“You’re sure you’re okay with this?”
Hugh asked, lifting a hand to Giselle’s cheek and toying with a stray dark curl.
“I’m very fine with this. I think we can work around the article and not let it interfere with—” Giselle sidled closer, allowing her thigh to graze his— “what we both want.”
He caught her hips in his hands. He closed his eyes for a long moment. Feminine intuition told her she was testing the man’s restraint.
“How soon can you have your story written?” Patience wasn’t her strong suit on a good day. And with his hands on her, there was no way she could wait.
His fingers slid along the silky fabric of her dress. “I can hurry it, but it will take a few weeks.”
“Weeks?” She could hardly wait a few hours, let alone weeks, especially as his touch skated up her ribs, pausing just beneath her breasts.
“I’m very thorough in my work.” His thumbs drew idle circles skimming the edge of her bra.
“Oh, really?” Awareness flared through her, made her breath catch in her throat while her breasts tingled and tightened in anticipation. She wanted to tangle tongues, limbs and sheets with him.
“I never do anything in half measures.”
And that was the best promise she’d heard in a long while.
Dear Reader,
Chef Giselle Cesare has a whole week free now that she’s finally managed to get all four of her brothers out of her hair at once. Whatever will she do with a few days on her own now that her personal protection squad is out of town?
She’s cooking up seduction, of course! And journalist Hugh Duncan looks like he’s going to make the perfect target. That is, until she finds out what kind of stories Hugh wants to write. How can she think about hot nights with Hugh when he’s determined to dredge up a past that’s better off forgotten? Then again, it’s not often a girl gets a chance for seduction like this one….
If you enjoy Girl Gone Wild, I hope you’ll join me for next month’s SINGLE IN SOUTH BEACH story. Date with a Diva will be a June Blaze title and we’ll see what’s in the works for Club Paradise’s resident diva Lainie Reynolds. Visit me at www.JoanneRock.com to learn more about my future releases or to let me know what you think about the series so far!
Happy reading,
Joanne Rock
Girl Gone Wild
Joanne Rock
For Amy Mehl Romines, my Kentucky pal who taught me how to fake homemade apple pies and bluff my way through stir-fry. Thank you for nudging me out the door that night I ran off with my husband! You were a fun part of my happily-ever-after and you’ll always be my dear friend.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
1
SOME MEN COUNTED SHEEP to fall asleep. Hugh Duncan spied on people.
Peering out of the dark windows overlooking a deserted stretch of Miami’s South Beach, he strolled through one of the quiet lounges at the back of the posh resort he was supposed to be investigating for his newspaper. At 4:30 a.m., the raucous partyers who had populated the hotel’s nightclub had just stumbled out into the early morning air, leaving this section of the resort suddenly quiet. Secretive.
Skirting around a secluded seating area in one corner of the minimalist Art Deco-style lounge, Hugh searched for a diversion to occupy his mind through what had always been his most restless hours of the day. He’d never been one to fall asleep until at least 6:00 a.m., preferring to roam the streets of whatever city he happened to inhabit, looking for his next story. Some kind of intrigue he could write about, dissect, rant over.
Nine times out of ten, he unearthed the kind of subjects he preferred by simply watching. Observing details in a manner he’d come to realize was unique. The quirky way he’d always been able to fixate on the small, the seemingly insignificant, gave him an edge as an investigative reporter.
It also annoyed the hell out of most people, but how many guys had turned their most irritating habit into a Pulitzer? Annoying or not, he continued to indulge the practice, even in the case of stories he didn’t want to write.
Like this one.
Sighing with frustration that South Beach’s most notoriously hedonistic resort could be so damn quiet, Hugh paused to absorb the colors emanating from a nearby erotic painting. Georgia O’Keefe-like in its simplicity, the picture of a red poppy flower in bloom bore disconcerting resemblance to a woman’s genitals. Then again, maybe men who’d been without sex for as long as he had simply started seeing women’s genitals everywhere they looked.
Damn.
Pivoting away from the picture, he considered heading for the next exit to see what he could find on the South Beach 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.