would make Michelangelo’s David weep with shame.
“What floor?” he asked.
Who cares? Meg thought. This floor, that floor. The wall, the shower. Didn’t matter to her. Until reason returned, she was open to any and all possibilities.
Looking somewhat bemused, he lightly shrugged and pressed a button on the control panel. “I’m on five,” he told her.
What floor? Feeling ridiculous, Meg squirmed as a blush warmed her cheeks. She cleared her throat, drew her shoulders back and tilted her jaw to its most flattering angle, vainly making a belated attempt to look cool and sophisticated. Which was ridiculous when she looked like the proverbial mobster’s widow. What on earth had possessed her to wear this? “I’m, er, on five as well. Here for the trade show?” she ventured. Would that she could be so lucky.
“No.” He winked conspiratorially. “But I am here on business.”
Damn. It figured. Meg absently chewed her bottom lip and did a quick inspection of his left hand. No ring. No visible shadow of a ring. Probably never married. Which would lead a sensible, less horny woman to conclude he was either A) Possessed of some hideous character flaw. Or B) He was gay. Good-looking professionals such as this did not remain single otherwise. Meg heaved an internal sigh. He was probably gay.
The elevator glided to a smooth stop and the doors opened with a hydraulic whoosh. He allowed her to exit first. Meg murmured a thanks, then said, “Hope you enjoy your stay.”
He grinned. “Thanks.”
Hope you enjoy your stay? What was she? The damned concierge?
Mentally cursing her own stupidity, Meg started down the hall in search of her room. Gay or no, he’d already made this trip even more interesting than it had promised to be. Meg sighed and mentally ticked off what would be required of her during this trade show. She’d meet the editors of Foreplay as well as the vendors of the products she critiqued. She’d been asked to give a Q&A workshop. She’d be busy, she realized, totally engrossed in the trade show and probably wouldn’t even have time to fantasize about Mr. Perfect from the elevator, much less pursue anything else with him.
Meg battled a wave of regret at the thought, but resigned herself to that end. Need was one thing, but actually acting upon that need was another.
That admission nonetheless didn’t keep Meg from wishing she had the nerve to be more like Desiree Moon in her daily life. Meg longed to give Desiree Moon this week, to let her out, so to speak. Let her wear the sexy, silky, off-the-shoulder red dress she’d impulsively bought, then packed. She wanted to be that person, if only for a week.
And why not? Meg wondered consideringly, struck with sudden inspiration. Why couldn’t she simply let herself be Desiree Moon this week? No one knew her here at the hotel, there was no one she would be held accountable to. The possibility made her quiver with anticipation. Still…there were other issues.
Meg wasn’t ashamed of her work for Foreplay, but neither did she wish to become a social pariah and an embarrassment to her family. Regrettably, a seedy connotation went along with what she did. While anything pertaining to sex sold—just look at books, magazines and movies, and the hotter the better—there were still people who considered the topic taboo.
If that wasn’t enough motivation, her mother would have a stroke.
But her mother wasn’t here, and this was the perfect opportunity, a little-heeded voice persisted. She could do it. There was nothing here to stop her, nothing to prevent her from giving Desiree this week and giving Meg a little excitement in the process. Throw caution to the wind, so to speak. Meg stopped outside her room and fumbled around in her purse for the key card.
“Looks like we’re neighbors.”
Meg looked up. Him. Lust kindled, then detonated, burning her up from the inside out.
It was a sign, Meg decided.
“So we are,” she said, the first truly articulate thing she’d managed so far.
Perhaps trust and discretion had nothing to do with her reluctance to engage in a no-strings affair, Meg thought as she watched her mystery man let himself into the room next to hers. Perhaps she’d just never been presented with the proper motivation.
And, as every good pastry chef knew, timing was every bit as important as the ingredients. This week, combined with Mr. Next Door, certainly looked like a recipe for romance to Meg. She’d just bet he’d be delicious.
2
WHAT was she doing in there?
And what the hell was that noise? To Nick’s supreme consternation, Desiree had been in her room for hours. He had heard the unmistakable sound of packages being delivered and enthusiastically opened. She’d oohed and ahhed excitedly at one point, so he assumed she’d gotten something that really pleased her. In addition, room service had been by and her phone had rung at least half a dozen times.
But of all the various noises filtering through the wall, the most intriguing—the most infuriating—had to be the ominous low buzzing hum which now emanated softly from her room.
Nick grimly suspected it was a vibrator.
Exhaling mightily, he shoved away from the connecting door and paced the small area between the foot of his bed and the wall. He speared his fingers through his hair. Irritation and, yes, dammit, lust hurtled through him at the thought of her lying over there doing…things to herself.
Despite the fact that he’d only gotten a vague impression of what she might look like underneath that garb, his imagination nonetheless filled in all the other necessary images, tantalizing him—torturing him—with visions so graphic, so depraved it was all Nick could do to keep from bursting through the door and showing her what the real article could do.
At present, his article was about to explode, and all because he suspected her of using a vibrator. One of the toys he detested.
It galled him to no end.
With little effort, Nick could imagine himself being slowly driven insane by presumed acts of carnality. Visions of her naked, lithe, dewy body writhing in ecstasy on that king-sized bed sent his personal mercury into the triple digits. Nick gritted his teeth. And the hell of it was, he didn’t even know if she possessed a lithe, dewy body. The unknown combined with his suddenly fertile imagination had turned his brain to mush. He couldn’t stand another minute of this, much less a week.
But he had to. The alternative wasn’t acceptable.
The infernal buzzing hum suddenly stopped and Nick found himself straining toward the door to listen harder. Several seconds passed, then the sound of running water filled the empty silence. Nick smiled wryly. Atta girl, he thought. Keep the toys clean. At least she practiced good hygiene.
Nick growled under his breath and opted for a shower. A cold one. He needed perspective and listening to every move Desiree made next door and attaching some sort of sexual connotation didn’t facilitate clear thinking.
Nick disrobed, then stalked, naked, to the shower. He adjusted the spray, then stepped in. The frigid water stole the breath from his lungs, resulting in a litany of anatomically impossible expletives. He muttered one final oath, then determinedly steered this thinking back
