One Naughty Night. Joanne RockЧитать онлайн книгу.
little psst sounds at her in the way one might call to an animal.
Is this how people communicated attraction these days, or was the man trying to insult her with his catcall? God, she was so out of touch with the real world. She hadn’t been on a genuine date since grad school and even then she’d only gone out with history geeks who were as socially inept as her.
But no more.
Tonight marked a symbolic change in Esme’s life. A new mode of thinking, a new take-charge attitude. She’d thought the way to keep her touchy-feely former boss at bay was by buttoning up to the gills in conservative suits and layers of clothes, but Mr. Too Many Hands had probably read her insecurities in her wardrobe and thought he could help himself.
Steam hissed through her as she remembered those moments trapped in his grip and the ugly fallout of her resistance. She’d been fired in short order for sexual harassment even though he had been the one harassing her. Using his techno-nerd skills, her ex-boss had managed to manipulate the company computer system into printing out manufactured obnoxious e-mails supposedly from her to him. And now here she stood a week later.
Pissed and unemployed.
But ready to make a few changes in her life.
Stepping back into the shadows of an alleyway between two of South Beach’s historic, ice-cream-colored art deco buildings, Esme decided to make a few last minute adjustments to her wardrobe before she embarked on her blind date. The little overnight bag she planned to drop off in her complimentary hotel room before her midnight rendezvous didn’t include a change of clothes other than the casual outfit she’d wear tomorrow.
And frankly, she didn’t even want to cross over to that swanky, sexy side of the street looking like she did right now. She couldn’t do much about overdressing since she had no intention of stripping off her dress. But ditching another item of clothing might make her feel a little more daring and a lot more naked.
Reaching beneath her blouse, Esme unhooked her white lacy bra and wriggled out of the straps one arm at a time. Her barely-34Bs didn’t really require the support and somehow going braless seemed even more bold than baring a little midriff.
Old Esme never would have taken such a risk. New Esme planned to do just the opposite.
Flinging her bra off to one side to drape across a stainless steel trash can, Esmerelda Giles prepared to meet her blind date—one Mr. Hugh Duncan, journalist—with a serious take-charge attitude.
And possibly a little jiggle.
“RENZO, NO WOMAN is ever going to snap you up with that kind of old-fashioned attitude.” Giselle Cesare, head chef at Club Paradise and part owner of the popular singles playground, stirred her teriyaki sauce and glared at her older brother.
“Since when has it been my mission in life to get snapped up?” Renzo stood propped in the half-open door shortly before the resort’s main kitchen closed for the night and stared out over the writhing, wriggling bodies on the dance floor of the Moulin Rouge Lounge. He reached behind him to poke his mouthy sister in the ribs and steal a hunk of bread from the crusty Tuscan loaf sliced on the counter beside her. “I’m swearing off women since Celeste anyhow, remember?”
He’d been engaged to a woman raised as old-school Italian as him, but even she’d gotten scared off at the last minute by the idea of lifelong commitment. According to Celeste, she couldn’t allow her first lover to be her last.
Not that he blamed her exactly, but he sure as hell would have liked to have been informed of her decision before he showed up at the altar in his tux.
No, he definitely wasn’t in any hurry to be snapped up by any one right now. He shoved his pilfered bread in his mouth and resumed watching the erotic flow of scantily clad bodies out on the dance floor. Still leaning in the doorway, he could easily monitor the activity outside the room while occasionally helping Giselle with her work in the kitchen. Even after all formal food service ceased at midnight, the main kitchen still buzzed with activity until almost dawn thanks to twenty-four hour room service and the prep work that needed to be done before the hotel’s three restaurants opened for breakfast.
Despite the high titillation factor of the action in the lounge, Renzo wasn’t here to take in the floor show. He usually spent his few evenings away from his carpentry work at Club Paradise in order to keep an eye on his baby sister, although tonight there was an added chore. Later he needed to meet his older brother Nico to discuss the Cesare family finances and how in the hell they were going to cover their little brother’s law school expenses without going broke. Renzo was already working every spare second of the day. He needed to figure out a way to channel a more high-end product to a higher-paying clientele, but so far he hadn’t come up with how to accomplish this.
“Oh please. Renzo Cesare the monk?” Giselle ladled her sauce over a fresh batch of spinach noodles and slivers of grilled chicken. “Don’t try and tell me you’re swearing off women. It’s been six months since Celeste went back to Rome. Move on already.”
“And you’re such an expert on heartbreak, Ann Landers?” Renzo hadn’t mentioned his new financial concerns to Giselle, knowing his sister felt guilty enough about spending her inheritance by investing in Club Paradise. And although the idea of Giselle opening her own business where she could indulge the full extent of her culinary skills had sounded great at the time, none of the Cesare men had been prepared for her to bake bruschetta among half-naked bodies in South Beach’s most racy club.
Giselle garnished the teriyaki dishes with a curly strip of orange peel and a healthy chunk of Tuscan bread while Renzo rang a pager to signal one of the wait staff.
“Admittedly, no. I’m not an expert since men never get close enough to me to break my heart thanks to you.” She frowned up at him, her forehead damp with steam from the stove.
“Just because the last guy you dated didn’t break your heart doesn’t mean he didn’t cause you a hell of a lot of grief. Excuse me for trying to make sure that doesn’t happen again.” Some married SOB had lied to Giselle that he was single and taken her for a ride last winter. Renzo still hadn’t forgiven himself for not keeping a better eye out for her.
“I’m entitled to make my own mistakes, damn it. You and Nico have suffocated me with big brother watchfulness ever since then. If you don’t hook up with some majorly distracting females soon, I may be forced to strangle the both of you.”
“Sorry, sis. Cesare men don’t throw their women to the wolves, and this place of yours is crawling with them.” He snagged a plate of teriyaki for himself along with an extra slice of bread. “But since you’re feeding me tonight, I’ll give you a reprieve and you can have the next hour to yourself.”
Giselle shoved him toward the door. “I swear you and Nico are only playing watchdog so you can eat for free. Will you at least try to look mildly charming and less like a muscle-bound bouncer while you chow down so maybe some naive woman will steal you away for a few days?”
Renzo reached for a bottle of water before he backed out of the kitchen and into the club. “I’m not interested in the kind of women who want to steal me away. Neanderthals need to do all the stealing.”
As the heavy metal door swung shut behind him he heard Giselle call him a chauvinist pig and he smiled. No news there.
Dance music flooded his senses as he melted into the crowd to search for a table. Snippets of conversation around him drowned out his own thoughts, escalating into an unintelligible, continuous rumble of noise and laughter.
Although Renzo made no attempt to look charming while he ate at his table for one in the back of the bar, tempting women approached him twice. Part of him responded to their frank come-ons and slinky attire. It had been six months since Celeste, after all. Old-fashioned values be damned, his sister had been right to suggest he was no monk.
But he had more on his mind than sex—even with the thumping bass of R&B music pulsing through the dance club and the swirl of moody red and blue lights above him. As the clock behind one of the bars struck midnight,