Wishful Sinful (Rock Royalty Book 5) (13 page)

Dayna had sworn it would change the way she walked, the way she held herself, the way she
felt
about herself. It was a technique to help her break out of her shell.

It didn’t switch off the admin in her, however. Because as she took another turn around the space, her eye caught on a piece of paper in the middle of the desk, marked with her boss’s distinctive scribble.

Had some work problem come up? Frowning, she moved closer to stare down at the words he’d written.

Mother material.

Good hostess.

Understanding about long work hours.

Her eyes bugged.
The list!

“Who the hell are you?” a man’s voice demanded.

Honey whirled. She felt the hem rise on the dress, so she clamped her palms against her thighs to hold it down. “It’s me.”

He jerked back, then his gaze slowly ran from the top of her curly head to her pink-painted toes.

“Go back and get the rest,” he said, scowling.

“What?”

“Your hair and that dress. Go back and get what’s missing from them.”

Laughing, she touched her hair. “Too late.”

“Not to change what you’re wearing.”

Was he serious? She frowned at him. That’s all he had to say about her new appearance?

“I thought we agreed on no more weirdness. You commenting on my clothes is weird.”

You actually writing a list is very weird.

He really had started that list!

He turned away and strode to the screened back door. His nubby linen slacks ruffled in the ocean breeze, and the hem of his silk shirt moved, too. It was black, subtly embroidered with bamboo stalks in the same color on the left front and back.

She’d bought it for him for his birthday.

For hers, he’d given her an annotated, beautifully illustrated
Complete Works of Shakespeare
that she treasured. Particularly because it showed he’d listened when she’d talked about her favorite series of college courses. She felt a traitorous warming in her chest.

So she glanced back at the piece of paper on the desk.

Mother material.

Good hostess.

Understanding about long work hours.

And sucking in a long breath, steeled her spine. “I need to mention something.”

He glanced over his shoulder.

At his dark, penetrating gaze, her intention evaporated, and memory rushed back. His hands, his mouth, her racing heart. The feel of his hips between her legs as she’d wrapped them around him in the pond. There had been a distinct, heavy hardness pressing at her center, and it made her flush hot recalling how she’d rocked against it in the brief moments of that kiss.

Now she shifted her weight on her heels as an ache pulsed between her thighs. She felt herself soften there, go slick. Her face burned. Without panties, it felt as if she was even more exposed.

Walsh’s nostrils flared. He turned and started forward. “Honey…”

Her belly quivered, and then all her instincts went on alert as he moved to her, that big body of his looking primed and potent. From behind him, the scent of ocean drifted into the room, changing the atmosphere, changing the way he appeared to her. Suddenly he wasn’t the civilized businessman she met in the office every day. Instead, he was a testosterone-fueled male, primal and determined.

Everything feminine in her went electric.

And wetter.

Dayna’s voice sounded in her head.
An affair with Walsh. It’s totally necessary. It’s the way to get past this fixation.
The words were a rubber stamp on what Honey saw pacing toward her in male form—sex.

The scorching sin that she’d promised herself. It was written on Walsh’s face and in every hard line of his body. She could have it, now, with him. After all, she thought, as the look in his eyes stole her breath, something really
had
to be done about this maddening, distracting, going-nowhere crush.

Desire, sweet and hot, rushed her system. It coursed through her like warm syrup. Her legs trembled, and she put out a hand to steady herself. The paper on the desk was disturbed by her touch. It flew across the wooden surface, caught on the breeze, and then descended, landing at Walsh’s feet.

He bent to retrieve it.

The list. With a certain snap, Honey’s common sense reasserted itself. She stepped back. Becoming intimate with her boss was a terrible idea! Certainly not an intelligent way to overcome her inconvenient feelings for him. So as he straightened, she inhaled a breath and forced herself to meet his gaze.

“Walsh,” she said, as matter-of-factly as she could. “I need to give you a head’s up.”

Walsh leaned against one of the columns that held up the roof of the round, wall-less structure where the consortium’s cocktail party was being held. Tables were scattered about, but there was plenty of open floor space for stand-up mingling. Servers walked around with trays of seafood and Mexican-styled appetizers, and a bar offered any kind of cocktail a person might desire. He held the obligatory margarita, the welcome drink that had been pushed into his hand the moment he’d strolled onto the marble floor.

He was in a shitty mood, despite the fact that the tequila-based beverage was served the way he enjoyed—over rocks and with a salted rim on the glass.

There was no complaining about the ambience, either. The gazebo-styled building had been erected over the water, allowing photo-worthy views of the setting sun. Warm Pacific breezes floated by, and the whispery sound of the surf spreading onto the sand added to the murmurings of the gathered guests. Wide steps led to another open terrace where other resort residents were gathered for drinks, dining, and to enjoy the band playing jazz and pop tunes.

But his gaze didn’t wander off one woman. From across the room, he watched Honey laughing and chatting with her new friend, Dayna Featherstone.

Each time she tossed back those shiny curls, he wanted to punch something.

Stop
, he ordered himself.
Stop being ridiculous
.

What she wanted to do with her life—as in fuck some stranger—did not need his approval.

Of course, Honey hadn’t put it like that. No, she was much more delicate. She’d gazed at him with her big blue eyes and suggested she might be engaging in an “intimate event” later that night.

He could have played stupid and made her spell it out. But when a woman was wearing a dress that made a man sweat, it was best he keep his mouth shut.

Still, it didn’t seem in character for Honey to actually make a plan to get laid. But then, in that blue dress and with that tousled hair, she didn’t
look
like Honey. Not the Honey he knew.

Maybe that’s why he’d reacted so strongly. Walking into the villa’s living room, he’d thought her a stranger. On second glance he’d recognized her, but that hadn’t prevented his libido—no matter how many times he’d tried to control it lately—from firing up, making his motor race like he was one of Payne Colson’s Formula cars.

When Walsh understood what she was hoping to do that night, he’d wanted to talk her out of it. Hell, he’d wanted to lock her in her bedroom. His bedroom. Any bedroom, with the both of them inside it. He figured he could turn that dress to ashes with one searing look, and then he’d toss her onto the mattress and drive them both wild.

The strength of his desire to do just that had been what backed him off. He knew better than to be driven by his primal urges. So he’d decided to let go and let her do her thing. Now, forcing his gaze away from her, he straightened and strolled in a new direction.

She was out of his mind. Completely.

“Your assistant looks quite lovely,” a voice said.

Walsh’s head jerked to find York Featherstone at his elbow. Pasting on an easy smile, he addressed the other man. “Sure. And it’s good to see you again.”

“Are you all right? You seem a little…tense.”

Walsh shrugged. “It’s probably because I’m more comfortable behind my desk.”
As confessions go, that wasn’t so bad, right?

“That’s one of the motivators behind the creation of this group, isn’t it? Many of us are so narrowly focused on business we don’t appreciate the beauty around us.”

Your workaholic ways are sucking the humanity out of you.

Ignoring that echo of Brody’s words, Walsh deliberately turned toward the panorama of the calm ocean, the rainbow-palette sky, and the orange disc of the lowering sun.

“It’s a spectacular view tonight,” he admitted.

“Our tropical bubble,” York mused. “We should do ourselves a favor and keep our at-home concerns outside it for the next few days.”

Maybe that’s what Honey is doing
, Walsh thought.

Using this long weekend as a space out of time during which she could step away from her everyday worries. That part was good, he decided, knowing how much responsibility she bore on her slim shoulders—for her brother and sister and at MadSci, too. He knew better than anyone that she deserved to seek pleasure. Find fun.

What wasn’t so good was her seeking out some other man to provide that.

Scowling, he lifted his chin to find her once again in the crowd—then caught himself.

She was supposed to be out of his mind.

The ringing of a bell caught his attention. He and York and the others in the consortium turned toward the center of the structure where one of the organizers was standing. The woman was sixtyish and elegant in silky, wide-legged trousers. Walsh knew that when her husband had divorced her ten years earlier she’d taken her father’s sluggish family business—and turned it into a raging success.

“I know we all profess to hate icebreakers,” she said now, and laughed when most of the gathered people groaned. “But getting to know one another better is the entire point of this weekend.”

Several in the circle grudgingly nodded.

“Down your drinks and get a fresh one then,” the woman advised. “That will make our little game of Speed Meeting go that much easier.”

Walsh considered cutting and running.
Speed Meeting?

Every three minutes they would talk one-on-one with another of the participants. But he firmed his resolve. The damn truth was, he was here to make contacts. York Featherstone first and foremost, and that man hadn’t headed for the nearest exit.

When their leader rang the bell, he did as instructed and turned to his right.

The next forty-five minutes wasn’t as stilted as he’d expected. Not that he minded getting acquainted with other people—he might not have the gift of gab of Brody and Bing Maddox, but he didn’t believe himself devoid of charm—but he’d expected the time constraint and the obvious intention behind the conversations might create awkwardness.

Instead, it turned out to be surprisingly easy to sip a drink and enjoy the sunset while asking and answering a few questions. By tacit agreement, business didn’t come up.

Perhaps it was the tropical bubble. Being away from a conference room, an office, or a boardroom made them all just people instead of competitors or potential partners, and he found himself discussing everything from one man’s collection of sand samples from around the world to a woman’s desire to bring a collection of Mexican pottery safely home to Boston.

At what was deemed the last ring of the bell, he found himself facing Dayna Featherstone. He’d switched from drinking margaritas to cold Mexican beer, and he smiled when he saw she’d chosen the same. They tapped bottles in greeting.

Like Honey, her skin glowed, and her dark hair held a brighter sheen.

“Your time at the spa seems to have suited you.”

“Why, thank you,” Dayna said, with a nod of her head. “Honey and I enjoyed being pampered.”

“I’m not sure she indulges herself very often.”

Dayna nodded. “I get that impression as well. That’s what’s great about going away…New possibilities open up. You give yourself permission to try new things.”

New men
, he thought, his gut clenching.

Then his companion glanced over his shoulder. “Oh! Look at that. I bet she never tried to tango, either.”

Walsh whipped around. Some of the consortium group had left their covered structure to join the other resort guests on the larger terrace. A dance demonstration, apparently, was in progress.

“I saw this was on the schedule for tonight,” Dayna murmured in his ear.

He tried not to gape. But in the middle of the ring of bystanders, three couples were performing some basic dance steps. It was obvious that two women and one man were pros. A pair of vacationing middle-aged guys were good-naturedly trying to follow along with the females’ instruction. A slick-looking Lothario had his arms around Honey. She was flushed, her eyes like blue jewels, as she listened intently to his instructions and tried gamely to attempt the sensual moves of the dance.

Walsh trotted down the steps to join the spectators. An accordion, drums, and horns were playing the syncopated beat of a seductive tune. The teachers knew what they were doing, obviously, keeping the steps simple.

Still, there was plenty of stumbling and laughter. However, as the pupils became more proficient, the music accelerated. The piano and violin joined in, and the rhythm became bolder, the dancers’ moves more dramatic.

If the other participants kept up, Walsh didn’t know. He was focused entirely on Honey now, who had one set of delicate fingers braced on her partner’s muscled shoulder, the other in his strong clasp. Light on her feet, she seemed to almost float above the ground as the man propelled her around the dance floor. The musicians worked up to a crescendo, and in the final seconds her dance teacher flung Honey out with a flourish, both their arms stretching to full length. Then their hands slipped from each other, and momentum took her spinning toward the crowd.

Without thinking, Walsh pushed through the people to catch her against his chest.

As applause broke out, she clutched his arms. Her head came up, and she burst out laughing. Then, as he continued to look down at her, she quickly sobered.

He drew her even closer, her breasts pressing against him with every one of her uneven breaths. Awareness infused the lines of her body, an acknowledgement of the combustion they created when they were pressed so close together. Her eyes widened, and as his cock hardened against her belly, he tried to remember what was so wrong about this.