Page 16 of One Naughty Night (Single in South Beach)

Grumbling her way to the door, she shoved up her sleeve to check the hour on her heavy silver timepiece. Eleven thirty. Since she’d asked for a late checkout, that meant she still had over an hour to hang out and enjoy the atmosphere of the room.

She tugged open the door, prepared to ask the maid to come back later.

“Morning.” The six-foot plus, smiling stud in her doorway was definitely not a maid.

No, the dark-haired, muscle-bound male exuding a lethal combination of pheromones and testosterone was more likely to rumple her sheets than make her bed. Not that she would let him.

But she’d be lying through her teeth if she tried to deny the thrill shooting through at the sight of him.

“Renzo.” Too late she realized she’d huffed out the name with too much breathless anticipation when she could not afford to be attracted to him. Willing away the attraction, she straightened. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression last night, but I don’t think we should--”

“I understand completely.” He held up a hand as if to ward off any other objections, his broad chest flexing against the gray Cesare Construction T-shirt that skimmed the top of his jeans. “I’m here with more of a business proposition than a personal one.”

“You’re here on business?” She couldn’t imagine what they could possibly have to discuss in that realm. “I don’t know what you have in mind, but I don’t think I could ever do business with someone I can’t trust.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a little hard on me, Esme? I’ve admitted I was out of line by lying to you, but you have to know it was never my intention to set foot in your room last night. I only meant to walk you up here to be sure you were safe.”

But then Esme and her plans for seduction had enticed him inside. Wincing, she remembered his reluctance, but she hadn’t twisted his arm either.

“And then I dragged poor unsuspecting you into my lair to seduce you?” She shook her head. “I’m not taking the blame for you misleading me.”

She’d shouldered enough blame for the incident with Miles Crandall, her touchy-feely boss at the museum, when she hadn’t done a damn thing to make him think she was interested. She knew better now.

He shook his head, freeing a lock of dark hair to fall along his brow “You’re tougher than you look, Esme Giles, I’ll grant you that. Are you sure I couldn’t talk to you for fifteen minutes this morning? I came up with an idea that could be profitable for us both.”

She stared into those endlessly brown eyes of his and found herself wanting to believe him. Hehadpossessed enough courtesy to at least own up to the truth last night before things went too far. She suspected plenty of other people would have taken what they wanted and worried about the ethics of the situation later.

Besides, who was she to turn away business propositions given the precarious state of her finances and her shredded career?

“It’s just business?” She needed this clarified upfront. Even if she’d relived the feeling of the man’s kisses all night, that didn’t mean she would accept romantic overtures from him in the future.

“Just business.” He crossed his heart like an earnest eight year old.

The absurdity of the gesture coming from a man who looked like he probably weight-lifted eight-year-olds in his spare time made her smile in spite of herself.

“We can go down to the lobby to talk if you’d feel more comfortable,” he offered, stepping backward in the corridor as if to make way for her to join him.

She appreciated the thought even if she didn’t feel the need to take him up on it.

Esme opened the door wider. “That’s okay. If you were going to rob me and leave me for dead it would have been a much easier job last night while I was throwing myself at you.”

She tried not to notice the sudden charge in the air as he entered her suite for the second time in twenty-four hours. The atmosphere grew thicker, heavy with awareness. She led them toward two low-slung chairs positioned close enough to the narrow, manmade brook that guests could dip their toes in the water if they were so inclined.

Which Esme wasn’t. She didn’t trust herself to remove so much as a sandal in this man’s presence for fear once she started taking off things she wouldn’t be able to stop.

“Thanks for letting me in.” Renzo stood behind one of the chairs and waited while she took her seat.

“A shot at financial solvency is an irresistible lure to an unemployed woman.” She tried not to notice the play of muscles against his clothes as he lowered himself into the seat across from her. But it was like her gaze was stuck to him. Annoyed with herself, she cleared her throat. Began again. “It occurs to me I don’t even know what line of work you’re in since I thought you were Hugh the journalist last night.”

“Cesare Construction.” He scrubbed a hand across the T-shirt that proclaimed as much, drawing her attention back to his chest. “I make a lot of cabinets personally, but I also oversee crews at various jobs around town building everything from houses to gazebos. It’s probably not as exciting as journalism, but it was my father’s business.”

“And I’m sure it’s a profitable one for you, but I can’t imagine someone likemewielding a hammer anytime soon.”

Although the image of Renzo in a tool belt working up a sweat was enough to make a woman contemplate donning a hardhat.

He leaned forward in his seat, pinning her with those dark eyes as he braced his elbows on his sprawling knees. “I was thinking more about what you said about the market for antique reproductions, remember?”

She nodded. “I do. But what does the antique market have to do with building gazebos?”

---