Page 9 of One Naughty Night (Single in South Beach)

The seductive women in the Pre-Raphaelite paintings she loved were often reclining objects to be adored, not active seductresses themselves. No help in that quarter either. The lone source of inspiration she came up with were her screen idols. And if her matinee memory served, Esme thought Bette Davis would have already been mixing the drinks by now.

She hurried to the wet bar and eyed the myriad of offerings in the room service cooler. Too bad they didn’t prepackage good fortune potion. She could use a healthy serving right about now—the good luck as much as the potion.

Emerging from the cooler with a miniature bottle of brandy and two snifters—- wouldn’t Bette be proud?—- Esme found Hugh stooping to dip his fingers in the narrow waterfall that trickled gently from one wall in the living area.

“The details are genius.” He picked up a smooth river stone from the base of the waterfall where a cleverly crafted brook wound its way through the room. “I’ve seen something like this in Caribbean resorts before, but the finishes are usually more obviously prefabricated. The polished rocks are a nice touch.”

Esme flicked on the stereo located under the bar. She had no clue where the speakers were actually located, but the strains of Brahms seemed to surround them. She hoped classical music wasn’t off-putting, but it would be too much of a lie for her to flick over to some hip-hop station and pretend to be a happening chick.

Besides, how could anyone not love Brahms? The music hadn’t been around for centuries because it was no good.

“The furniture is what gets me. Whoever designed the room didn’t just pick up the furnishings at the local discount warehouse.” With a little awkward fumbling but no major spills, Esme managed to remove the packaging around the top of the brandy bottle and pour two glasses.

Hugh released the pebble he’d been holding and shook the water off his fingertips as he moved toward a small table where she’d set her keys. “Neo-classical reproductions. Nice stuff.”

Esme nearly dropped the brandy snifters as she stumbled over her feet. How had he known that? “That’s quite an eye you have. A lot of people wouldn’t know an antique if they lived with one, let alone be able to name the period.”

“But we both know an up and coming South Beach singles resort wouldn’t exactly have the funds to decorate their rooms with French Empire period mahogany, so I don’t think guessing this is a reproduction was much of a stretch.” He lifted the small table off the floor and peered underneath the silk panel inset that decorated its surface. “It’s not signed but it ought to be. Good replicas are hard to find.”

She promptly lost her heart to the man who spoke her language. As he set the table down, she handed him his glass. “You’re interested in antiques?” Did it make her a total geek that her heart pounded harder at the thought? “Because I deal in them as a sideline to my museum job. Well, my former job. I used to funnel a lot of antique finds to clients of the museum.”

She’d been an art historian by trade for the last five years, but her hobby had always been antiques. Every weekend of her adult life had been devoted to haunting local flea markets and garage sales in an endless quest for precious finds.

“I guess I’ve learned a few things about antiques through woodworking. I do some carpentry.” He tossed back a gulp of his brandy and pointed to the ceiling draped with embroidered linen as if eager to focus of the conversation away from himself. “The tent effect is cool.”

“And very in keeping with the sensualist’s theme.” After sniffing the brandy, Esme couldn’t bring herself to actually try it. Ack. Maybe she would become equally intoxicated by inhaling the fumes. “Everything in the room just makes you want to reach out and touch, doesn’t it?”

Hugh’s gaze snapped to hers as if he suspected her words for the blatant come-on that they were meant to be.

But damn it, he seemed to willfully ignore all her subtleties. Almost as though he’d backed off getting any closer to her since they had kissed.

Yet she knew the kiss had been good. Better than good, in fact. Her body still sang with the want of him.

“The fabrics are all top of the line,” he agreed, wandering further away to admire the babbling brook tripping through the room again. He put more distance between them at the same time he put himself closer to the door. And didn’t that say a lot about her charms?

Then again, she had read somewhere in a magazine that in this era of political correctness, men were more careful not to proceed physically with a new woman unless the female was very clear that was what she wanted. So maybe Hugh was simply being upstanding and polite.

But take-charge Esme didn’t need her date to be so solicitous. She needed him to kiss her again in the way that tripped off a reverberating alleluia chorus in her brain. Time to set the record straight.

Resting her brandy on the little table—- sorry, Bette—Esme struggled to connect with her inner wild woman as she closed the distance between her and Hugh.

Her instincts told her to try and entice him into kissing her again. So of course she needed to ignore that instinct and move straight to kissing him herself. Consequences be damned.

“When I said everything in the room makes you want to reach out and touch, I wasn’t just referring to the fabrics.” Her pulse jackhammered against her wrist, her neck, her chest. Her words seemed to hover in the heated current of air between them, wrapping them in a suggestive cocoon Hugh couldn’t possibly escape.

“You weren’t?” He set his drink down now too, providing her with his complete, undivided attention.

Either that, or he was freeing up his hands so he could sprint away if she got any closer.

“No, I wasn’t.” She took a measured half step nearer to him, watching him carefully to see if he would flee.

He remained rooted to the spot, his dark eyes raking over her with a heat that didn’t feel so polite any more.

“I was referring to a different kind of touching all together.” She edged closer until she could rest her fingertips on the black cotton expanse of T-shirt stretching over his chest.

Hard muscle rippled underneath her touch. His breath hissed out between his teeth. “You’re a woman full of surprises, Esme Giles, but I don’t know if--”

Stretching up on her toes, she kissed him into silence.

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