Kitabı oku: «Just Toying Around...», sayfa 3

While Desiree Moon might long to throw caution to the wind, Meg Sugarbaker was still more than a little gun-shy. She’d been burned before and repercussions for that one stupid mistake had blistered her enough to make her very cautious. The last time she’d dropped her guard she’d lost a scholarship that would have saved her thousands of dollars and garnered respect in the snobbish circles of haute cuisine. She’d also been made a laughingstock. Though she was more mature now and circumstances were different, old habits died hard. Meg chose her company carefully, kept her circle tight.

But hadn’t she decided not to worry about Meg’s concerns this week? Hadn’t she decided to be Desiree Moon? If that were the case, then she shouldn’t be bound by all the old doubts, reservations and insecurities. She should simply live in the moment and see where this week took her. And she’d only have this week. Once it was over, it would be back to good old Meg. The thought struck a curious pang of regret, but Meg forced it away and concentrated on the present.

After all, this was the first time she’d been out on anything that remotely resembled a date in ages, and Nick Devereau was by far the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on. She would simply enjoy herself and the rest would take care of itself.

Resigned to that end, Meg took a moment to survey the bar. Though relatively early, a sizable crowd had gathered. A soulful jazz tune emanated from hidden speakers, creating an intimate bare-your-soul atmosphere. A smoky haze swirled near the ceiling, casting an eerie glow in the dimly lit lounge.

Nick returned with their drinks. “Now where were we? Oh, yes. You were going to tell me about yourself.”

Her gaze tangled with his. “I was?”

“Certainly. We decided you were a more interesting topic of conversation than the weather.”

Meg grinned wryly. Aside from the fact that she was a sex-toy critic, there was absolutely nothing interesting about her life. She was a single, twenty-seven-year-old pastry chef, a frustrated semivirgin who owned a small patio home in a middle-class subdivision. Rather than succumb to the old-maid cat cliché, she’d bought a gerbil. Whoopee. Didn’t she live life in the fast lane?

Well, that would all change when she pulled together the tuition and travel fees for the school in Paris. Her dream was almost in reach. Just a few more months and she’d be a true cosmopolitan woman.

But she wasn’t yet.

“No,” she clarified, drawing in a cautious breath. “You decided I would be a more interesting topic of conversation.”

He shrugged noncommittally. “Semantics. Tell me about yourself.”

Another interesting discovery, Meg thought, unreasonably impressed. Nick Devereau didn’t seem to have any intention of dominating their conversation with the usual bullshit bravado men normally felt compelled to impart. He seemed genuinely interested in her. Meg couldn’t help but be impressed. “What do you want to know?” she asked.

“Everything.”

Meg chuckled. “Not much, eh?”

“Why don’t we do a little Q&A? Tit for tat, so to speak.” He stilled, studying her intently. “If I ask something that’s too personal or something you don’t want to answer, then just say ‘pass.’ I’ll do the same to any question you ask me.”

Meg mulled it over. “Okay,” she conceded grudgingly. “Sounds fair.”

“What do you do for a living?”

Hell. Meg mentally rolled her eyes. He would ask that first. While the sex-toy critic job was more interesting, it wasn’t her primary source of income. Besides, she didn’t know how to do the Heimlich and he’d probably choke if she imparted that little factoid. “I’m a pastry chef,” Meg answered. “What do you do?”

He sipped his whiskey. “I’m an attorney. A pastry chef,” he repeated, seemingly intrigued. “That’s a great deal more interesting than the weather. What restaurant?”

Hmmm. Too personal, Meg decided. Too risky as well. Though unlikely, she still might discover some hideous character flaw. She might not want him knowing where she worked. “Sorry, I’ll pass on that one,” she told him. An earlier suspicion surfaced and she regarded him shrewdly. “Are you gay?”

He strangled on his whiskey. “Wh-what? No! Why?” His brows winged up his forehead. “Do I— Do I act gay?”

“That’s two questions,” Meg pointed out as she resisted the urge to laugh. His abrupt, outraged, vehement “no” certainly left no doubt that he was straight. “I’ll answer the last question. No, you don’t act gay…but you seem too good to be true.” Meg narrowed her gaze, studied him thoughtfully. “Are you married?”

“No.” A hint of humor danced in his eyes and a bit of self-satisfaction clung to the edges of his halfhearted smile. “Why do you think I’m too good to be true?”

That had been too telling a remark, Meg thought ruefully. She’d have to watch herself. Pass or be forthright? She chose forthright. It seemed the Desiree thing to do. “Because you’re a seemingly sane, heterosexual, unmarried, attractive professional over thirty.” Meg leaned forward. “Do you live with your mother?”

A burst of laughter erupted from his chest. “No. Are you married?”

Meg shook her head. “Does mental illness run in your family?”

“No.” His gaze captured hers and he lowered his voice. “Do you realize you are the most entertaining woman I’ve met in a long time?”

Meg blushed, pleased at the unexpected compliment. “No, I didn’t. Are you currently taking any prescription medications, mood elevators, anti-depressants?”

The perpetual grin kicked up around the edges. “No. Would you like to dance?”

Meg’s drink stalled halfway to her mouth. “Er…” Meg glanced around the increasingly crowded room. Some industrious patrons had shoved several tables out of the way and had created a makeshift dance floor.

“Didn’t catch a ‘pass’ or a ‘no’, so I’ll take that as a yes.” Nick stood and drew her to her feet, then gently tugged her toward the dance floor. Within seconds, she found herself curled into his masculine embrace. His warm palms lay anchored at her hips and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to twine her arms around his neck. Her head fit perfectly in the hollow under his chin. His scent, a clean woodsy fragrance, swirled around her senses, enveloping her in a sensual haze. The music throbbed around them and for Meg, the rest of the room simply faded away.

For all intents and purposes, they were glued from the knee up, and the contact had all but set Meg aflame. Her blood pulsed warmly in her veins, pooled at her womanly center. The desire for release, the unequivocal need, spiraled inside her, an ever-tightening coil.

She felt his breath stir near her ear. “You’re a good dancer. And you smell wonderful.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, impossibly warming more with the compliment. “You dance well yourself.” She paused. “Did you learn how at your anger management classes?”

His chuckle vibrated through her, and she could feel his smile against her hair. “Still looking for faults, I see. Can’t you just accept the fact that I’m perfect?”

Meg giggled. “Aha!”

He drew back to look at her. “Aha, what?”

“You’re not perfect.” She sniffed. “A perfect man would never be so conceited.”

“Touché,” he said, laughing.

As much as she dreaded it, Meg knew the time had come to bid him good-night.

While she still would.

While she still could.

Her shoulders rounded with a sigh as the song drew to a close. “It’s getting late,” she confided regretfully. “I’ve got an early morning.”

“I do, too. We should probably head back upstairs.”

Meg nodded, pleased to note that he didn’t seem any more eager to end their date than she did. The trip to the room went entirely too fast for Meg’s liking, but she knew she shouldn’t linger. It had been a pleasant evening and, other than that last dance, she’d managed to keep from launching herself into his arms. Or into his lap. Or at his mouth.

Which would have been entirely too easy.

Meg paused outside her door and turned to face him. Lashes at half-mast, those butterscotch orbs had darkened into a warm caramel. Meg suppressed a shiver. Her mouth dried…watered. Her gaze strayed to his full, firm lips and, with effort, she swallowed. “I’ve had a really good time tonight. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. Lingered. He cleared his throat. “Are you leaving tomorrow?”

Meg shook her head. “I’ll be here all week.”

He released a small breath. “Me, too. Can I see you again?”

A bud of pleasure unfurled in her chest. “Sure.”

The space between them had mysteriously lessened, Meg noted as her gaze once again returned to his lips.

“Same time tomorrow night?”

“It’s a date.”

“Then let’s seal it with a kiss.” He framed her face gently and his mouth descended to hers. His lips were firm, yet soft, and deliciously warm, and the taste of whiskey still clung to them. Meg moaned with pleasure, sank more firmly against him and angled her head to grant him better access.

Mamma-mia. This man knew how to kiss.

He knew precisely how to alternate pressure, how to suckle, how to explore the ultra-sensitive recesses of her mouth. His tongue curled around hers, plundered in and out, back and forth, and while his mouth laid siege to hers, his hands had started an equally thorough expedition.

But that was okay, because hers had too.

Meg mapped his chest with her palms, felt the hard muscles bunch beneath her hands, vibrate at her touch. When she’d gotten her feel for those areas, she moved north, to his massive shoulders, then on to his nape, where she curled her fingers into the silky tawny locks.

Nick’s hands were equally eager. He palmed her ribs, barely thumbing the undersides of her breasts. Up! Up! Meg wanted to scream. Her nipples ached with need, puckered for attention. She longed to feel his mouth anchored there, feeding on her as his lips fed now on her mouth.

His big warm hands traveled round the small of her back and settled on her rump. He squeezed her there, drew her upward and aligned her so that she came navel to zipper with the evidence of his arousal. Desire flooded her sex, moisture drenched her feminine folds. Nick swallowed her groan of want as she moved impatiently against him. Need clawed at her, consumed her, made her wiggle shamelessly against him. She wanted—

“Didn’t we get you a room?”

The vaguely familiar humorous male voice shattered the sensual fog and Meg and Nick broke apart guiltily. Meg turned…and came face-to-face with Ann and a man whom she could only assume was Marcus Kent.

Mortification glued her tongue to the roof of her mouth. “I—uh.”

The man extended his hand. “Marcus Kent. You’re Desiree, right?”

Meg nodded, still bewildered. “Right.”

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” His gaze bounced to Nick, glinted with something strangely akin to hunger. “And your significant other, Antonio.”

Nick frowned. “An—”

“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Mr. Kent,” Meg rushed to impart before Nick could finish.

Mr. Kent reluctantly returned his attention to Meg. “I know that you have a busy day tomorrow, Desiree. But at some point over the next week, I’d really like to meet with you and your partner. I’ve been anxious to get a hetero male opinion of some of those new products we’re reviewing.” He eagerly turned to Nick. “For instance, those new penis jelly rings. Man to man, Antonio,” he confided, edging closer to Nick, “do they really prolong an erection?”

Nick’s eyes bulged. “Wh—”

“We’ll have to get back to you on that, Mr. Kent. It was a pleasure meeting you.” Meg crammed the key card in the lock, shoved the door open and herded Nick inside. “See you tomorrow,” Meg trilled amiably. She sagged against the door, then turned to face Nick.

Meg winced at his thunderstruck expression. “Sorry about that.”

“Penis jelly ring? What the hell is that man talking about?”

“Dunno,” Meg lied, studiously avoiding his gaze. She opened her side of the connecting door and nimbly guided Nick to it.

Gone was the jovial charmer. The shrewd attorney had taken his place. “I suspect you do. And why did he call me ‘your partner’?”

Inwardly, Meg sighed. There was no way around it. She had to level with him. Especially if she thought he might be persuaded to don the role of her partner while they were here. She’d considered it. What choice did she have now that they’d been seen together? The he’s-gone-to-donate-a-kidney story certainly wouldn’t fly now—they’d see him around the hotel.

Honestly, who would have thought that one cocktailed trip through cyberspace in search of a vibrator to remedy her perpetually aroused state would result in this chaos?

Meg nervously cleared her throat. “Okay, here’s the truth. I am a pastry chef.” The rest she spewed out in a rush. “I’m-also-an-online-sex-toy-critic-in-town-for-a-trade-show-and-that-man-in-the-hall-was-my-editor-and-he-thinks-that-you’re-my-partner-Antonio-whom-I’ve-been-sleeping-with-while-I’ve-been-critiquing-various-products-over-the-past-several-months. Understand?”

If possible, his dumbfounded expression intensified. “No, I—” Meg leaned forward and captured his lips with hers. She threw every bit of her yearning into the kiss—every ounce of want—then abruptly drew back, making him stagger forward. “G’night,” she murmured breathlessly. “We’ll discuss this later.”

Then she closed the door on his gorgeous, thoroughly bewildered face.

4

ASTOUNDED, NICK BLINKED as the door closed in his face. Blinked again. It took a moment to realize that Desiree wasn’t going to open the door and offer any other explanation for the bizarre episode in the hall. Numb with shock, Nick entered his own room, crossed to the bed and collapsed onto the mattress. His breath left him in a whoosh.

What in God’s name had just happened? Since he’d agreed to this maniacal plan of Ron’s, Nick’s predictable, uncluttered life—which he, for the most part, enjoyed—had made a left turn at Strange and exited onto Bizarre.

If he’d heard and interpreted Desiree’s hurried soliloquy correctly, that man in the hall was laboring under the incorrect assumption that his name was Antonio, he and Desiree were lovers—had been lovers for several months—and that, he, Nick Devereau, enjoyed kinky sex and had used something called a penis jelly ring to prolong his erection.

A band of tension tightened around Nick’s skull. The hard-on he’d enjoyed as a result of that mind-blowing kiss promptly wilted.

How had this happened? Nick wondered. How had his plan gone so totally awry? Admittedly, it had never been the best plan. Nick knew that. But, in the end, what choice had he had? Guilt had gotten the better of Nick and had propelled him into action once again on his brother’s behalf.

He’d had to help Ron.

And while his “charm her” strategy wasn’t exactly the noblest cause of action, the woman in question was an adult. She could refuse to be charmed, he’d reasoned when his conscience had howled its disapproval. She didn’t have to even give him the time of day.

But all of that had been when the woman had simply been a target—not a person.

Not her.

Unbidden, an image of Desiree rose in his mind. That smooth heart-shaped face surrounded by all that silky, dark-brown hair. Those compelling, mossy-green eyes which alternately glittered with humor and darkened with desire. They were a kaleidoscope of emotion, a mantrap.

But her mouth…

Nick closed his eyes. Astonishingly, the pleasure of kissing her had to be one of the single most erotic things he’d ever experienced. That plump, plum-soft bottom lip, the rasp of her tongue against his as he plundered the silky recesses of her mouth. Nick swallowed.

He’d been so caught up in the kiss—so caught up in feeling those full, ripe lips tasting his—that he’d come within a gnat’s ass of backing her against the wall and taking her right there.

In the damned hall.

Which was ridiculous because he firmly intended not to stage an all-out seduction. He would not take her to bed. He’d only come here to get close to her, to see if she was indeed the fraud Ron thought her to be. Sleeping with her—no matter how badly he might want to—was simply out of the question. Nick had compromised his honor enough. He would not destroy it completely by seducing a woman on purpose under false pretenses.

Still, he’d never been so turned on, so desperate to plant himself between a woman’s thighs.

Undoubtedly, if Marcus Kent hadn’t come along, that’s exactly where he’d be right now. Between her thighs, pumping in and out, deep and hard until they both were wrung dry and sated with relief.

Naked limbs and tangled sheets, the musky tang of sex in the air.

Then, she’d kiss him again with those unbelievably carnal lips, he’d harden—without the aid of a penis jelly ring, he thought darkly—and they’d start all over again.

No! No, they wouldn’t, dammit! He wouldn’t allow it.

Visions of those previous thoughts rebelliously arose in Nick’s tortured mind and he winced as he once again stiffened to the point of pain. Disgusted, he laced his fingers behind his head and stared at the ceiling, mentally willing the futile erection away. Short of taking matters into his own hands, so to speak, there was nothing left to do.

Nick gritted his teeth and flatly refused to even entertain the thought. He hadn’t had to resort to masturbation for relief since he’d ditched the orthodontic headgear and gotten his first car.

He certainly didn’t have any intention of doing it now.

He could handle the frustration. Really. Any minute now, this raging erection would wither and he could quit thinking about what it would be like to sheath himself in Desiree’s heat. To feel those small capable hands of hers gliding over his skin. Clutching his ass, urging him on as he pistoned in and out of her hot, velvety channel.

To Nick’s supreme irritation, a low-buzzing hum suddenly broke the tense silence. A grim, humorless smile turned his lips and a bark of laughter erupted from his throat.

Another fantasy took hold. He closed his eyes and groaned. Swore. Groaned again.

Imagined her flushed skin. All that glorious hair fanned out on a stark white pillow. Long, bare limbs writhing on top of crisp sheets. Her small even teeth sunk into that amazingly full bottom lip. Naked, puckered breasts. A tangle of moistened chocolate curls at the junction of her creamy thighs…

Buzzzzzzzzzzzz.

…her clever fingers massaging the secret bud nestled like a treasure in her wet, feminine folds. Arched neck, a moan of pleasure…

A bead of sweat broke out on Nick’s brow. Frustration welled, peaked. He resisted the urge to gnash his teeth. To scream.

Buzzzzzzzzzz.

Ah, hell. With a defeated sigh, he lowered his zipper and took matters into his own hands.

SHE’D PROBABLY NEVER SEE HIM again, Meg reflected gloomily as she applied her mascara. She blinked, satisfied that she’d coated each lash and slipped the slim tube back into its place in her makeup case. Going to the trouble of getting ready for their date seemed like a monumental waste of time considering he’d most likely departed the hotel first thing this morning, or at the very least had moved to a different room.

But Meg went through the motions anyway on the off chance that he still planned to keep their date. After all, he hadn’t called to cancel. He struck her as the type who’d extend such a courtesy.

When she’d returned to her room this afternoon after attending her trade-show duties, she’d fully expected to hear his regrets on her voice mail. But she hadn’t. Nor had she heard any activity in his room. No TV. Not so much as the flush of a commode. It had been eerily quiet.

Honestly, though, if he stood her up, could she really blame him? A sigh seeped past her lips. Despite the fact that they’d had a great time and had obviously clicked on several different levels, he’d been asked a very personal question—about his erection, for pity’s sake!—by a complete stranger.

And it was all her fault.

Of all the rotten luck, Meg silently railed. If it had been anyone but Marcus Kent who’d caught the two of them in the hall, she wouldn’t be in this predicament.

And it was a predicament. As screwed-up as a soup sandwich.

Marcus had cornered her downstairs again this afternoon, extolling his unending delight over meeting Antonio and getting his perspective on all the products she’d been critiquing. The curiously effeminate man had practically rubbed his greedy little hands in anticipation. He simply couldn’t wait. And, wouldn’t it be wonderful if Antonio could start critiquing, too? Do a He Said, She Said-type review and run them together? Run their pictures beside their column, just like Ann Landers?

Oh, I don’t know, Meg thought sarcastically. Lemme think about that a minute. No!

Meg pulled in a shaky breath. No, it would not be wonderful. Their pictures? Please. When hell froze over. She didn’t even use her own name, for heaven’s sake. Why the hell would she want her picture up there for the entire world to see? Hey, Ma.

Check out this url. www.yourdaughterthenympho.com.

A hysterical bubble of laughter fizzled up her throat. This was turning into her worst nightmare. If it weren’t for Paris—for the opportunity to study with Pierre—despite the fact that she enjoyed critiquing, Meg would give notice and head straight back to her unsuspecting virtually stress-free life. There was a lot to be said for peace of mind, Meg decided, and ever since Marcus had seen Meg in the hall with Nick, her peace of mind had been shattered.

Marcus had lots of ideas, all of which had begun to make Meg physically ill from thinking about them. Because each one was worse than the last—and they all involved the partner she didn’t have, but seemed she would be forced, in short order, to get.

Meg had gone over it and over it in her head and, if Nick showed up tonight, she’d have no choice but to ask him to pose as her lover. A shiver of need accompanied that thought. But Marcus had seen him, would inevitably see him around the hotel. It was either ask Nick to masquerade as Antonio, or confess to Marcus that she didn’t have a partner at all.

Regrettably, neither scenario was very attractive, and if she didn’t ask Nick, she could kiss going to Paris next summer goodbye.

She’d have to ask Nick.

He’d probably say no, but what the hell? At this point, other than her job, her dream and a-potentialboyfriend/chance-of-a-lifetime/weeklong-tryst-with-the-sexiest-man-she’d-ever-laid-eyes-on what did she have to lose?

Admittedly, Meg had been unreasonably attracted to Nick from the start. She’d practically gone into a molecular meltdown from the moment he’d first stepped into the elevator with her. Something about him tripped every single one of her triggers. She didn’t know what exactly and she certainly didn’t know why.

But she’d never craved a man so much, never turned into a single throbbing nerve of need by simply staring at a man’s lips before. All of these little indicators should have tipped her off, should have prepared her for The Kiss.

But they hadn’t.

Meg had been within a millimeter of orgasm when Marcus Kent had interrupted them. One more wiggle—mercy—one more slip of his tongue into her mouth and she would have climaxed.

Right there in the hall.

Still fully clothed.

Thanks to a man, not a toy.

Dammit, she wanted that orgasm! It was hers. She’d waited her entire adult life for a real, male-induced orgasm and Marcus Kent had robbed her of it. Meg felt like stamping her foot, like a kid whose favorite toy had been stolen by a schoolyard bully. She wanted to scream in frustration. She settled for a whimper of regret.

Now, who knew what would happen? Even if Nick did keep their date, she seriously doubted he’d agree to be her pseudo lover. And even if he did, look at the torture she would be in for. They’d be forced to talk about the product line, the toys…sex…all the time. She’d have to prep him, give him a crash course in Sex 101. The thought made Meg smile. She—a virgin in every sense but the word—giving him sex lessons.

Like he’d need any. Meg snorted. She knew without a doubt Nick Devereau had plenty of experience when it came to bed play. If his kiss had been any indication of the rest of his abilities, then he undoubtedly had been pleasuring women since puberty. Highly motivated libido or no, Meg knew it took an extreme amount of talent to make a woman almost come with nothing but a kiss.

Meg shrugged into her dress, then fastened a pair of strappy sandals onto her feet. If he didn’t stand her up, maybe she’d get lucky and he’d kiss her again.

“SO, LET ME MAKE SURE that I’ve got this straight. You want me to pretend that we’re lovers, to pretend that you and I have used—do use, on a regular basis—sex toys when we make love? That I’m this Antonio person?”

Desiree swallowed. Nodded jerkily. Amazingly, she seemed genuinely embarrassed. “That about sums it up, yes.”

“You are a sex-toy critic for an online magazine and you’re here for the trade show that’s going on in the hotel?”

This time she cleared her throat. “Right. I had to come alone, and then my boss saw me necking in the hall with you… He assumed you were Antonio.” She shrugged. “I’m kinda in a bind.”

The irony wasn’t lost on Nick. Ron had asked him to be her lover in fact—which he’d refused to do—and now she’d asked him to be her lover in theory.

The situation had just taken another absurd turn, but one that would benefit Ron’s cause. It would certainly be easier to gather the ammunition to discredit her if they were working so closely together. Playing the part of her sex-toy critique partner would undoubtedly result in togetherness, probably more than he could comfortably handle, Nick realized as a finger of trepidation slid down his spine.

And while he’d imagined many scenarios for how this date would proceed, Desiree Moon asking him to pose as her sex-toy critique partner had never been one of them.

Nick lounged back in his chair, considering her thoughtfully. That explained why she’d seemed so relieved when he’d shown up at her door. She hadn’t been anxious to see him—she needed something from him.

To Nick’s surprise, he found himself unreasonably perturbed. The idea that she’d resort to using him to keep her critiquing job shouldn’t bother him, considering he was the one with the ulterior motive. He’d only come to the hotel with the purpose of gathering evidence for Ron, to ruin her credibility in that very field.

But it did.

Some sort of revelation he didn’t wish to pursue lurked in that thought, so Nick—being Nick—bullied it aside and focused on the positive.

This could definitely work to his advantage. True, pretending firsthand experience with questionable things such as penis jelly rings would be intensely humiliating and against every natural instinct he had as a man.

But it would even the playing field.

He could help Desiree while gleaning his information for Ron. Then he wouldn’t be the only one benefiting from this insane, totally ridiculous scheme. She would, too.

He mentally shrugged. He could work with that. In fact, now that he’d boxed his misgivings into a neat little package which no longer concerned him, Nick felt more comfortable going into stealth mode. Just to punish her for making him feel so out of sorts, he pulled an Emeril and kicked it up a notch.

“Okay,” he said at last.

Those impossibly green eyes rounded in relief. “You’ll do it?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Nick lowered his voice to an intimate level, and blatantly perused every inch of her. Her mouth, the subtle curve of her jaw, the slender column of her throat. How would she taste there? he wondered. “You’re a gorgeous, intelligent female whom I’m intensely attracted to,” he murmured. “You just offered me the opportunity to discuss sex with you at length.” He lifted a shoulder in a negligent shrug. “Why wouldn’t I agree?”

She gulped. “You realize that Marcus will put you on the spot? Expect you to answer very personal, potentially embarrassing questions?”

Nick nodded. “It’s worth the trade-off.”

“Penis jelly rings are just the tip of the iceberg,” she warned.

“I can handle it.” He hoped. Damn. What could possibly be worse than penis jelly rings? Did he really want to know? No matter. Undoubtedly, he’d find out.

Seemingly satisfied, Desiree leaned back into the barrel-backed chair in the lounge and absently ringed the rim of her glass with her index finger. She wore a tangerine-colored tank dress that swung loosely around her thighs and the sexiest little sandals he’d ever seen. Nick imagined he could have her out of the dress in less than three seconds. She could leave the shoes on.

Bloody hell. He had to stop thinking like this. He had to—

“Antonio?” Desiree sing-songed as she wiggled her fingers at him. “Yoo-hoo?”

Nick blinked. “Come again?”

Smiling, Desiree tsked. “You have to remember that you’re Antonio now. It’ll look funny if Marcus or Ann address you and you act like you don’t know who they’re talking to.”

“Right,” Nick said, feeling foolish. “Forgive me. I’m not used to answering to anything but my own name. Funny how that works.”

Desiree chuckled. “Trust me, when this is over, you’ll be glad that you haven’t used your real name.”

Nick stilled. For the first time since he’d met her, it occurred to him that he didn’t know her real name.

“You use a pseudonym?” he asked lightly, though he knew the answer to that question. He simply wanted to see if she’d tell him the truth. To see if she trusted him enough to give him her real name.