Page 5 of One Naughty Night (Single in South Beach)

Esme reached for hers, a gesture that put her breasts in close contact with the silky thin fabric of her lavender dress. Breasts he could now see that were shaped like small apples, tipped with dark, tight nipples.

A rush of male appreciation swamped his senses, alerting his every stray blood cell that a sexy woman sat within tantalizing reach. Heat crawled over his skin, making his whole body edgy and very. . . ready for action.

Great. This was just what he needed—- he was trying to be noble and in the course of two steamy seconds his body had turned traitor to the cause.

How had he ever thought that dress of hers was conservative?

“I’m sure you’re living up to the name.” His words scratched across a throat gone slightly hoarse. Maybe this swearing off women thing hadn’t been such a good idea. His self-imposed sexual deprivation of the last few months was robbing him of necessary objectivity. “You risked accepting a blind date tonight. That takes a healthy sense of adventure.”

“Maybe a little.” She sipped her drink through the straw, her forehead puckered in wary concentration as she tasted the concoction. And smiled. “My compliments to your sister. This is delicious. Much better than champagne.”

She bent forward for another sip, her breasts grazing the fabric of her dress again. Not that he had a clear view with the table in the way and her sitting at a forty-five degree angle to him in the round booth. Still, his imagination easily supplied what he couldn’t see with his own eyes.

“You’re an art historian?” Think conversation. Think conversation. He refused to morph into some slick pick-up artist just because he’d caught a glimpse of bare breasts. He could maintain an intelligent discussion even if Esme was naked beneath her dress. He hoped.

“I just left a position with the South Beach historical museum that I held for five years. We focused on preserving Floridian culture and we recently added a small exhibit on native architecture.” She did a double take as the lights dimmed on the dance floor and the music changed to a salsa beat. The club goers who had peopled the floor moved to one side to make room for the hourly show. Leaning close, she whispered in Renzo’s ear. “What’s happening now?”

Warmth tripped through him along with her hushed words. What was it about a whisper that created an immediate veil of intimacy around two people?

“There’s a floor show every hour. Sort of a Vegas-style event with lots of—-” Half-naked bodies. Painted on tattoos over women’s nipples. See-through feathers in the place of panties. “—-costumes.”

She’d see for herself soon enough. The parade of perfect female bodies and fluffy white feathers was already snaking through the club toward the open dance floor. He and Nico had been trying for weeks to convince Giselle that the sex-drenched club was no place for her to work, but to no avail so far.

Renzo didn’t take any note of the parade of bare flesh, however. He simply watched Esme’s reaction, mesmerized by her transparent features as her face registered surprise, titillation and pleasure at the seductive moves performed by the Moulin Rouge’s dancers.

Her cheeks flushed pink the first time a dancer sent a limber high kick in their direction. Her soft lips parted on a little gasp when another woman brought her supple bump and grind routine a few inches from their table. Was Esmerelda Giles as innocent as she appeared? She had to be in her mid to late twenties if she’d worked as an art historian for five years. Didn’t that sort of profession call for some kind of post-graduate work? Surely she couldn’t be all that inexperienced. But there was an undeniable naïveté about her actions, an unexpected sense of wonder Renzo found incredibly appealing.

So many women he’d dated had been solely interested in hooking up. He didn’t care if craving a real connection made him old-fashioned. Spark and chemistry were important, but intimacy was about more than that. He appreciated authenticity and emotional intelligence, things that he wondered if Esme craved too.

Too bad he wasn’t going to act on the growing attraction he felt for her, even if watching her was making him fantasize about backing her up against the nearest wall to see if she tasted as sweet as she looked. Besides, Esme wasn’t the sort of woman who went back to any guy’s room. She was more reserved than that. More subtle. A woman who, he suspected, placed a high value on her sexuality while embracing more traditional values.

* * *

Justhowdida woman go about enticing an extraordinarily hot guy back to her bedroom?

Esme pondered the question as she stared across the table at her sexy-as-sin date.

The seductive performance of the feather-clad dancers had just ended and the music pulsing through the club switched from the blood-pumping salsa to a funky R&B song that had everyone on the floor. Something about the staged show remained with Esme, some erotic longing, a latent desire to perform and be noticed in the bold manner the dancers had called attention to themselves.

If she could claim that kind of sensual power, she would surely be an in-charge woman to be reckoned with. A fierce female. A woman who ran with the wolves.

All of which was exactly what she needed. And she’d be on her way to having those things with one simple seduction.

The decision to pursue her date wasn’t nearly as difficult as she might have expected. She couldn’t deny an instant attraction to his dark good looks and his fathomless brown eyes. Under normal circumstances she would have crossed her fingers that he would call her— knowing all the time he wouldn’t— and wasted a lot of time being disappointed.

But under her new life principle, she would do the opposite of wait around. She’d call the shots, she’d seduce him, and maybe she’d actually get what she wanted in life for a change.

Simple.

Of course, Esme fully recognized the brilliant plan was probably helped along by the happy combination of champagne and Good Fortune Potion zipping through her system. Other women did this all the time, however, so she refused to worry about the consequences.

Her date—-Hugh, she reminded herself— leaned closer, the short sleeve of his black T-shirt brushing her shoulder as he did. “So what did you think of the show? The Moulin Rouge Lounge has caused a bit of a local uproar with the antics of their dancers.”

“I thought it was incredibly sexy. Very. . . stimulating. Definitely inspiring.”

Hugh’s jaw dropped just a little. Esme hoped that was a good sign.

“Really? Some of our local politicians are making a push to put more restrictions on the creative license of the performance.”

---