the avenue at a snail’s pace to see and be seen. Foot traffic converged on Club Paradise from every direction as if all of South Beach wanted a chance to meet and mingle at Miami’s most risqué hot spot.
And every single person Esme laid eyes on wore considerably less than she did.
Shoot. How could she have made such a mistake after spending at least forty-five minutes deciding what to wear for this ridiculous blind date?
Esme fingered the featherweight silk of her outfit—a vintage gypsy dress she’d unearthed at a consignment shop on one of her antiquing outings. The gossamer garment ranked as the most seductive item of clothing she’d ever owned, yet it looked like a schoolgirl’s frock next to the sexy getups sported by every woman in line at Club Paradise’s side entrance across the street.
Once again, Esme’s judgment had been faulty.
Surprise, surprise.
In the weeks since she’d lost her job, her car, a little bit of her self-respect and her life’s dream to boot, Esme had been trying really hard not to exercise her own judgment. In fact, following the explosion of her previously well-ordered life, she’d realized that every decision she’d ever made had led her to lose her job, her car, some self-respect and her life’s dream. Therefore, she couldn’t trust her horrendous instincts.
Which accounted for her new desire to do the opposite of everything her instincts suggested.
She would have never considered going on a blind date before, but now as she waded through the rubble of her old existence, she’d decided maybe she ought to try it. She’d accepted her kindly new neighbor’s matchmaking attempt and had agreed to meet the woman’s nephew at the Moulin Rouge Lounge inside Club Paradise tonight.
Yippee.
While she stood on the street corner where the bus had deposited her and debated what to do about her overdressed condition, Esme was jostled by a pack of young men. She stepped aside quickly, mindful that she needed to quit dreaming and pay attention to her surroundings. A tall guy with spiky hair and a red silky T-shirt swept past her making breathy 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
