Just Toying Around… Read online

  If the editors at Foreplay ever found out, or heaven forbid, any of the toy companies discovered the true extent of her sexual experience, she’d be ruined as a critic. She’d lose her job. Going to Paris next summer would be out of the question.

  Meg shoved the disturbing thought aside, chastising herself for worrying needlessly. Short of her admitting her lack of experience, how could they find her out? They couldn’t, Meg assured herself. She had nothing to be concerned about.

  Meg simply loved the freedom her online persona gave her. Online she wasn’t just plain old single Meg Sugarbaker, twenty-seven-year-old pastry chef, whose life was about as exciting as a pound cake. She was the mysterious Desiree Moon. She was hot. Sexy. People respected her opinion. The power she had was addictive. In that protected forum, she could give voice to some of her most scandalous thoughts. Things she couldn’t share with even her closest friends. Things she’d never dream of sharing without complete anonymity.

  Meg boarded the elevator, dragging her wheeled garment bag behind her. The doors had almost closed when a large male hand suddenly thrust between them and halted the process.

  The body that belonged to the man was proportionate to the hand. The guy was enormous, built on a monumental scale, easily six-six. He was lean like an athlete, yet heavily muscled.

  Meg pushed her floppy hat back and craned her head so that she could get a better look at him.

  She felt her eyes go wide and her knees go weak. She smothered a moan.

  In addition to owning the most devastatingly perfect male form Meg had ever had the pleasure to gaze upon, the guy was gorgeous. Epitomized sexy. To her near slack-jawed amazement, need broadsided her. Her womb flooded with heat and she immediately cast him as the lead in each and every one of her future sex-with-a-complete-stranger fantasies.

  Adios Antonio.

  Equally bewildered and intrigued by her instantaneous physical attraction to him, Meg continued her rapt perusal.

  Pale tawny locks capped his head and she imagined the same golden shade lightly dusted his muscular chest, legs and forearms beneath his fashionable suit. He was lean cheeked, with a hard, uncompromising jaw. His eyes were slumberous, a rich golden brown, almost caramel, with a hint of sin and mischief thrown in for good measure.

  He smiled at her, and an endearing dimple winked in his left cheek. She reciprocated the gesture and melted against the wall for support. This man was art in motion, would make Michelangelo’s David weep with shame.

  “What floor?” he asked.

  Who cares? Meg thought. This floor, that floor. The wall, the shower. Didn’t matter to her. Until reason returned, she was open to any and all possibilities.

  Looking somewhat bemused, he lightly shrugged and pressed a button on the control panel. “I’m on five,” he told her.

  What floor? Feeling ridiculous, Meg squirmed as a blush warmed her cheeks. She cleared her throat, drew her shoulders back and tilted her jaw to its most flattering angle, vainly making a belated attempt to look cool and sophisticated. Which was ridiculous when she looked like the proverbial mobster’s widow. What on earth had possessed her to wear this? “I’m, er, on five as well. Here for the trade show?” she ventured. Would that she could be so lucky.

  “No.” He winked conspiratorially. “But I am here on business.”

  Damn. It figured. Meg absently chewed her bottom lip and did a quick inspection of his left hand. No ring. No visible shadow of a ring. Probably never married. Which would lead a sensible, less horny woman to conclude he was either A) Possessed of some hideous character flaw. Or B) He was gay. Good-looking professionals such as this did not remain single otherwise. Meg heaved an internal sigh. He was probably gay.

  The elevator glided to a smooth stop and the doors opened with a hydraulic whoosh. He allowed her to exit first. Meg murmured a thanks, then said, “Hope you enjoy your stay.”

  He grinned. “Thanks.”

  Hope you enjoy your stay? What was she? The damned concierge?

  Mentally cursing her own stupidity, Meg started down the hall in search of her room. Gay or no, he’d already made this trip even more interesting than it had promised to be. Meg sighed and mentally ticked off what would be required of her during this trade show. She’d meet the editors of Foreplay as well as the vendors of the products she critiqued. She’d been asked to give a Q&A workshop. She’d be busy, she realized, totally engrossed in the trade show and probably wouldn’t even have time to fantasize about Mr. Perfect from the elevator, much less pursue anything else with him.

  Meg battled a wave of regret at the thought, but resigned herself to that end. Need was one thing, but actually acting upon that need was another.

  That admission nonetheless didn’t keep Meg from wishing she had the nerve to be more like Desiree Moon in her daily life. Meg longed to give Desiree Moon this week, to let her out, so to speak. Let her wear the sexy, silky, off-the-shoulder red dress she’d impulsively bought, then packed. She wanted to be that person, if only for a week.

  And why not? Meg wondered consideringly, struck with sudden inspiration. Why couldn’t she simply let herself be Desiree Moon this week? No one knew her here at the hotel, there was no one she would be held accountable to. The possibility made her quiver with anticipation. Still…there were other issues.

  Meg wasn’t ashamed of her work for Foreplay, but neither did she wish to become a social pariah and an embarrassment to her family. Regrettably, a seedy connotation went along with what she did. While anything pertaining to sex sold—just look at books, magazines and movies, and the hotter the better—there were still people who considered the topic taboo.

  If that wasn’t enough motivation, her mother would have a stroke.

  But her mother wasn’t here, and this was the perfect opportunity, a little-heeded voice persisted. She could do it. There was nothing here to stop her, nothing to prevent her from giving Desiree this week and giving Meg a little excitement in the process. Throw caution to the wind, so to speak. Meg stopped outside her room and fumbled around in her purse for the key card.

  “Looks like we’re neighbors.”

  Meg looked up. Him. Lust kindled, then detonated, burning her up from the inside out.

  It was a sign, Meg decided.

  “So we are,” she said, the first truly articulate thing she’d managed so far.

  Perhaps trust and discretion had nothing to do with her reluctance to engage in a no-strings affair, Meg thought as she watched her mystery man let himself into the room next to hers. Perhaps she’d just never been presented with the proper motivation.

  And, as every good pastry chef knew, timing was every bit as important as the ingredients. This week, combined with Mr. Next Door, certainly looked like a recipe for romance to Meg. She’d just bet he’d be delicious.

  2

  WHAT was she doing in there?

  And what the hell was that noise? To Nick’s supreme consternation, Desiree had been in her room for hours. He had heard the unmistakable sound of packages being delivered and enthusiastically opened. She’d oohed and ahhed excitedly at one point, so he assumed she’d gotten something that really pleased her. In addition, room service had been by and her phone had rung at least half a dozen times.

  But of all the various noises filtering through the wall, the most intriguing—the most infuriating—had to be the ominous low buzzing hum which now emanated softly from her room.

  Nick grimly suspected it was a vibrator.

  Exhaling mightily, he shoved away from the connecting door and paced the small area between the foot of his bed and the wall. He speared his fingers through his hair. Irritation and, yes, dammit, lust hurtled through him at the thought of her lying over there doing…things to herself.

  Despite the fact that he’d only gotten a vague impression of what she might look like underneath that garb, his imagination nonetheless filled in all the other necessary images, tantalizing him—torturing him—with visions so graphic, so depraved it was all Nick
could do to keep from bursting through the door and showing her what the real article could do.

  At present, his article was about to explode, and all because he suspected her of using a vibrator. One of the toys he detested.

  It galled him to no end.

  With little effort, Nick could imagine himself being slowly driven insane by presumed acts of carnality. Visions of her naked, lithe, dewy body writhing in ecstasy on that king-sized bed sent his personal mercury into the triple digits. Nick gritted his teeth. And the hell of it was, he didn’t even know if she possessed a lithe, dewy body. The unknown combined with his suddenly fertile imagination had turned his brain to mush. He couldn’t stand another minute of this, much less a week.

  But he had to. The alternative wasn’t acceptable.

  The infernal buzzing hum suddenly stopped and Nick found himself straining toward the door to listen harder. Several seconds passed, then the sound of running water filled the empty silence. Nick smiled wryly. Atta girl, he thought. Keep the toys clean. At least she practiced good hygiene.

  Nick growled under his breath and opted for a shower. A cold one. He needed perspective and listening to every move Desiree made next door and attaching some sort of sexual connotation didn’t facilitate clear thinking.

  Nick disrobed, then stalked, naked, to the shower. He adjusted the spray, then stepped in. The frigid water stole the breath from his lungs, resulting in a litany of anatomically impossible expletives. He muttered one final oath, then determinedly steered this thinking back to the task at hand.

  Before he’d gotten sidetracked by eavesdropping all day, he’d had a perfectly acceptable plan. Nick had decided to put her under surveillance, then stage a few coincidental meetings. To corroborate his in-town-on-business lie, those meetings would have to take place at night. He’d have to quietly hibernate in his room during the day, and plan to see her in the evenings.

  According to Ron, the trade show would keep nine-to-five hours, freeing everyone up in the evening to examine the products. Nick chuckled darkly. After five this posh high-rise would turn into Hotel Fornication.

  Nevertheless, he sincerely hoped that Desiree would keep to that schedule. It would make his job considerably easier. He assumed that she’d go down to the hotel restaurant in the evenings. Nick would simply turn on the charm, and the rest would be history.

  Or so he hoped.

  The sooner he got this over with, the better. If things went according to plan, he could be home as early as Wednesday, back to his regular routine, which consisted primarily of work. It had occurred to him that it might not be necessary to stay the entire week. He’d find out if she was a fraud—which he sincerely doubted—then report his findings to Ron. Then he could get back to his productive life at the office. Though he knew Ron needed him, Nick felt off-kilter when he was out of his element. He liked being in the boardroom, closing deals, finalizing mergers, reviewing contracts. Spying on a sex-toy critic, for heaven’s sake, was simply not his area of expertise. Still, he’d prepared for this week as best he could.

  Nick had read Desiree Moon’s critiques and could easily see why she’d become so popular. To begin with, it was obvious that she was educated. She wasn’t the stereotypical bored lower-class housewife looking to add a little excitement to her life.

  Though Desiree used explicit terms to convey her meaning, she managed to do it in a classy, yet sexy way. She was witty, used a self-deprecating humor that engaged the reader, kept them scrolling the tool-bar until she’d said what she wanted to say. Simply put, she not only critiqued, she entertained. In addition to that, her conclusions were thorough and insightful.

  Nick couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps her assessments of Ron’s products weren’t right on the money. He certainly hoped not. Nick still had to help him, and by default, protect his mother. His mother had sacrificed enough on her children’s behalf—her health—and Nick couldn’t let her waste one more penny.

  Nick’s mother had worked in a sewing factory for twenty years. She suffered from carpal tunnel syndrome and arthritis, and could barely hold her toothbrush as a result of that labor. His father had been a first-rate mechanic who had worked himself into an early grave.

  Like most parents, the Devereaus had wanted a better life for their children, and though they’d had their problems, they’d succeeded, and more. His father had been a wily businessman and had squirreled away enough money to put both Ron and Nick through college, and to see to it that his wife had been provided for.

  Nick had used his funds as his father had intended—education. Ron, in another misguided attempt to earn his father’s approval, had taken his college fund and opened his own garage. The decision had been a poor one—not Ron’s first—and the business went belly-up within a year. Ron had been on a quest to prove himself ever since.

  Nick stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist and stared into the mirror at his foggy reflection, the familiar guilt settling around him again. He blew out a resigned breath. When this was over, he planned to sit down and have a long talk with his little brother. Ron needed to let go of the past, to forgive their father for his mistakes, and he needed to quit relying on his family for financial support.

  To Ron’s credit, this particular business had been operating profitably right up until Desiree Moon began to bash his product line on the Internet. Nick had looked at the books, seen a direct correlation.

  And, if what Ron suspected were true—if Desiree Moon was a fraud and lacked the experience to critique these products—she needed to be stopped. Right was right and wrong was wrong. If she was making fraudulent claims, then someone needed to put an end to her online career. Nick sighed. Those were a lot of ifs and he preferred to deal with certainties. Too bad there weren’t any.

  Nick heard a door open, then close. Her door.

  Shit.

  Without the hat and glasses, he didn’t know quite what she looked like. Damn. How the hell would he put her under surveillance if he didn’t know whom to look for?

  Towel still wrapped loosely around his waist, Nick rushed to his own door, pulled it open and stepped out into the hall. He’d taken three steps into the corridor when he realized two things. One, the person in the hall was an old man, and therefore, couldn’t be Desiree Moon. Two, he didn’t have his key.

  A hot oath hissed through his clenched teeth.

  To Nick’s immense mortification, hotel patrons began to seemingly burst from their rooms like horses from the chutes at the Kentucky Derby. No fewer than five people passed him, giving him curious, look-at-the-pervert stares.

  Nick nodded politely to each, heat creeping up his neck. “Stepped into the hall, forgot my key,” he muttered inanely.

  Given the situation, he had two choices. He could board an elevator and go up to his brother’s room, pray that Ron was in and not with the check-in clerk. His stomach knotted in revulsion. Or, he could knock on Desiree’s door, then get back into his room via the connecting door.

  Ah, hell. He supposed this was one way to speed up the farce. Showing up in nothing but a towel should spark some sort of reaction. Hopefully, the right one.

  “I’LL BE CAREFUL. I know all about the undertow. Yes, I brought my sunblock. It’s not generic, Mom, it’s the good stuff.” She could hear the familiar drone of the football game in the background, indicating her father was home from the office. She smiled, thankful that some things in life never changed. “I don’t know the number offhand, but I have my cell. Call me on that if anything comes up.”

  Meg inwardly groaned, regretting the whopping lie she’d fabricated to account for her week-long absence. Her mother, The Chronic Worrier, would fret until Meg arrived safely home from her trip to the “beach.”

  Still, she could hardly tell her the truth.

  Hey, Ma. Headed into town for a sex-toy trade show. By the way, have I mentioned that I’m a sex-toy critic now? Multi-talented, your daughter is. Meg chuckled, and then shuddered. Her mother would call an
emergency meeting of her prayer group quicker than she could say “Amen.” It wouldn’t be pretty.

  “I don’t plan on going to any bars to pick up men, Mom. Yes, I’ve heard all about the date-rape drug. Listen, Mom—” Meg paused as a knock sounded at her door. Probably another vendor, she surmised. Half listening to more of her mother’s concerns, Meg crossed the room, flipped the lock and opened the door. “I’ll avoid…strange men, Mom. Bye…” Meg trailed off weakly as her eyes landed on the wet, glistening wall of a spectacularly muscled chest.

  She instinctively knew whom the chest belonged to, so she didn’t waste any time by allowing her gaze to be drawn upward to confirm an identity.

  Instead, she took the lucky opportunity to slowly scan and commit to memory each and every golden inch of his impressive torso and all areas south. The chest gave way to a rock-hard, splendidly sculpted abdomen. The desire to learn those ridges, to play them like a harp and listen to the music of his groans of pleasure, the hissing of his breath, was so strong Meg’s throat went dry. She wanted to wet her finger, slowly drag it down his belly and swirl it around his navel.

  The towel barely clung to lean, narrowed hips, and dipped lower in the front, revealing a gilded treasure trail Meg itched to explore. An impressive bulge created an intriguing terrain across the front of his towel, leaving little doubt that what lay underneath was just as well proportioned as the rest of him. A slow simmer commenced between her thighs and Meg absently licked her lips.

  He cleared his throat, forcing her preoccupied gaze to the northern territory of his face. A slight flush reddened his cheeks and a sheepish grin tugged the corners of his beautiful lips. “I’m locked out of my room,” he told her. “Do you mind if I get back in through the connecting door?”

  Still bedazzled, Meg blinked. “Connecting door?”

  “Our rooms have connecting doors. Haven’t you noticed?”