to him. His tanned, handsome face. The curve of his lips. The line of his jaw. The perfection of his bare torso. Even his hands. His hands! Why have I never noticed the strength of his hands?
“I guess I should go back to my room and change for the dinner banquet,” Chloe finally managed to whisper as she noticed the amused, appraising glance they got from the passing pool boy.
“Meet me later. After your banquet.”
She shouldn’t. Something was happening here that had nothing to do with the store, or the retailers’ conference. This was elemental, like the storm tossing the awning around outside. She should stop, back up, take a deep breath and remember what was important. School, job and family. Not a man. Not a gorgeous, to-die-for man who took her breath away.
She nodded. “Okay.” Then she widened her eyes. Who said that? Chloe, you idiot.
“In the bar? At ten?”
Still having a mental argument over the stupidity of her actions, Chloe murmured, “I’ll be there.”
“Then it’s a date.”
A date? A date with the managing director? The guy who could toss you out on your rear at a moment’s notice? Are you insane?
Maybe. But, damn, insanity had never felt so good.
Catching sight of the face of her waterproof watch, Chloe gasped at the time. “I have to go,” she said. “Don’t you, too?”
He raised a quizzical brow.
“I’ll see you in a little while,” she said, not waiting for his reply. Chloe clutched her bag close to her chest, turned and hurried away toward the elevator, fighting against her urge to look back at him one more time.
It didn’t matter. Whether she looked back or not, she knew he watched her every step of the way. The excitement coursing through her body was all the proof she needed of that.
As she punched the button for the elevator, she found herself softly repeating Jess’s words. “Mindless and fabulous.”
TRENT DIDN’T REALIZE until after the curvy brunette boarded the elevator that he hadn’t learned her name. He chuckled, knowing he’d probably appeared as besotted as a teenager. But she’d agreed to meet him anyway. Later tonight he’d find out her name. Her name—not to mention everything else about her.
Though he’d been hit by a bolt of attraction watching her from behind as she stared at the stormy sky, Trent was even more interested now that he’d seen the rest of her. Her curly mane of light-brown hair surrounded a soft, heart-shaped face with blue eyes he thought he could get lost in. Her laughter, her obvious joy in the elements, her sense of humor—all intrigued him.
And the woman did some damn fine things to a black bikini.
Yes. This weekend of work was definitely looking up. After all, there wasn’t much landscaping to be done after six o’clock at night. He had tonight and tomorrow night all to himself. To get to know her a lot better.
Trent couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt as instantly attracted to a woman as he had today. It had been ages since he’d had the time to even date, much less get involved with someone. His business had been a twenty-four/seven commitment since the day he’d started it. Funny how having to pay rent for the first time in his life had made work more important than anything else.
He refused to think his broken engagement was the reason he hadn’t allowed himself to get more than passingly interested in a woman in the past three years. Sex, yeah. That was easily available. But someone he actually wanted to get to know? Well, that hadn’t happened in a long time.
The mere idea that he was thinking along those lines startled him. No, the timing wasn’t great—it sucked, in fact. The last thing he needed during these last critical weeks of this project was to get distracted by a curvy brunette with a heart-breaking smile. But Trent had never been one to let what he needed prevent him from going after what he wanted. Right now, he very much wanted her.
As he walked down the corridor, he suddenly wished he’d asked for her room number, in case she got cold feet and decided not to come tonight after all.
“She’ll come,” he told himself. Remembering the sight of her standing in the rain, he knew the woman was a risk-taker at heart. Much like himself. She’ll come.
AT 10:05, CHLOE STOOD IN her hotel room, chewing a hole into her lip, staring at her own reflection above the bathroom sink. Troy hadn’t shown up at the dinner banquet, so it had been several hours since she’d seen him. Yes, she’d had several hours in which to totally chicken out on their date in the bar.
“You can’t do this. You know that, right?” she told the mirror.
It’s just a drink.
“Baloney, it’s not just a drink. You were there—you felt the heat, Chloe Weston. You meet him tonight and you might be with him until tomorrow morning.”
Is that such a bad thing?
“Yes. It’s a bad thing. You can’t get involved with your boss. This job is too important. Losing it could very well mean dropping out of school and getting a day job to make rent money.”
So when does living get to be as important as working?
That was the question of the hour. When did she get to live? Chloe had borne the emotional responsibility for her mother’s and sister’s well-being since she was twelve years old, right after her mother’s second husband had walked out. That had been the worst year, when Chloe and Morgan had been separated from their mother for months. Once they got back together, Chloe had been determined they’d never be parted again.
So Chloe was the one who’d learned to fake a communicable disease when the landlord came to call. The one who’d bartered baby-sitting services with the owner of the kids’ consignment store up the street to keep Morgan clothed. Through the other husbands, boyfriends, towns, people and jobs, Chloe had never let herself forget one thing: she was the one who had to keep it together. Morgan was too young and Jeanine too unpredictable.
Following her heart—or, in this case, her libido—was not something Chloe usually allowed herself to do. So why not do it…just this once? You know you want to. Don’t be a chicken.
“Oh, shut up,” she muttered aloud to the insidious voice. She sometimes pictured a little cartoon devil, complete with horns and a tail, sitting on her left shoulder whispering in her ear when she contemplated doing something really stupid. On her other shoulder, there perched not an angel, but a two-inch-tall version of Sister Mary Frances.
The sister had been her second-grade teacher during Chloe’s single year at a parochial school—a year prompted by one of her flaky mother’s religious experimentation periods. That was before her real father had split, when they’d had something of a normal life. Chloe had spent most of second grade sitting in a corner until she learned how to behave like a proper young lady. Instead of learning patience and obedience, she’d actually used the time-outs to imagine ways to get even with the Penguin, as the kids called her. So the Sister Mary Frances voice seldom won out.
Finally, sick of having a conversation with her own sun-pinkened face in the mirror, she grabbed her purse and slammed out of the room. The
