strip to entertain himself, when a woman’s voice lifted in song caught his ear.
Whoever warbled out “Summer Wind” might not have had the greatest vocal ability, but he had to appreciate the musical selection. He probably wouldn’t be able to find a cover of a Sinatra tune playing anywhere else on the strip.
Besides, he wouldn’t unearth any material for the story he was being coerced to write on Club Paradise if he left the premises tonight. A stupid assignment more suited to a features reporter than a hard-hitting investigative journalist, but his editor was determined to take a piece out of Hugh’s hide for an article he’d written that had stepped on the toes of British intelligence.
As if a month’s worth of crappy assignments would make Hugh stop writing the kinds of stories that truly needed to be told.
Winding through the back halls of Club Paradise, flagrantly ignoring the Employees Only signs on one door after another, Hugh followed the source of the “Summer Wind.” He could claim a distant, step-cousin-style relationship to one of the owners of the resort since his uncle had married founding partner Brianne Wolcott’s mother at some point. Of course, his whole family was one big mass of stepthis and ex-stepthat, and he’d never actually met Brianne. No one in the Duncan or Simmons families had much of a track record in the marriage and family department.
Still, the relationship ought to be enough to justify his presence in the employees-only sections of the resort, right?
Scents of garlic and basil assailed his nose as he neared the kitchen, making his gut rumble in hungry approval. When was the last time he’d eaten? Snacking wasn’t usually a part of his late-night spying rituals, but the distinct aroma of Italian cooking made him rethink his nocturnal surveillance traditions.
He paused just outside the door to the source of the incredible aromas, the feminine voice within hitting a high note and luring him with her siren’s song.
Curiosity beyond professional interest pulled him closer to the doorway. The dynamic Sinatra rendition, even without musical accompaniment, coupled with the incredible scents had him salivating for a glimpse of the songstress. And—truth be told—the recent glimpse of the poppy had probably stirred his interest a bit.
Damned suggestive artwork.
But the one benefit to being back on U.S. soil was the freedom to engage in casual sex—a pleasure he never afforded himself while abroad. And from the way his body had kicked into overdrive at the sound of the woman in the next room, he knew he couldn’t put off some serious fulfillment in that department for too much longer.
With the silent feet and stealthy grace that had long supported his nightly habit, Hugh nudged open the door and edged his way into the room.
Only to discover his efforts to be sneaky were totally wasted on the oblivious creature stirring up mayhem in the center of her kitchen.
She held a wooden spoon in one hand and a bag of decorator frosting in the other as she whirled between a granite-topped island and an eight-burner cooking range loaded with steaming cauldrons.
Dancing as she worked, a petite brunette in a sexy-as-hell red dress did a bump and grind as she bent over a shiny aluminum cookie sheet and applied frosting to some confection or another. Her abundant hair was pinned up on the back of her head in some little confining net, but a few wavy strands escaped to bounce in time with the rest of her.
Sinatra’s music had probably never enjoyed such an enthusiastic performance.
He debated breaking out in applause as her voice died on the final strains of her song. Odd, because he’d always been a disinterested bystander on his other nighttime investigative outings. Why the sudden urge to blow his cover and announce himself to this brown-eyed beauty?
Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the lithe little brunette emanated more sheer physical presence than many men twice her size. Or maybe it was because her dress happened to be the exact shade of the provocative poppy flower he’d spied in the hallway.
Then again, maybe it was simply because he’d never seen a woman so full of life, she practically bubbled over like one of those steaming pots on the stove. Before Hugh could make up his mind either way—to reveal himself or not—the woman launched into a rendition of “Witchcraft” as she twirled over to the range top to stir the cast-iron cauldrons wafting the rich aroma of what could only be spaghetti sauce. She dipped her wooden spoon into the first batch and spun it clockwise, counterclockwise, then back again before moving to the next pot where she repeated the process.
He watched, mesmerized, as the woman worked her own brand of witchcraft on him. Since when did he go for domestic goddesses who appeared totally at home in bare feet and wielding a spoon? His tastes usually ran to women on a mission. Only serious crusader types need apply. And this woman looked about as far from serious as a man could get. Especially when she licked the remnants of spaghetti sauce off the ladle after stirring the final pot.
She flung the instrument into the sink and paused in her singing long enough to kiss her fingertips in the classic Italian effusive gesture that meant “delicious.”
Damned if he didn’t feel that kiss from all the way across the cavernous room. The wealth of cool, stainless steel surfaces in the industrial kitchen didn’t come close to making the space less intimate.
Intrigued for all the wrong reasons, Hugh settled a shoulder into a wall of locked rolling carts filled with clean dishes. Willing away thoughts of the exposé he needed to write on Club Paradise in order to barter his journalistic freedom back from his editor, Hugh told himself it would be okay to mix business with pleasure just this once.
He definitely needed a domestic fling before he jetted out on his next foreign assignment. So what would it hurt to watch the apron-clad songbird dance around her kitchen for a little while and see what happened?
Hell, for all he knew, maybe the wild-eyed brunette would be the key to his first lead.
SOME WOMEN BELTED OUT hallelujahs when times were good. Giselle Cesare preferred Sinatra.
She tossed in a few extra choruses of “Witchcraft” just because she couldn’t bear for the song to end. Times were definitely good.
After too many years of being watched over, protected and insulated from as many life experiences as possible by her family, the head chef and part-owner of Club Paradise finally had a window of delicious freedom. Mouthwatering opportunity.
She didn’t intend to waste a second of it.
Tangoing her way across the kitchen in her bare feet—a transgression she never allowed herself during business hours and for which she’d have to mop before she closed up tonight—Giselle relished the feel of smooth ceramic tile beneath her feet as she arrived at the pantry. Humming and rummaging around for the fresh fruit she’d bought the morning before, she transitioned straight into “The Way You Look Tonight” as her fingers seized the prize she sought.
A pomegranate.
Giddy pleasure ran through her veins at the mixture of sensual thoughts that swirled around her head. A taste of the delicious fruit she held would be the first of many indulgences over the course of the next week.
Now that her brother Renzo was off on his honeymoon and her brother Nico was on the road with the hockey team he coached, Giselle had no burly protectors to scare away potential suitors. No hulking bodyguards to intimidate her dates into keeping their
