped back to get the condom from his pocket, Ruthie finally opened her eyes. “Oh, my.” She stared at his blatant arousal and a smile curved her lips. “I’ve never dreamed of quite so…much before.”
Dear Reader,
Hot sex with a gorgeous stranger. Not exactly P.C. these days, but it’s still such a naughty, delicious fantasy that I just had to explore the concept for Temptation.
Ruthie Sinclair is the girl next door, the girl who is everybody’s best friend, who bemoans her hair, her weight and her miserable love life. So when she finds herself in bed with the most amazing man she’s ever—make that never—known, she’s completely out of her element. And Robert Kendall, a man used to corporate piranhas, finds himself way over his head when confronted with a zany, redheaded temptress who makes him hotter than any woman he’s ever met.
Their love affair is torrid. Outrageous. Flamboyant. Wow, I had loads of fun writing this one!
I so enjoyed hearing from readers after my first release, Temptation #747, Night Whispers. Please drop me a line and let me know what you think of my follow-up book. You can e-mail me through my Web site: www.lesliekelly.com, or write to P.O. Box 410787, Melbourne, FL 32941–0787.
All the best,
Leslie Kelly

Suite Seduction
Leslie Kelly


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my editor, Brenda Chin. Thanks for letting me have another turn on this crazy, wonderful merry-go-round.
And to Betty. You knew I could, and I really did.
How I wish you were here to see it.

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
Epilogue

1
IF Ruthie Sinclair could have wrapped her hands around the throat of the genius who’d composed “The Wedding March,” the guy would be six feet under. Every note resounding from the bowels of the organ in the eaves of the church pierced into her skull like the prick of a needle, grating on her nerves until her eyelids twitched. Not an easy feat considering the bride’s makeup consultant had coated about a pound of thick, black mascara onto her lashes.
“I’m really starting to hate this song,” she muttered through gritted teeth, earning a glance from her cousin Denise, the other bridesmaid. The blonde shook her head, a disapproving frown on her brow, and gestured toward the bride, who stood a few feet away in the vestibule. Luckily, she hadn’t heard.
Ruthie knew she should be happy. Her cousin and best friend, Celeste, was marrying the man of her dreams. For a woman who considered herself a cockeyed optimist, the fairy-tale happy ending should have had Ruthie cheering and doing cartwheels. And she would…when she stopped feeling so darned depressed.
“Smile! Maybe you’ll catch the bouquet,” Denise whispered. The words might have been meant to cheer her up, but the tone was pure Denise—pure sugarcoated spite. “Like when you caught mine two months ago.”
Ruthie’s teeth hurt as she tried to pull her face into a smile. “I sure was excited about that, you can bet.” Especially when she got to dance with the twelve-year-old junior usher who caught the garter—his nosy little eyeballs had come right to the center of her cleavage!
A wicked light shone in Denise’s eyes, and, not for the first time, Ruthie wondered if they were truly related. Maybe Denise was adopted. Or maybe Ruthie was. That would explain the more eccentric Sinclairs who sometimes led her to believe she’d fallen into an episode of a TV sitcom.
When she considered some of her other family members, one catty, obnoxious blonde wasn’t too surprising. The only surprising part was that Denise was Celeste’s older sister. Ruthie’s younger cousin, the bride, was real sugar to Denise’s saccharine, real class to her sister’s pretension.
Ruthie had nailed Denise’s real character years ago, when her cousin had accidentally dropped a big wad of bubble gum in Ruthie’s hair. In the middle of the night. When she was supposed to be sleeping in another cabin at their summer camp. Ruthie had spent that year looking like the freckle-faced kid on the Cracker Jack box, short red hair and all. Then there was the time Denise had locked Ruthie in a freight elevator. And the time Denise had put toothpaste in Ruthie’s bottle of peppermint foot lotion.
And today. Ruthie glanced down and grimaced as she once again beheld how hideous she looked. Yes, she would be willing to bet Denise had a hand in today’s debacle: a bridal-shop error that had landed her in what had to be the butt-ugliest bridesmaid dress in the annals of wedding history.
“Maybe if you catch it twice in a row, Bobby will get the hint,” Denise said, a note of amused malice in her voice.
Celeste walked up and overheard her sister’s comment. “As if Bobby needs any hints about how wonderful Ruthie is! Denise, you’d better check your makeup, your green is showing through.”
Denise smirked, then walked away. Ruthie’s frown deepened. “I’ve come to the conclusion that Bobby doesn’t take hints very well. I’ve all but popped out of a cake in a G-string and pasties and he still hasn’t….” Ruthie caught a glimpse of the minister in the front of the church and felt her face go red. “I’m sorry, I can’t believe I said that in here!”
Celeste squeezed her hand in commiseration. “Maybe hinting’s not the right approach. I’d say it’s time to be direct. Maybe he hasn’t been reading your signals.”
Ruthie figured any man would have to be completely clueless not to have realized she was interested in a more serious relationship after four months of dating. Conservative, quiet, and subdued he may be, but he was an adult male.
Still, at this point, seeing not only Denise and Celeste marry within months of each other, but also the remarriage of her own mother, she was willing to try just about anything!
Forcing a smile to her lips, she winked at Celeste, then prepared to begin the procession. As she passed, Denise simpered at her. “Don’t trip in that lovely gown, now, Ruthie.”
Ruthie grimaced. Lovely? Yeah, right. Denise looked lovely. She, at least, was wearing the right dress. Its dusty rose color set off her pale skin and ash-blond curls to perfection. Ruthie, on the other hand, looked utterly ridiculous. Like a breakfast sausage link found in the bottom of a dirty old refrigerator. Moldy, green and puffy.
Ignoring her cousin, as she had most of her life, Ruthie took a deep breath and walked beneath the archway to the aisle. “Just get through the wedding, then you can go back to the hotel and drink enough champagne to work up the nerve to make a serious pass at Bobby,” she told herself.
Maybe Celeste was right. Perhaps the time had come to be direct with Bobby. And tonight would be the perfect time, at the romantic reception held in the wonderful old hotel that was a huge part of Ruthie’s life. Her family’s pride and joy, the Kerrigan Towers was the perfect spot to seduce a man.
Celeste’s father, Ruthie’s uncle, was the manager of the Kerrigan, and had given every member of the bridal party a room for the night. So a seduction could be carried out easily.
It had come as no surprise when Celeste decided to have her reception at the hotel. The Kerrigan had been owned by the Sinclair family for decades. And, like Ruthie, Celeste worked in the hotel, handling the business side of things in the cashier’s office, while Ruthie indulged all her creative urges as the head chef in the hotel kitchens. Celeste had even planned her wedding for a Sunday to be sure everyone would be able to get the evening off, since Saturdays were just too busy.
Casting one more glance over her shoulder, Ruthie saw the joy in Celeste’s face. She wanted that feeling, the feeling of being loved…being in love! She wanted it very badly.
So, seduction at the Kerrigan it would be. She was ready. She could do it. She was a mature, confident woman, a talented chef, a respected hotel board member. None of which changed the fact that she was probably going to make a major fool of herself. But it’s worth a shot!
Giving her flirty lace parasol a spin over her shoulder, she proceeded to march. Right foot. Pause. Left foot. Pause. Concentrate on Celeste’s happiness. Pause. Forget Denise. Pause. Stop imagining what a fool she was going to appear if Bobby turned her down. Pause. Forget her cousins were happily married and she couldn’t even get her boyfriend to cop a feel. Pause. Forget her miserable romantic track record. Pause.
Not to mention her butt-ugly dress.

ROBERT KENDALL felt a trickle of sweat slide from his hairline, through the slight indentation at his temple, and on down his cheek. The din of conversation and tinkling glasses in the crowded hotel bar receded as he focused on his companion, Monica Winchester. And what she’d just handed him. “Your room key?”
Of course it was her room key. He stared dumbly at the small object as if it was a venomous insect about to inject poison into the vulnerable flesh of his right palm.
“I was hoping for a more…enthusiastic response.”
Swallowing hard, Robert finally looked at the other item, the small square on which the key rested. The foil package was unmistakable. Not his brand. Probably not his size. But absolutely recognizable.
“You haven’t said anything.” Monica’s voice gained an edge. “Surely you aren’t surprised by this.”
He looked at the woman seated across from him at the lounge table. Not surprised? How could he not be surprised that his boss’s daughter had handed him her room key—and a condom—and practically ordered him to show up in her room that night?
“Come on, Robert, we’re two consenting adults. We’re in a strange city, stuck in this drafty old hotel for who knows how long. Why don’t we enjoy ourselves while we can?”
Robert stifled the first answer that popped into his head: Gee, maybe because the last Winchester Hotels employee you enjoyed yourself with ended up on the unemployment line.
Instead, he stalled, picking up his vodka tonic and bringing the glass to his lips. He sipped, his mind working overtime to think of a graceful way out of this predicament.
“Monica, obviously I’m flattered,” he said, knowing a lot of men in his situation would jump at what she offered. No question, the woman had an earthy, direct sexiness that would appeal to a lot of men—until they got to know her. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea to mix pleasure with business.”
Monica Winchester, obviously not used to being turned down, waved her hand in disregard. “I’m barely involved in the business. I talked my way into this trip for one reason only.”
Robert’s eyes narrowed as she confirmed his suspicion about her motives for insisting she come to Philadelphia with him to check out the Kerrigan Towers. “I wondered about that.”
She smiled broadly. In the dim light of the smoky room her white teeth were predatory. “You’re my father’s golden boy, Robert. The son he’s never had. He relies on you and would like nothing better than for you to become a part of his family. Why do you think he’s been trying so hard to set us up?”
“Pairing us at dinner parties and inviting me for holidays isn’t quite the same as handing me a condom and a room key,” Robert said as he gestured to the waiter for another drink.
She chuckled. “It’s not like it’s an engagement ring. Why can’t we test the waters, see if we’re compatible?”
“Couples generally see if they’re compatible by going out on a few dates, catching a movie, maybe some dinner.”
“I’m not going to waste time having dinner with a man who doesn’t cut it for me in bed.”
Before the waiter could place the fresh drink on the table, Robert grabbed the glass and downed a third of its contents.
“I’ve surprised you.” Her amused tone annoyed him no small amount. “Listen, I have a few calls to make, then I plan to take a hot bubble bath. You stay here, have a drink or two, and come up when you’re ready. My room number’s on the key tag.”
“Monica…” he said as she stood and reached for her bag.
“Don’t say anything now you might regret later, Robert.” He wondered if he heard a threat in her voice. Sleep with me or I’ll get my daddy to fire you? It seemed ridiculous, of course. Ridiculous, but not impossible.
“I’ll see you later.” Not content to just walk away, she bent over and lightly kissed him. “Don’t disappoint me.”
A half hour and an additional drink later, Robert glanced at his watch, debating his course of action. Going to her room was out of the question. He could not have a one-night stand with James Winchester’s daughter. The man had earned Robert’s respect in the eight years they’d worked together. He’d trusted Robert from the first, when he’d been another fresh-from-Grad-school know-it-all who wanted to change the world. Or own it.
Maybe he hadn’t changed the world, but he had helped mold Winchester Hotels into the fastest-rising chain in the country. Not bad for a country boy from North Carolina, who’d never even stayed in a classy hotel until he’d graduated from college.
His parents hadn’t understood his need to get away, to go live in New York City, of all places, leaving behind his five siblings, assorted aunts, uncles and cousins, and the family auto repair business. But Robert had been born with wandering feet, with dreams of building things, maybe even with a bit of a shark’s killer instinct.
Those qualities had served him well in his years working for Winchester Hotels. And James Winchester was not cheap about showing his appreciation. Plus, Robert genuinely liked the man. He couldn’t repay him by sleeping with his “little angel.”
Standing the little angel up, however, seemed infinitely more dangerous. Especially now, during a delicate scouting expedition of this grand old Philadelphia hotel. The Kerrigan Towers would transition nicely into a Winchester Hotel. But not if Monica threw a fit and sabotaged their critical meeting with the current owners the next morning. If she walked in playing corporate prima donna, the board, most of them members of the Sinclair family, would close ranks and fight the inevitable.
One thing he could not do was sit in the bar any longer. Dropping a tip on the table, he left the lounge and entered the deserted corridor. Working in the business had him paying attention to all the details other guests would never notice. The pale blue carpet in the hall was worn—clean, but threadbare after years of being walked upon by the hotel’s elite clientele. The plastered ceiling was yellowed, showing signs of spidery cracks that had been hastily repaired. He took mental note that the walls needed paint, and the rickety elevator groaned like an overworked old woman. Heck, even rooms in need of electronic keys to replace the archaic metal ones, like the one burning a hole in the right pocket of his sports coat!
The Kerrigan Towers was ripe for the plucking. And Robert had come to Philadelphia to pluck.
Noticing the lobby was deserted, he decided to do some snooping. Robert knew exactly where he needed to go. One of the most important spots to investigate in any hotel was the kitchen. He’d seen dozens of seemingly elegant establishments with ovens dirtier than any 24-hour roadside diner.
Since his reason for visiting the Kerrigan was hush-hush, at least until tomorrow’s board meeting, he certainly couldn’t ask for a tour. Now, just after midnight, seemed a good time to investigate. No one would be around, no one would be the wiser.
Robert slipped stealthily into the closed restaurant. Dodging between the backs of cushioned chairs, he took note of his surroundings. So far so good. The floor looked pristine. The air smelled sweet of fresh-cut flowers and well-prepared food. A hint of pine cleanser also indicated cleanliness, without being cloying or antiseptic.
Pushing quietly through the swinging doors, he looked around, assessing how well he could see in the darkened kitchen. But the room wasn’t completely dark. In the far corner, he saw a single light burning, and wondered if it was left on as a security measure. Walking gingerly on the tile floor to avoid making any noise, he made his way toward the light.
A hiccuping sob told him he was not alone.
“Please let me forget what an absolute fool I made of myself tonight!”
He froze.
“Please let me close my eyes and pretend I’m not a whiny, pathetic woman in an ugly green dress.”
Hidden in the shadows of a huge wall oven, Robert studied the woman sitting at a worktable beneath the single light.
Her dress really was damn ugly.
She, however, was quite lovely. She sat on a stool in front of a large, butcher-block table, where the chef probably worked when the restaurant was open. Her bare feet rested on the top rung of the stool, and her dress was haphazardly gathered in a mound of green fluff on her lap. Her legs were enough to stop his breath. Sweet, so sweet, encased in what appeared to be white thigh-high stockings that ended with a flirtatious bit of lace just below the edge of her hefted-up gown.
“Maybe one more bite,” the woman muttered. Robert bit the inside of his cheek to stop a laugh as he saw her plunge a fork into about half of what had once been a very large chocolate cake. She brought a portion to her mouth, letting out a pleased sigh as she bit off little pieces of it. Her tongue flicked out to lick the icing from the metal tines of the fork, and Robert had to swallow hard to contain the moan of appreciation he felt sure was going to spill across his lips.
She closed her eyes, dropping her head back, and he continued studying her, noting the long, smooth line of her throat, the generous curve of her hip, and the indentation of her waist in the tight dress. Not to mention the gorgeous, full breasts so magnificently displayed in the low-cut gown.
The overhead bulb caught the highlights in the mass of red curls surrounding her face. Judging by the beaded headpiece lying on the table, and the scattering of bobby pins beside it, she’d just taken her hair down and allowed most of it to fall freely in a soft curtain about her shoulders.
Lovely shoulders. She was soft-looking, with the pale skin of a redhead and the curves of a real man’s fantasy. Not thin and angular, no, she was rounded and curvaceous like an old-time movie starlet. Maybe not the fashion today, but so physically appealing to Robert he suddenly found it difficult to draw breath.
He heard her grunt, and watched as she opened her eyes and began struggling with her dress. As she pushed down on the mound of fabric on her lap, the sides poufed out, nearly forming an O-shape. Robert stifled a chuckle as he realized what she was wearing. It appeared, from where he stood, to be one of those god-awful southern belle style bridesmaid gowns.
“I swear as soon as I get home you’re going to get a taste of my shears. Though I don’t dislike my neighbors enough to make curtains out of you,” the woman said as she finally subdued the dress hoop. “No wonder the south lost—there wasn’t any room for men with every woman taking up ten feet of floor space!”
This time, Robert wasn’t able to contain the chuckle.

RUTHIE HELD the crushed dress tightly against her thighs and was reaching for the long neck of an expensive bottle of champagne when she heard a very masculine laugh. “Who’s there?” she asked, immediately hopping up from the stool and bumping her hip into the edge of her worktable. “Ouch.”
“Are you all right?”
She peered into the dark recesses of the kitchen, finally seeing one shadow separate itself from beyond the huge, stainless steel refrigerator. A figure approached her in the darkness. It had to be a man, she assumed, because of the height. He moved slowly, silently, almost gliding across the floor like something supernatural. She’d never met such a tall man who moved with such grace. Ruthie tensed as visions of a vampire movie she’d recently watched on cable flooded her muddled brain.
“Who are you?” she asked sharply as her fingers skittered across the table toward the knife block. She’d just about decided on the meat cleaver when she heard his warm laugh again.
“I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to intrude.” The man stepped closer until he walked into the small pool of light cast by the overhead fixture. Then, when he was fully illuminated, Ruthie could only manage a sigh.
He was like something out of a GQ-inspired fantasy. Tall. So tall she’d have to tilt her head all the way back to look up at him. His hair was thick, wavy, the rich brown of her very best au jus. The face was classically handsome, smooth-shaven, cleanly shaped with high, strong cheekbones that drew attention to the heavily lashed, dark brown eyes. His face was creased by a broad smile outlined by a pair of lips so sensual they were made to be kissed. Her own lips parted, puckered slightly, of their own free will, as she continued to examine him.
He wore a navy sports coat, tailored to highlight the shoulders that seemed too wide to fit through any standard doorway. His white dress shirt, open at the throat, revealed tanned skin and a hint of chest hair. Ruthie had always found that particular spot fascinating on a man, particularly one as well built as this one. Not that she had inspected any up close anytime recently. Like within the past three years.
Light gray slacks, tailored to fit him perfectly, skimmed his lean hips. They were expensive, obviously, but also tight enough to leave her speculating that he wore boxers, not briefs.
“I’m dreaming,” she finally managed to say, shaking her head mournfully. “I’ve fallen asleep, my face is right now resting cheekbone high in a six-inch tall cake, and in the morning someone’s going to come in and find I’ve asphyxiated myself on Ghirardelli.”
He grinned. “I’m very real, I’m afraid. We seem to have had the same idea. Sneaking into the kitchen for a late-night snack?”
Ruthie shook her head, trying to sort through the champagne-inspired cobwebs clouding her thoughts. “I needed some serious chocolate,” she finally said.
He held her eye and slowly nodded. “I think I do, too.”
Ruthie grabbed a fork from a stack of washed dishes on a nearby counter and tossed it to him. “Help yourself.”
He caught it easily, sat on another stool next to the one she’d vacated, and dug right in.
Ruthie watched a smile of satisfaction cross his face as he tasted. Okay, he was real. He wasn’t a vampire. Vampires didn’t eat food, except, maybe, raw steak. Certainly not sweets. And this guy obviously appreciated the cake. Another point in his favor, considering she’d made it!
“Have some champagne,” she said as she sat next to him on the other stool. “There’s more where that came from.”
He glanced at the half-empty bottle, and the full one standing next to it, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.
“Spoils from the wedding.”
He dropped his stare to her dress. “I gathered as much.”
She grimaced as she looked down at the bunched-up material on her lap. “Had to be, huh? I guess I can’t pass for a seventeen-year-old, so you’d never have figured I was a dumped prom date.”
“Dumped? Never.”
“Maybe not a prom date. But dumped.” Ruthie heard a tiny whine in her voice and hated it.
“Only if the guy’s a complete and utter moron.”
She tried to take comfort in the conviction in his voice, but, remembering her evening, could do nothing but frown. “It’s not him. It’s me. I’m just not desirable.”
A look that could only be described as incredulous crossed the man’s features. “How much champagne have you had?”
“Not enough to make me forget this stupid dress and the look on his face when I…”
“Yes?”
“Not enough to make me forget this stupid dress,” she repeated, forcing herself not to mention how Bobby had reacted when she’d asked him to spend the night with her in her suite.
Shocked wasn’t quite the word she’d use to describe his expression. More like horrified.
“I take it the bride didn’t want any competition,” the man said as he hefted the champagne and took a healthy swig straight from the bottle. Ruthie grinned, seeing a few drops trickling down his chin. Her grin faded as he lowered the bottle and caught the droplets with his tongue. Oh my, how very agile!
“I’m sorry?”
He waved a hand toward her dress. “You know. She didn’t want her bridesmaids to look too good.”
“Hence this awful dress that’s the same color as the stuff in my one-month-old godson’s diapers?”
The gorgeous stranger coughed as he choked on the piece of cake he’d just put in his mouth. Ever helpful, Ruthie leaned forward and gave him a good solid whack on the back. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Sorry…got a strange visual there.”
“Can’t be any worse than what I’ve been picturing ever since I showed up at the dress shop two weeks ago and found this, instead of the emerald-green gown I was supposed to be wearing! I think they call it ‘olive’ but it’s obviously ‘strained peas.’ Wrong color. Wrong size. Wrong style, even though I did agree to wear the stupid hoops to please Celeste’s future mother-in-law. She’s a little old-fashioned.”
“The bride?”
Ruthie shook her head. “Celeste? No, she’s wonderful. And more into Modern Bride than Southern Weddings!”
“She doesn’t seem the type to inflict hoop skirts and bows on her friends.”
“She’s not. But she married a great man with a sweet, craftsy mother, whom she really wanted to please. So Denise and I were stuck playing Suellen and Coreen to Celeste’s Scarlett.”
“Denise?”
“Another cousin, her older sister,” Ruthie explained. A loud sigh escaped her lips. “She got married, too.”
“Tonight?”
“No, two months ago. To a very successful, rich guy, who happens to be much too nice for her, but who is also about three inches shorter than Denise!” She heard a note of satisfaction in her own voice. “Sorry, I’m not usually spiteful.”
“Denise the bad seed in your clan?”
Ruthie thought about it. “I guess not. A little sneaky, sometimes mean-spirited. Not truly bad. Just very competitive, since we’re only a few months apart in age. She does tend to flash her two-carat diamond at me an awful lot.”
“And you’re the only single one left?”
Ruthie plunged her fork in and hoisted another hunk of cake into her mouth. “Even my sixty-year-old mother got married last year. She’s now touring the western part of the country in a camper with her new husband, Sid, and his four Scottie dogs,” she muttered after she swallowed. “And here I sit. Single. Undesirable. Alone.”
The man grabbed her hand as she reached for the bottle. He held it tightly, forcing her to look at him. “If some guy turned you down, it was his own stupidity. You are one amazingly attractive woman, in spite of your…”
“Butt-ugly dress?” she volunteered softly, somewhat awed by the intensity of his stare as he studied her face, her mussed hair, her chocolate-smudged lips.
He laughed, bringing her hand to his mouth to press a kiss on the tips of her fingers. They literally tingled at the warm contact. “Butt-ugly dress or not, the guy’s an idiot. He obviously didn’t know what he was turning down.”
She tugged her hand away. “Oh, yes, he knew,” she said sourly. “He knew very well. I handed him my room key and came right out and asked him to spend the night with me.”
The man coughed again, making a funny choking sound. Again, Ruthie leaned forward and whacked his back. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Fine. Uh, you handed him your key?”
She nodded. “We’ve been dating for four months, for heaven’s sake. It’s not like I’m some stranger trying to pick him up in a hotel bar! But he looked at me like he was appalled.” She shook her head, regret drawing her brows down over her eyes. “I knew he was conservative. It’s been sheer misery trying to act like I am, too.”
“Why would you have to act like anything but who you are?”
“Who I am doesn’t seem to work, judging by the completely nonexistent sex life I’ve had for the past three years.” Ruthie clapped a hand over her mouth, unable to believe she’d said something so personal to a complete stranger.
He didn’t seem the least bit fazed by her confession. “So you took action?”
“I thought I’d go for a different image,” she admitted, finally realizing what an idiot she’d been to try to fit herself into the mold Bobby seemed to want filled. She ruthlessly reached up and pulled at another bobby pin in her hair, tugging a few red strands out with it. “I even tried to tame this mess. But, I’ll tell you, if I never have to wear a bun or French twist again, it’ll be too soon!”
He reached out a hand and fingered a curl hanging next to her ear, stroking it lightly. Knowing her hair was wildly tangled, she self-consciously moved back until the strands slipped free from his fingers.
“It’d be a crime to hide this,” he murmured. “Other than the curls, what else would you want to change?”
Ruthie looked down at herself and frowned. “Maybe the ten extra pounds sitting on my hips and chest that couldn’t be blasted off with dynamite?” she muttered.
This time, he didn’t chuckle. He laughed, loud and long. “You have got to be kidding. Honey, women pay plastic surgeons buckets of money to get what you’ve got!”
“I’m not an exotic dancer,” she said sourly.
“You could be,” he shot back.
Ruthie’s breath froze in her throat at the intensity in his stare. He ran his gaze over her entire body, messy hair down to her feet. She realized that within a five-minute acquaintance this man was looking at her in a way Bobby never had the entire time they were dating.
Like he wanted to devour her.
Swallowing hard, Ruthie took another bite of cake. She was sitting alone in a darkened kitchen with a complete stranger—a gorgeous stranger, granted—but she didn’t know anything about him. This interlude went against every rule her mother had ever taught her. She wondered why she didn’t care.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” she said with a self-conscious smile.
“Maybe telling me your troubles is easier than admitting them to someone who knows you well? Keep talking, I have nowhere else I’d rather be, and I’m a good listener.”
Ruthie was unable to hide the tears springing up in the corners of her eyes. Here she was in the company of this breathtakingly handsome man, and he was watching her with those soulful brown eyes, gentle, interested, sexy as hell. And she was blubbering over another guy, one she couldn’t even say she was really attracted to in the first place!
She knew better than anyone the main reason she’d attempted to move her relationship with Bobby to another level: she wanted commitment, wanted happily ever after like Celeste and Denise. Even if it was with a man who was nice instead of thrilling, sweet instead of desirable, friendly instead of hot enough to melt the clothes right off her body! Sleeping with Bobby had seemed important because it was a natural progression in a long-term relationship. There’d been no fire. No passionate sparks. Ruthie had thought being with him would be comfortable, nice, sedate. Like Bobby himself.
Seduction had seemed like a good idea. He, judging by the shocked expression on his face when she’d handed him her key, didn’t agree.
Ruthie started sniffling again, not only because of her teary eyes but also because of a bad case of springtime allergies that had been plaguing her for days. She reached up and wiped her nose with the back of her hand, not even caring that another one of her mother’s rules went flying out the window. Her fingers came away with a smudge of chocolate, and she realized she must have had a mustache over her lips. “Oh, great, I look like Charlie Chaplin, don’t I?” This time she couldn’t stop the fat tears that rolled out of her eyes, down her cheeks and landed with a plop on the butcher-block table.
The beautiful man moved his hand to her face, cupped her chin with infinite gentleness and turned her head. Forcing her to look at him, he leaned closer, so close she could smell the chocolate and champagne on his breath, and wondered if her scent was half as intoxicating as his.
“You look lovely to me. And I don’t even know your name.”
For some reason, his words made the tears come faster, and suddenly the day’s events, her loneliness and the blow to her self-confidence crashed in on her with the weight of a ton of cement blocks. “It’s Ruthie. My name’s Ruthie,” she said between sniffs.
He smiled gently and reached toward his pocket. “Here, wipe your tears, Ruth. A woman with eyes as bright and green as yours has no business crying.”
Ruthie watched him reach into the pocket of his sports coat and begin to pull out a handkerchief. It occurred to her to be slightly touched by the old-fashioned gesture, since most men she knew didn’t carry handkerchiefs anymore.
Before she could say a word, however, he tugged the white cotton fabric free, and with it came a few other objects from his pocket. She heard a clink, looked down, and saw the two items that had landed on the floor between the two stools. They were unmistakable. A key and…“Oh, God,” she wailed, “Is everyone in this hotel having sex tonight except me?”

2
IF SHE HADN’T looked so adorably indignant, Robert might have laughed again. He was unable to hide a grin, though, as she threw her crossed arms down on the table in front of her and plopped her head onto them.
Ruthie. Sweet, funny, voluptuous Ruthie. How could he ever have imagined he’d stumble onto such a vibrant woman in the darkened kitchen of a hotel? Or that she’d appeal to him so instantly, so sharply, like no other woman had in years?
For whatever reason, Robert suddenly felt like a kid on Christmas morning, who’d found his favorite gift was one he hadn’t even included on his ten page wish list!
Things were definitely looking up. Maybe he would even have reason to look back on Monica’s ridiculous offer and be thankful. It had driven him here, to this room, at just the right moment to meet someone who had knocked his socks off in less than fifteen minutes.
Someone who, he realized, was still sniffling as she kept her face buried in her crossed arms.
“No, I’m definitely not having sex tonight,” he said, confirming that fact not only to her but to himself. “And I haven’t had it in a pretty long time, either. So you’re not alone. Now, will you please stop crying?”
Her head lifted and she stared at him. Hard. “Why not?”
“Why not what?”
“Why aren’t you having sex? You’re gorgeous. You’re nice. You smell good and you don’t have bad breath. Why isn’t there some woman waiting for you upstairs?” A sudden look of understanding crossed her face. “Oh, great, you’re gay, aren’t you? That’s it. You’re gay. Somebody, just shoot me now.”
He bordered on taking offense, but since she was so obviously miserable, not to mention tipsy, he forgave her for momentarily doubting his preferences. “Not gay.”
“Married?”
“Nope.”
“Sissy mama’s boy?”
He cringed. “My mama’s a mechanic.”
“Why celibate, then?”
That seemed a very good question right now. Particularly since all he’d been able to think about since he’d first seen her licking chocolate off her fork was how much he wanted her to be tasting him.
“It’s been a long time since I met anyone I was seriously interested in.” Not three years, of course. He shuddered at the thought that she’d been unattached for so long. Were men in Philly totally blind? “Why you? Other than the obvious things like your gorgeous red hair has too much curl, and you’ve got a figure most men with stick-thin girlfriends fantasize about?”
His flattery didn’t influence her. She obviously didn’t believe it. “I’ve been busy. Working, helping the family with the business.”
“You work with your family?”
She nodded. “It takes a lot of time and energy. Not that I’m complaining—I love my family a lot. And I do have friends I spend time with.”
“But no boyfriends other than the loser who passed up the chance to spend a night with you?”
She sighed. “It’s hard to meet eligible men when you work ten hours a day, six days a week.”
“I know how that goes. My job requires a lot of travel, not much time for home and family. Not that I mind. That’s exactly what I wanted growing up. I couldn’t wait to leave home, get away from the craziness of five younger brothers, have my own quiet place, then go out and conquer the world.”
“And have you?”
He grinned. “I’m working on it.”
They fell silent. It wasn’t a heavy, uncomfortable silence between two strangers who’d had a very intimate conversation. Instead, Robert just enjoyed breathing the same air, catching the light scent of her perfume, watching the way the glints of gold in her hair caught the light. Hearing her sniffle. “You cryin’ again?”
She shook her head. “Allergies.”
“Good. I can’t stand it when women cry.”
Ruthie sighed, her shoulders drooping. “I love to cry. I rate movies by the tissue factor.”
“How depressing.”
“No,” she insisted, “it’s not. I don’t mean I like to see horror or twisted stuff that brings you down, but there’s something so moving about a real love story, doomed and destined to end in tragedy.”
“Yeah, they move me, all right,” he muttered, “right out of the theater. I like war movies.”
“Yuck. Blood and gore. Sat through half of one last year on a blind date and threw up my popcorn and Sno-Caps right onto his shoes.” She sounded very philosophical about the experience.
“Did he ever call again?”
She rolled her eyes and let out an unladylike snort.
“Well,” he said, giving his head a rueful shake, “I’ve had my fair share of bad dates, too.”
“But I bet you never got sick on your date’s shiny new penny loafers.”
“True,” he conceded. “But if he was enough of a geek to be wearing penny loafers, he deserved it.”
She raised a sardonic brow. “Are you criticizing my taste in men? Implying I date geeks?”
He shook his head and held his hands up, palms out. “No, no, you said he was a blind date, remember? Obviously the friend who set you up doesn’t know you very well!”
She smirked. “My mother set us up.”
He paused, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, silently daring her to go on.
“Okay, okay, so she doesn’t know me very well!”
His expression was triumphant. “Nobody’s mother knows them very well. That’s why mothers love their children when any sane person would have kicked them to the curb years before.”
Ruthie nodded in agreement with his reasoning, then said, “Is yours really a mechanic?”
He nodded ruefully. “She and my father are in the auto repair business back home in North Carolina.”
“Southern boy,” she said as she stuck her fork in the last third of the cake and helped herself to another bite. “I guess that explains the good manners, the handkerchief and all. But no accent?”
“New York eventually wore it away.”
Robert reached out to help himself to more cake, and accidentally tangled his fork with the tines of hers. “Sorry.”
“If we were down to the last bite, you’d have to fork-duel me for it. But I think there’s enough left for both of us,” she said with a huge grin as she disentangled their utensils.
When she truly smiled, she did so with her whole face, not just those beautiful lips. Robert watched her, awed by the transformation genuine amusement brought to her already pretty features. Her eyes sparkled. A pair of adorable dimples turned up in her cheeks. He had forgotten how much of a sucker he’d always been for dimples—had been since his first crush on the freckled, dimpled, toothless Doreen Watson in second grade. Now he was reminded with such sudden, raw joy that he simply didn’t know what to say. He merely smiled back, memorizing her features, as though afraid this entire interlude might be a figment of his imagination brought on by one too many vodka tonics and might disappear at any moment.
From outside, Robert heard a few horns beeping. The flash of a blue strobe from a police car passing by the window spotlighted the far wall of the room. Distracted, he looked around. The kitchen was immaculate, reminding him of his original purpose. He’d completely forgotten why he’d come snooping while he’d talked with Ruthie. Amazing. A woman who could actually make him forget about his job, albeit only for twenty minutes or so.
Ruthie finally broke the comfortable silence that had once again fallen between them. “So, I suppose you like sports.” Her voice held a note of resignation.
He nodded. “You?”
She shook her head mournfully. “Nope.”
“What about music?” he asked, immediately recognizing her bid to see just what they might have in common, other than the cajones to sneak into a private hotel kitchen and raid the dessert cabinet.
Her eyes brightened. “I love country-western!”
He cringed. “My father nearly disowned me when I was nine and told him I hated country and liked New-Orleans-style jazz.”
A gentle smile and a look of tenderness crossed her face. “My father and I used to sing along to Broadway albums when I was growing up. He had a wonderful voice.”
“Had?”
She nodded. “He died when I was in high school.” Her voice broke, and she gave her head a quick shake, then reached for the bottle of champagne.
“So,” Robert said, trying to move past the awkward moment, “what else? How about books?”
He could have predicted her answer before she said it. “Romances. You?”
“Techno-thrillers.”
“I get tired thinking about picking up one of those two-ton hardbacks,” she said with a frown. “Do you think those guys get paid by the word?”
Since he’d sometimes wondered the same thing, he nodded. “Seems possible.” Instead of being depressed at their conflicting personalities and tastes, Robert found himself thoroughly enjoying their banter.
“Kids!” she exclaimed and he almost heard the “aha” she didn’t utter. “Growing up with all those younger brothers, you must love children!”
He gave a vehement shake of his head. “Growing up with all those brothers made me never want to have children.”
Her shoulders sagged. “Really? Maybe you just think you don’t want any.”
He shuddered. “Ruthie, I practically raised my younger brothers while our parents were getting their business off the ground. Snotty noses, diapers, chicken pox, bad dreams, never-ending fistfights. Believe me, I did all the child-rearing I ever want to do before my eighteenth birthday.”
She looked at him, studying his face as if testing his sincerity, then a disappointed frown marred her brow. She studied her own hands, suddenly quiet and pensive. “I can’t remember a time when I didn’t dream about growing up and having lots of children.”
Lots? He couldn’t even fathom the possibility of one. It did seem critically important to her, though. What she wanted for her own future really wasn’t any of his business, he supposed. She was an absolute stranger to him; he might never see her again after this one unusual night. But he couldn’t stop a feeling of regret over their completely discordant dreams for their futures.
“I hope your dream comes true one day, Ruthie.” He hoisted the bottle and held it up for a toast. “To your future babies. May they all be female so you don’t have the nightmare of raising lots of little boys like I did.”
She nodded, grabbed the bottle, and took a liberal sip.
“So, where were we?” he mused. “Ah, yes, what could we possibly we have in common that we can talk about now?”
She squared her shoulders. “What about the weather?”
“I think we’ve moved a little beyond talking about the weather, Ruthie. After all, I already know the details of your sex life, and you saw a condom fall out of my pocket.”
“The details of my nonexistent sex life,” she retorted, “and thank you so much for reminding me!” She rolled her eyes. “For your information, I was talking about the seasons. Are you a summer man or a winter one?”
“Summer. Definitely. Sandy beaches, bright blue sky, waterskiing, deep-sea fishing. Give me ninety and sunny any day.” He had a sudden purely delightful mental image of lying on a beach, sipping a fruity rum concoction, watching Ruthie walk toward him from the water, wearing a tiny bikini that barely covered the full, lush curves of her breasts.
He glanced at her, to see if she’d caught the brainless, besotted expression he felt sure must be on his face.
She looked like she wanted to slug him. “Winter,” she practically snarled. “Nothing compares to snuggling up in your very softest angora sweater, sipping hot chocolate with marshmallows in front of a roaring fireplace at a beautiful mountaintop ski resort.”
Sweater? No, no. That definitely wasn’t part of the fantasy. “Better than lying on a beach, listening to the gentle surf, feeling someone rub oil into the hot skin of your back?” he asked, his voice growing husky as he fantasized aloud.
She sighed. “Only if there’s a gorgeous young waiter dressed in a loincloth bringing me free piña coladas—and Solarcaine by the case since I would turn red as a lobster in forty-five seconds flat.”
“Ever heard of beach umbrellas?”
“Ever heard of sun poisoning?” she shot back. “I’m a dermatologist’s poster child.”
“No risk of sunburn when lying on a hammock beneath a palm tree in the early evening.”
She wasn’t teased out of her mood. “Just mosquitoes.”
Robert shook his head ruefully, admiring her stubbornness, her honesty, even if it was a bit inspired by champagne. “I give up. You’re right. We have nothing in common.”
Instead of looking pleased that he’d agreed with her, Ruthie frowned deeply. He heard her sigh and watched her shoulders slump again. “I guess not.”
They both extended their forks toward the cake at the same instant. “There’s always chocolate,” he said with a smile.
“Oh, yes,” she agreed. “We’ll always have chocolate.”
Between the two of them, they killed off the first bottle of champagne and did some damage to the second in the next hour. Robert didn’t remember when he’d laughed so hard, all the while shifting in his seat as he reacted physically to the gorgeous redhead fate had thrust right under his nose.
He’d never dated a redhead. He’d never dated a curvy bundle of dimpled femininity. His women, in the past, had tended to be more the corporate shark type. Not by preference, he suddenly realized, but merely by circumstance.
His brothers had been telling him for years to get the hell out of New York before he found himself married to one of the piranhas he’d been dating. Robert didn’t worry. He had no intention of marrying anyone. His job was too important to him—and too demanding—to try to find time to share his life with a family. Dating piranhas helped make sure he was never tempted.
He’d never taken a woman home, of course, knowing the full Kendall clan was enough to frighten off anyone. More than that, he’d never met a woman he’d wanted to bring to North Carolina. But some members of his family had met one or two girlfriends when they’d come to visit him.
“Find a nice southern girl,” his mother had said after one disastrous dinner during which his date had picked at a salad, complaining the dressing was too rich to be fat free, then gone on to tell Robert’s father he was crazy to eat red meat these days. “One who is gentle of heart, but has blisters on her hands,” his mother had counseled, “who isn’t afraid to laugh instead of titter. A lady who can occasionally be unladylike.”
One whose eyes are the most amazing shade of green, who’s completely inept at hiding whatever she’s feeling at a particular moment. Ruthie would be a lousy poker player, he realized. Then again, Robert had never really cared for poker.
With her zany personality, he imagined she wouldn’t be much of an office person, either. He didn’t know what Ruthie did for a living, but he would bet his last dollar it had nothing to do with finances, executives, or business.
He was about to ask her when she slid from her stool and tried to push her feet into her emerald-green pumps. “This was the color my dress was supposed to be,” she explained ruefully.
“It would have looked beautiful on you.”
She winced as she slipped the other shoe on. “Shouldn’t have taken them off. Now they’re killing me.” She leaned against the table and bent forward to adjust the shoe, giving Robert a clear view of the deep cleavage revealed by her dress. The fact that he knew he shouldn’t look didn’t stop him from staring, nearly choking on a mouthful of air he suddenly felt incapable of drawing into his lungs.
“Time to shuffle off,” she said.
“You’re staying here in the hotel?” he asked, figuring she was but wanting to get more information from her.
She nodded. “I don’t have to, since my apartment’s only a few miles away. But I should take advantage of the free room, especially after so much champagne.”
Ruthie reached for the green handbag lying on the table. As she pulled the strap of the bag, she wobbled on her high heels, pulling too hard and spilling the bag, and its contents, all over the floor. “Oh, rats,” she muttered as she bent over to retrieve her belongings.
Robert froze. She hunched right in front of him, between her vacant stool and his knees, and the images that ran through his brain would have given quite a shock to colleagues who considered him a responsible, conservative man.
She rested one small hand on his thigh to steady herself, refreshing in her complete unselfconsciousness, yet utterly devastating to his composure. He watched, focusing on those fingers pressing into the gray fabric of his slacks. It took her forever, it seemed, to retrieve her comb, lipstick, room key and a bundle of netting filled with birdseed.
Robert’s mouth felt like it contained a cup of sawdust. He couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t breathe without thinking about it. He had the most intense longing to watch her hand move higher, stroking his leg, pulling him down to kneel on the floor with her. Or better yet, to bring her to her feet, then lower her onto the top of the sturdy, butcher-block table. The memory of the pale skin of her thighs above the lace of her white stockings returned with gut-clenching intensity.
Get real, Robert! You’ve known the woman an hour!
She was vulnerable, depressed, and had consumed more champagne than she should have. No way would he take advantage, even if the sparkle in her eye while they’d talked had told him, without words, she was attracted to him, too.
No. Tonight would be about chocolate cake and laughter and champagne. His hands on her body, her lips on his mouth, her scent filling his head and her sighs of pleasure would all come another night. No question about it.
“Yours, I believe?” she said as she pulled herself up, still using his knee for leverage. He didn’t know what she meant until she dropped the condom on the table with a smirk. “Even though you say you don’t need it, I don’t suppose we ought to leave it here on the floor for the staff to find!”
He shook his head. “Maybe not.” He glanced down. “See the other room key down there anywhere?”
He didn’t spot it right away, but Ruthie apparently did. She pointed to the foot of the table. “Right there. I would offer to get it, but I’m wobbly enough on these stupid shoes and don’t think I could manage bending over again! Although, I don’t have to worry about being embarrassed if I fall on my fanny right in front of you, do I? I mean, you’ve already pretty much seen me at my worst.”
“This is your worst? Piece of cake!”
They both looked over at the remains of the decimated chocolate cake resting on the table and laughed in unison.
Sliding off his stool, Robert stooped down to retrieve the key, not even thinking about how close she stood. He found himself practically kneeling at her feet, his face level with her right hip. His mouth was close to her body, close enough that he could see her dress ruffle with his every exhalation. He swallowed hard.
As if he wasn’t distracted enough by the sight of her hip and the tempting curve of her sweet backside just inches from his face, she chose that moment to turn toward him. “Having trouble?” she asked, leaning over to look down at him.
He stifled a groan. Oh, yeah, he was having some serious trouble. Trouble breathing. Trouble swallowing. Trouble thinking about anything except that she now stood directly in front of him and if he leaned forward he could press a hot kiss onto her stomach. Elsewhere. Everywhere.
She’d taste sweet—chocolate and champagne and the joy that was the essence of her.
“Do you need help?”
He definitely needed her help. But not now, not this soon, not with her in mourning for a newly ended relationship with another man. At least, he hoped it was ended.
Tomorrow, however, was another story. He’d camp out in the lobby of the hotel, if he had to, to find out who she was and where she lived. Suddenly, the upcoming months filled with business trips to Philadelphia seemed much more appealing.
“Did you find your key or not? I could have sworn I saw it there by the table leg,” she said, her tone concerned.
The key. Monica’s room key. He felt it with the tips of his fingers and quickly palmed it. Still kneeling, he slowly shifted his gaze upward, until his eyes met hers and locked. He knew his expression revealed too much of what was going on in his head and the rest of his body. There was no hiding it. There would definitely be no hiding it when he stood up, considering the uncomfortable tightness in his trousers.
She understood. Her cheeks suddenly suffused with color. Her mouth fell open as she pulled in a deep breath. He heard the rustling of her dress as she moved her legs close together and Robert had to close his eyes to shake the image of her clenching those pale thighs.
He rose to his feet slowly, as if someone was pushing down on his shoulders from above. They stood, toe to toe, and he marveled at how petite she was, the top of her head only reaching his nose, even though she wore high heels.
“Meet me for breakfast,” he urged, trying to find something to say, something else to do with his mouth so he wouldn’t give in to the urge to lean forward and lick the chocolate off her lips.
She hesitated, biting the corner of her mouth. “I have a meeting here in the hotel in the morning.”
“Lunch then. Better yet, why don’t you meet me back here tomorrow night at midnight? I’ve heard this place serves a pretty wicked cheesecake.”
“They do,” she said with a tiny smile. “But I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Why not?”
He watched regret cross her features as she took a step back, pulling her pocketbook up to her chest as if using it as a shield. “Look, I said a lot of things tonight, things I should never have said to a stranger. I’m not normally like this. Tonight was brought on by champagne and a good heaping helping of self-pity. But tomorrow, when I remember all of this, if I remember all of this, I’m going to feel like an idiot.”
“So we can both feel like idiots together.”
She shook her head. “If you see me tomorrow, if we bump into each other in the elevator, please pretend tonight never happened, let me think I imagined or dreamed it all, because it would be too humiliating to know it was true.”
He could see by the determined set of her chin that she meant it. Of course, there was no way Robert was going to let that happen. But there was no point arguing about it tonight. She’d find out soon enough that when he found something he truly wanted, he could be relentless in pursuit of it.
And now he very much wanted her.

RUTHIE LEFT HER dream man at the entrance to the restaurant. He went one way, toward the elevator, and she headed toward the lobby. Part of her was relieved he’d agreed to forget tonight had ever happened. Another part was sad she’d ever asked him to. She had a feeling it was just as well she didn’t know his name. He’d never mentioned it, and she’d never thought to ask. If she had, she might have been tempted to peek at the registration records for his room number. “No, Sinclair. You’re swearing off men starting right now,” she muttered as she rounded the corner next to the front desk.
“Swearing off men?”
Ruthie glared at her cousin, Chuck, who’d obviously heard her comment. Chuck, Celeste and Denise’s only brother, worked as the night front desk manager. He’d left the wedding shortly before Ruthie had, so she didn’t ask him what happened after she’d slipped out. “Yes. You’re all a bunch of heartbreakers!”
“Guess ya didn’t have such a great time at Celeste’s wedding, huh?” Chuck replied. A goofy grin creased his face and he suddenly looked like the surfer dude he wanted to be. Chuck didn’t exactly match the hotel’s clean-cut image, with his shoulder-length, bleach-blond hair, tanned complexion, and perpetual lazy grin. “So’dja catch the flower thing or what? I had to leave early and didn’t see that part.”
“No, I didn’t catch the bouquet. Thank goodness.”
He shrugged. “I thought you old single chicks dug that, you know, getting your hopes up and all.”
Ruthie leaned across the three-foot-wide expanse of polished oak that made up the front check-in desk and grabbed a fistful of her cousin’s shirt. “Old? You think I’m old?”
He grimaced and held his hands up protectively. “Nah, not old. I mean, it’s not like you’re pushin’ thirty or anything!”
“You’re on a roll now, Chuckie,” she snarled. “Why don’t you dig yourself in deeper?”
He suddenly looked shocked. “Oh, man, Ruthie, you’re thirty? When did that happen?”
Ruthie sighed in exasperation. “Chuck, sweetie, remember when you were six and you ruined my twelfth birthday slumber party because you kept coming to the door of my room and trying to throw spitballs at my friends? And I told you I was going to make you eat six of them, one for each year I’d had to suffer with you on the planet?”
The head bobbed, slowly. A grin creased his face. “Yeah, and I hit Denise in her head and she ran crying to your mom.”
Ruthie had forgotten that. “Okay, so it wasn’t all bad.”
He snorted a laugh. “She sure was ticked. So why’d ya mention that?”
She explained slowly. “I was turning twelve. You were already six. Uh, how old are you now, Chuck?”
He hesitated for a moment longer than anyone should have when asked that question. “Twenty-three next month.”
She waited, watching the wheels churn behind the bright blue eyes. Saw him calculate. “Oh, yeah, right,” he finally said with the lazy nod. “See, I toldja I didn’t miss it.”
“There’s a reason you’re so gorgeous,” Ruthie muttered beneath her breath. Her mother’s favorite saying suddenly popped into her head. Heaven distributes its gifts.
Chuck got the tall, blond, lean and gorgeous genes. He was like Ruthie’s late father and her uncle in that respect—and like Celeste and Denise. But Chuck had been just a bit shortchanged in the “quick” department. “I guess there are worse things than big hips and kinky red hair,” she continued with a yawn.
“Huh?”
“Never mind, sweetie,” she said as she wearily turned toward the elevator. “I was just coming in to say good-night. I’m going up to my room. Don’t call me in the morning, as I’m quite sure I’ll be sleeping off a champagne headache.”
He smirked. “Yeah, I’ll bet. You must’ve had a hellish good time. I’ve never seen you rockin’ when you’re walkin’.”
She didn’t ask what he meant, too tired to try to follow his reasoning tonight. “The ceremony was beautiful,” she conceded. “But I’d rather forget everything else that happened this evening.”
“That bad?”
A flash of memory brought a sudden warmth to her cheeks. The man. The dark-haired stranger in the kitchen. Well, she might want to forget how foolish she must have appeared to him, but she certainly would never forget the expression on his face—the one that said he thought she was desirable.
But she’d never see him again. Which was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? Even if it wasn’t, it didn’t matter. She never got his name! She’d never asked, probably subconsciously keeping their interlude anonymous, enjoying its mystery and magic.
“Let’s just say, after I watched Celeste tie the knot, the evening went downhill faster than you did the time you broke your arm trying to sled on a greased trash can lid.”
He looked puzzled, trying to place the memory. Ruthie blew him a tired kiss and turned to leave the lobby.
“Hey, Ruthie, take a few aspirin tonight before you go to sleep. Should make you feel better in the a.m.”
She gave a rueful chuckle. “Chuck, there is absolutely nothing that can happen to me tonight that will make me feel better in the a.m.”

3
TO HER DISMAY, Ruthie realized when she reached her room that her bad-awful day was not over yet. Staring dumbly at the doorknob, which remained stiff and unmoving in her hand, she jammed the key in once more. “Stupid old locks!”
It didn’t help. The room key would not open the door. “Great, oh, just great,” she muttered, tired and wanting nothing more than to kick off her too-tight shoes and fall into the king-size bed on the other side of the stubborn door.
Wearily making her way down the hall toward the elevator, Ruthie paused to pick up a white courtesy phone residing on a small telephone table. Hoping she wouldn’t have to explain to Chuck the intricacies of locks and keys, she nearly cheered when someone else answered in the lobby.
“Tina? Why does Chuck have you working the desk?”
“Smoke break,” the other woman said. Ruthie heard a distinct popping sound and knew Tina was cracking bubble gum, probably thick, pink, and shiny. “I’m off at two, so he took a last ten.”
Ruthie quickly explained her problem, and asked Tina to send the late-night bellman up to her room with a passkey.
“Well, I dunno,” Tina said doubtfully. The gum snapped again. “We’re not supposed to without the manager’s okay.”
Ruthie clenched her teeth as a sinus and champagne headache pounded in her brain. She sniffed and counted to five. “Tina, you know my voice. You know me. Look in the logs and you’ll see I am registered in room four-twelve. And if you ever want to come into my kitchen during your breaks and try to beg me for sweets again you’d better send the bellman up with the key.”
At the mention of food, Tina perked right up. “You betcha. It’ll cost some key lime pie.” She paused. “But, hey, tomorrow’s Monday, your night off!”
“Thankfully, yes,” Ruthie replied, glad she wouldn’t have to spend tomorrow afternoon and evening in the hotel kitchen, pretending everything was peachy keen. “Even we chefs get an occasional day off. Come by later in the week.”
A bellman was at Ruthie’s door five minutes after she hung up the phone. He was new and didn’t know her, thank goodness. He didn’t ask why she was locked out of her room, wearing her ugly dress, with bobby pins sticking out of her hair and a pair of emerald-green pumps dangling from the tips of her fingers.
After he unlocked the door, she murmured her thanks, entered the room, and tossed her shoes into a corner. “Sleep,” she said with a sigh, eyeing the king-size bed which made the one in her small apartment look like a twin.
Tugging at the zipper on the back of her hated dress, Ruthie carelessly pulled it off and dropped it to the floor. She gave it a kick, then actually walked across it toward her suitcase. As she walked, she caught sight of herself in the floor-length mirror on the door of the bathroom.
“Not bad, Sinclair. Coulda made some man pretty happy tonight,” she said with a sigh as she studied herself.
Celeste had wonderful taste in lingerie. Her bridesmaid gift to Ruthie—an ivory-colored silk camisole and tap pants set, with matching thigh-high stockings and a lacy little bra that pushed up more than it held in—did wonderful things for Ruthie’s curvy figure. “Not that anyone will ever see it.”
Too tired to dig through her suitcase for her plain old Winnie-the-Pooh nightshirt, Ruthie fell onto the bed. Reaching for the bedside table, she flicked off the light and sighed as the room descended into blackness. Her sigh trailed off as she realized something was wrong.
The room was spinning.
She hadn’t gone to bed in a spinning room since college. To be precise, since the night in junior year when one of her roommates had told Ruthie she was sick of seeing her drink sissy white wine spritzers and challenged her to match her, shot for shot, with some cheap Mexican tequila.
Ruthie didn’t like to lose. So she’d drunk the other girl right under the table. Literally. That night had resulted in a spinning room. Then, when told she’d been the one who’d swallowed the worm, the night had also resulted in Ruthie’s one and only experience sleeping on a bathroom floor.
Tonight she was not toilet-hugging intoxicated. She was just pleasantly woozy. Remembering a trick she’d once heard about, Ruthie stuck one leg out from under the covers, liking the way the silky stocking slid against the starched fabric of the linens, almost a light caress.
“Pathetic. Now I’m even liking the sheets touching me!”
Wiggling toward the edge of the bed so she could place her foot on the floor, she willed the room to remain still. Badly needing sleep, she ignored the childhood whisper cautioning against letting a solitary leg dangle where monsters underneath the bed could grab it.
The trick helped with the spinniness. But nothing was making the sinus headache go away. It throbbed every time she shifted on the unfamiliar pillow.
“Aspirin,” she muttered. Gingerly sliding out of the bed, she staggered to the bathroom. Unwilling to let vicious shards of light pierce her brain, she felt around in the dark, trying to find the aspirin she always carried in her makeup bag. First her fingers found a brand-new box of condoms. She sighed as she remembered stopping at a convenience store near the hotel on her way to the reception. Fully decked out in her atrocious wedding regalia, shopping for prophylactics, she must have made quite a picture for the teenage clerk, who’d winked as she’d paid him.
Finding the bottle of aspirin, Ruthie flipped a couple of pills into her hand. Popping two in her mouth, she turned on the faucet. Her head screamed as she bent to drink straight from the tap. “Maybe one more,” she whispered as she straightened. Not able to bend over again, she ignored the fact that it would taste chalky and bitter, popped another pill in her mouth and swallowed it dry.
She was halfway back to the bed, still woozy, headachy and nearly blind in the darkness of the room, when she realized the pill hadn’t tasted chalky and bitter. Horrified, she turned, ignoring the stab of pain in her skull, and dashed back into the bathroom. She flipped on the light, shuddered at its intensity, and grabbed the still-open bottle on the counter.
“Cold medication,” she said. She blinked rapidly to try to clear her eyes enough to read the label. “May cause drowsiness. Alcohol may enhance this effect.” Capping the bottle, she tucked it back in her bag, next to the bottle of aspirin, then looked at her reflection in the mirror. “You could give Frankenstein’s bride a run for her money,” she told herself, noting the wild hair, and the dark smudges of makeup under her eyes. “And now you’ve gone and drugged yourself but good.”
Stupid. Stupid, Sinclair.
But not lethal. She was going to be having a much deeper, and longer, night’s sleep than she expected, it seemed. Flipping off the light, she went back into the bedroom, pausing to set the clock on the bedside table. She hadn’t bothered earlier, knowing she hadn’t slept past nine in years and the board meeting wasn’t until eleven. Now, however, it seemed wise to take the precaution!
Reclining on the bed, she was out before she even thought to stick her foot back on the floor.

ROBERT FOUND HIMSELF back in the bar after he left Ruthie at the entrance to the hotel restaurant. He didn’t need another drink, heaven knew, but he needed something else: time. Time to figure out how to handle the Monica situation.
“Honesty. Tonight. Get it out in the open so she can get whatever fit she’s gonna throw off her chest before tomorrow morning’s board meeting,” he told himself as he took one last sip of his champagne. Somehow, after leaving Ruthie in the kitchen, he didn’t have the heart to return to vodka tonics.
The waiter gave him a confused look as he heard him mumbling to himself, but smiled in appreciation when he saw the big tip Robert left on the table. “Honesty’s the best policy,” the waiter said with a grin. “Honesty…and generosity!”
Leaving the bar, Robert pulled Monica’s key from his pocket and headed to the elevator. He glanced at the room number on the tab. “Four-twelve.” He entered the elevator and punched the fourth-floor button. “Okay, Monica, show time.”
When he got upstairs, he walked slowly down the silent corridor, wondering why his feet suddenly felt leaden. “Just get it over with,” he told himself. “In and out.” The thought struck a raw chord in his mind and he grimaced. “No, not in and out! Just there and gone.”
When he reached four-twelve, he knocked quietly. No answer. He knocked again, louder, hoping the occupants in the nearby rooms were not light sleepers. “Come on, Monica, I know you’re awake,” he growled at the closed door.
She was taking this too far, forcing him to use the key. A big part of him was tempted to forget about it, deal with her histrionics in the morning when he had a clear head. But he wanted it done. For some odd reason, though he wasn’t even involved with Monica Winchester, he felt the need to get this situation resolved before he set out to find—and seduce—the red-haired angel he’d met two hours before in the kitchen.
Against his better judgment, he slipped the key into the lock and pushed into the darkened room. Darkened wasn’t quite the right adjective. The place was nearly pitch-black and he had to stand in the doorway to let his eyes adjust. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the elevator doors slide open, so he quickly entered and shut the door behind him. “Monica?” he whispered, his voice painfully loud in the silence.
A mumbling sound emanated from the left side of the room, and Robert was finally able to make out what appeared to be a bed. A very large bed. “Who…?” the woman said.
“It’s Robert,” he said, stepping closer. Asleep? She’d fallen asleep? Though relieved that she was obviously not expecting him to show up, his masculine pride took a hit.
“Bobby?” she said, her voice muffled, heavy with sleep and grogginess. “You came. You used the key.”
Bobby? No one had ever called him that—a miracle, given his southern upbringing. He didn’t like it. “Yes, but not for the reason you think,” he said as he crossed to the bed. He set the key on the bedside table. “I’ll leave this here, and we’ll forget about this whole thing.”
She whimpered. “No.”
Something, the pleading sound? The raw need? Something in her voice, in that single word, made him stop from turning around and leaving the room. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t want to be alone,” she murmured on a sigh. “I’m so tired of being alone.”
Something wasn’t right. As far as he knew, Monica Winchester had spent very few nights alone in her adult life. Curious, he leaned closer and caught a whiff of two sweet, unmistakable scents. Chocolate. And champagne.

RUTHIE WAS IN the midst of a lovely dream. Somehow, in the strange way dreams have of seeming so real, she imagined he really had come into her room. It’s Robert, he’d said. How quaint of Bobby to use his full name, she’d thought dreamily. But the fantasy quickly shifted.
She didn’t want him to come to her. Not anymore. It wasn’t Bobby she wanted in her room, and as she floated along, experiencing the strangely real scene, she pictured another man. The dark-haired man from the kitchen. The one with the eyes that devoured her and the lips she’d wanted to taste from the moment she’d seen them. The one who’d laughed with her, teased her, listened to her silliness and made her wish they’d met under different circumstances.
Though no one was supposed to have control over her dreams, for some reason, Ruthie did, for suddenly the man standing beside her bed, talking to her, was the man from the kitchen.
“Better,” she murmured, and she smiled.
“Ruthie?” the dream man asked, with perhaps more surprise than she’d expect from a fantasy lover.
She sighed, twisted and kicked at the covers which had become too hot, too confining, wanting to free her body of their cumbersome weight. She heard him groan, her fantasy man, then somehow saw him reach to tug apart the curtains at the nearby window to bathe the room in the gentle glow of the full moon.
“Oh, God, Ruthie,” he said, this time his voice taut and hoarse, full of something—a sound she was unfamiliar with, but could identify as need, desire. That was better. Now he sounded the way any dream lover should sound. Like he couldn’t get enough of her, though he hadn’t even touched her yet.
But he would. Oh yes, the night was long, and her dreams promised to be rich…and fulfilling.

EVERY OUNCE of decency in Robert Kendall’s being urged him to turn around, leave the key on the table, and lock the door behind him. Every lesson his mama had taught him about how to be a gentleman screamed at him. She called him Bobby, probably her boyfriend’s name! She didn’t know who he was. She was obviously suffering the effects of too much champagne and a stressful night. Get the hell out now!
But, louse that he was, he couldn’t make himself walk away.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured hoarsely, almost wishing he hadn’t pulled aside the curtain. With her pale body bathed in the golden glow of moonlight, she was too damned tempting.
She was dressed for seduction, for pleasure. The ivory satin lingerie she wore clung to the ripe curves of her body, hugging her hips, caught coyly between her pale thighs. Those legs—still encased in the white stockings—were not hard, not muscular, not firm. They were soft, rounded, meant to be touched and stroked. Kissed. He couldn’t tear his gaze away.
Until he noticed the thinness of her silky camisole. It had slipped down, revealing only the tiniest, most minuscule bit of lacy bra he’d ever seen. It was too small, made for a less endowed woman, and Ruthie’s lush breasts nearly spilled free of it. Even in the shadows he saw the dusky highlight of her nipples, not even an inch below the top of the lace, and his mouth went dry, his breathing became labored.
“Ruthie,” he muttered, trying to find the will to turn away, “I’m not who you think I am.”
“You are,” she whispered. “You are, and you came, and I’m so glad.”
Before he knew what was happening, she’d reached up, sliding her hand over his shoulder, tugging him down until he toppled onto the bed, on top of her. Then she was kissing him, and oh, sweet heaven, her mouth, her lovely, smiling mouth, that had driven him mad from the moment he’d seen her licking the chocolate icing off her fork, made him forget everything but sensation. She nibbled, slid her lips on his, licked hungrily at him until he couldn’t restrain himself and drew her entire body up tightly against his, so he could deepen the kiss. Then he was drowning in her, lost in her taste and smell, the champagne, the chocolate, the essence of her sweetness.
He moved lower, dropping kisses below her jaw, to the softness of her neck, the tender spot at the base of her ear. She writhed gently against him, pressing her silk-clad body even closer.
“I am so glad you found me,” she whispered as he placed a kiss at the base of her throat. “I didn’t want to be alone.”
She didn’t want to be alone. So she’d invited another man to spend the night with her.
The realization shocked him back into reality, forcing Robert to pull away. She sighed in disappointment, reaching for him again. Giving his head a few hard shakes, Robert struggled to slow his ragged breathing, tried to control his body’s reaction to her embrace. “Ruthie, this isn’t right. I’m not the one you want.”
In the soft light, he saw that, though her eyes remained closed, a smile crossed her face. “Of course you’re the one I want. Especially now.”
“Why now?” he asked, curious about this odd conversation he was having with a woman who was practically asleep.
“Now that I know we have more than chocolate.”
Her words hit him hard, like individual bolts of lightning. They struck, sunk in, hit home. She knew who he was.
Robert felt like chortling with glee.
It made sense. She’d been no more than tipsy downstairs an hour ago. Her mood now was obviously languorous, seductive, not groggy as he’d first thought.

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