“Definitely.” His hands flexed against her, pressing lightly into the folds of her dress. He leaned closer to whisper against her ear. “I never do anything in half measures.”
Ooh. She liked the sound of that. And she most certainly liked the feel of what he was doing to her.
She might have moved in for more kissing if she hadn’t caught a glimpse of movement on the beach a few feet away. An older couple Giselle recognized as guests at Club Paradise strolled past them, smiling and winking as they set out for a morning walk.
Given the hour of the day, she really shouldn’t be openly trysting here, on the property of the business she ran. “You’re right. Patience could be a very good thing in this case.”
She tugged him closer to one of the resort’s beach-front tiki huts that housed a minibar and a few stools for patrons seeking shelter from the sun.
He followed her underneath the cool cover of dried palm leaves threaded through the framed roof. “Then you don’t mind waiting?”
“Well I can’t wait for weeks.” Her protective force would be back in seven days. Surely he could write a story before then. Especially if given a little incentive.
She slid her hand beneath his jacket to rest on the solid muscle of his chest. “How about if I help you with your research so you can finish up all the faster?”
The wall of muscles rippled under her fingers.
“Works for me.” His voice grew more strangled as she skimmed her fingers lower. He caught them in a steady grip, halted her progress just as she hit his abs. “My editor will coordinate the auxiliary stories off mine. In other words, if he wants to send a food critic, that’s her call, not mine. I tend to write more hard-hitting news.”
“Hard-hitting?” She frowned, not sure she liked the sound of that. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned fluff? She decided not to mention her favorite part of the paper was the society page.
“Yeah. Something with some news value.” He propped an elbow on the bar as he warmed to his topic. “I’ve been meaning to take a closer look at the reports on the scandals going on here before I went overseas last year. Did they ever find all the embezzlers who cleaned out the hotel’s profits? There were a few guys involved. Melvin Baxter was the front man, and then there was his silent partner. I’m trying to remember his name….”
The intoxicating current of desire that had flowed through her veins moments ago now morphed into a painful morning-after hangover at the mention of the embezzlement scandal. The reminder of how she’d unwittingly helped one of the criminals…
“Giselle?” Hugh peered at her more closely.
“No.” She wouldn’t allow herself to go there. She’d had enough of the recriminations. The guilt. And if she ever felt the need for more, all she had to do was initiate a conversation with her partner Lainie Reynolds. The woman’s skill with a dark glare had the power to remind Giselle of every way she’d done the woman wrong by inadvertently sleeping with her husband. “They never did capture them all.”
Hugh stared out to sea, his eyes roaming the distant horizon as the sun filtered across the Atlantic. “But they got the first guy. Melvin Baxter, king of the local Rat Pack. That’s what they called them, I remember. A group of slick players who took the whole city on a wild ride.”
“Enough.” Her skin turned icy at the memory. Her judgment in men had sucked back then because she’d never been allowed to exercise it. What made her think her B.S.-alert system worked any better now? “I don’t care to remember the club’s darkest hour.”
Hugh smiled as if totally oblivious to her discomfort. She made a mental note that the man’s keen observation skills seemed to go down the toilet when he got wrapped up in a new idea.
“The power of journalism is that it can shed new light on those dark places, Giselle. That’s what I do best.” His cocky smile might have been a tad arrogant, but then again Giselle didn’t have a problem with people who were certain of themselves.
She just had a problem when those people wanted to resurrect a past she’d tried hard to bury.
“I think some things are better left alone.”
“You’d never make it as an investigative reporter with that kind of thinking.” He grinned as he plucked a wind-tossed strand of hair out of her eyes.
While Giselle struggled to think of a way to redirect this conversation before it unsettled her anymore, Hugh snapped his fingers.
“I’ve got it.”
“What?”
Hugh’s eyes seemed to turn an even brighter shade of green. “The name of the silent partner in the old management group that ran this place. It was Robert Flynn.”
Robert.
Giselle gripped the planked surface of the bar in the tiny tiki hut for support as the name from her past knifed right through her.
Not that she still cared about the man who’d lied to her in the very worst way. No, the pain in her chest had nothing to do with a broken heart and everything to do with her guilt at having been sucked in by him. At having deeply injured his wife.
The woman who was now her partner.
Who would have guessed a man named Robert Flynn would be married to a woman named Lainie Reynolds? In her family of old world values, women always took the man’s name when they got married. Geesh. She was so freaking naive.
Combine the different last names with Robert’s lack of a wedding ring, and before she knew it, she’d slept with another woman’s husband.
“That was it, wasn’t it? Robert Flynn?” Hugh tilted his head as if to meet her gaze even though she stared at the sandy floor of the open hut.
“Yes.” She closed her eyes for a long, bracing moment, unwilling to let Robert cheat her out of something good with Hugh. She’d already lost more than enough to Robert Flynn, thank you very much. “That’s him. He’s one of the men they never captured.”
Giselle met his gaze, read the interest in his eyes.
“Sometimes renewed coverage by the media can lure criminals out of hiding. Ever see America’s Most Wanted? It’s the same premise.” He reached behind the minibar and pulled out two glasses, then poured them both a glass of water from a jug on the counter.
Giselle accepted the offering even though this pseudo-date was rapidly crashing and burning. She couldn’t allow Hugh to write any story that would “lure” Robert Flynn back to town. Having that man within a fifty-mile radius of Club Paradise would have explosive consequences for them all. She needed to squelch the idea as soon as possible.
“Apparently Flynn is living in comfort in the Cayman Islands and local authorities don’t have a prayer of extraditing him.” End of story.
Too bad the chemistry between her and Hugh—and her growing desire to learn much more about this man—wasn’t as easily dismissed.
NOW SHE WAS TALKING his language.
Hugh
