Esme’s eyes remained closed a moment, and when she lifted her lids to gaze up at him again, the passion-clouded expression he saw there made him want to drag her somewhere private and—
Wait.
Wasn’t he supposedly saving her from that kind of fate when he’d told her a whopper of a fib tonight?
Backing them off the side of the floor, Renzo peeled himself away from her with more than a little regret.
“Maybe you ought to walk me up to my room now,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the synthesized whine of the next dance song.
“Good idea.” Renzo steered her through the crowd, using his body as a shield for her to make sure no drunken idiots copped a feel on the way.
He could not, should not, would not, get any more involved with Esme. The whole charade had been ill-conceived and it would be least embarrassing for all parties concerned if he simply said good-night to her right now.
Just as soon as he knew she was safely inside her room.
Once they cleared the Moulin Rouge Lounge and hit the bank of elevators, she paused, fishing in her purse.
“I’m on the fourth floor in the Sensualist’s Suite. Maybe I’d better find my key.” She shook her purse as the elevator arrived. Apparently convinced the key lay within the white satin bag, Esme began the search with determination etched on her delicate jawline.
“The Sensualist’s Suite?” He had no idea why he tortured himself by asking as they stepped inside the elevator.
Maybe because liars deserved to be tortured.
Withdrawing the plastic card from her bag as they soared up to the necessary floor, Esme’s cheeks flushed lightly. “It’s the kind of room that has to be seen to be believed. I had no idea the accommodations here were so…” Her eyes darted about the tiny elevator cabin—outfitted in soft brown suede walls and decorated with a fake-leopard-print-covered bench—as if in search for the right word. Finally, her gaze landed on him. “…so sexy.”
His body twitched in reaction to the word rolling off her tongue. In reaction to their proximity in the quiet privacy of the small space.
The torture had officially begun.
“My sister told me all the rooms were redesigned when the hotel went from a couples resort to more of a singles haven.” As the doors slid open on the fourth floor, Renzo’s hand moved automatically toward her waist to help her out of the elevator.
Just before his fingers made contact with the small of her back, he caught himself. If he touched her once, he might never stop. At the last moment, he redirected his errant hand toward the open doors button and pressed that instead.
“Hotels are always remodeling,” Esme remarked as she strode down the hall, her gait more confident and easy now that they were alone. Maybe she just didn’t enjoy crowds. “This is different. This is spectacular.”
Too late, Renzo realized they had arrived at her door and that she was already unlocking it. Opening it.
And somehow they were in the middle of a conversation about her room, which she now wanted to show him.
His feet paused at the threshold of the door—his brain knowing he probably shouldn’t enter, the rest of him already straining to follow her.
Esme watched him expectantly as she held the door open with her slight form, her blue eyes communicating silent invitation.
Maybe as long as he kept his distance, maintained an arm’s length between them at all times, he could at least check out the room and make sure this Hugh character wasn’t lurking in the closet or anything. His aunt had paid for the room, after all. What if the guy thought he was entitled to help himself?
Convinced he needed to go inside for just a minute, Renzo whispered a swift prayer for restraint and followed her into the suite.
FOR A MOMENT, Esme had feared she might have to break out a crane to transport the man into her suite. Was it that big a decision to come home with her for the night?
Feminine pride stinging just a little, Esme realized she would never be cut out for the club-hopping and manhunting that other South Beach women engaged in with ease. She liked getting to know people before she invited them back to her hotel room.
For that matter, there would be real safety issues at stake here tonight if her date hadn’t been given the thumbs-up by her friend and neighbor. At least Esme could feel comfortable knowing Hugh Duncan wasn’t a wanted criminal or anything.
His low whistle of appreciation jolted Esme back to the moment. A whistle intended for the exotic room decor and not her, she realized with dismay as his dark eyes swept the width of the suite and the rainbow of earth tones someone had thoughtfully woven into all the furnishings.
Touchable silk and damask pillows littered the dark mahogany furniture while a huge swath of embroidered taupe linen lined the ceiling with a tentlike effect. And if the decadent tent weren’t impressive enough, the Sensualist’s Suite also boasted a small brook winding through the room.
At least the beautifully appointed room was a comfortable topic. She could spend a little while distracting him with small talk that genuinely interested her before she ambushed him with another kiss.
Assuming she didn’t lose her nerve.
Judging by how long it took him to make that final step into her hotel room, Esme guessed he would walk away if she kissed him too soon. For some reason, fate had laughed at her attempts to be bold and brazen tonight by handing her a date with values as traditional as hers had always been.
Just her luck.
“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” Having no idea how to behave while seducing a man, Esme scoured her brain for role models.
Her mother had raised her alone, content to make Esme the center of her world when Esme’s father had walked out on his pregnant girlfriend. And Esme’s deep love of antiques and art had absorbed her for so many years she barely kept up friendships enough to know how any of her casual acquaintances would go about picking up a man.
The seductive women in the Pre-Raphaelite paintings she loved were often reclining objects to be adored, not active seductresses themselves. No help in that quarter either. The lone source of inspiration she came up with were her screen idols. And if her matinee memory served, Esme thought Bette Davis would have already been mixing the drinks by now.
She hurried to the wet bar and eyed the myriad of offerings in the room service cooler. Too bad they didn’t prepackage Good Fortune Potion. She could use a healthy serving right about now—the good luck as much as the potion.
Emerging from the cooler with a miniature bottle of brandy and two snifters—wouldn’t Bette be proud?—Esme found Hugh stooping to dip his fingers in the narrow waterfall that trickled gently from one wall in the living area.
“The details are genius.” He picked up a smooth river stone from the base of the waterfall where a cleverly crafted brook wound its way through the room. “I’ve seen something like this in Caribbean resorts before, but the finishes are usually more obviously prefabricated. The polished rocks are a nice touch.”
Esme flicked on the stereo located under the bar. She had no clue where the speakers were actually located, but the strains of Brahms seemed to surround them. She hoped classical music wasn’t off-putting, but it would be too much of a lie for her to flick over to some hip-hop station and pretend to be a happening chick.
Besides, how could anyone not love Brahms? The music hadn’t been around for centuries because it was no good.
“The furniture is what gets me. Whoever designed the room didn’t just pick up the