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CHAPTER TWO
CONTRARY TO POPULAR opinion, Kate didn’t believe crying ever made anyone feel better. In her experience, crying made you feel rubbish—and look even worse—and now she had conclusive proof, staring back at her out of the bathroom mirror.
Dabbing at her puffy, red-rimmed eyes with a damp tissue, Kate willed the tears to stop. She’d been at it for over twenty minutes and it was giving her a blistering headache. She wasn’t even sure what she was crying about any more.
Yes, Andrew had been a creep, but she should have seen that one coming. She’d convinced herself his interest in her had stemmed from admiration and mutual respect. But she should have known better. Since when did guys admire and respect women like her? Women who had an opinion and voiced it. She should have guessed something was wrong as soon as Andrew said he liked her sassiness. No man ever had before, starting with her father.
Kate watched her brow furrow in the mirror, felt the wave of sadness and inadequacy that always accompanied thoughts of her father.
James Dalton Asquith III had only wanted her mother for one thing—and he’d certainly never wanted a daughter. When he’d been forced to take her in after her mother’s death, Kate had tried desperately to please him, to be who he wanted her to be. At seventeen she’d finally accepted the truth—that the fault lay with him, not her—which made it all the more galling that in some small, forgotten corner of her heart his rejection still hurt.
Running away from home all those years ago had been the smartest thing she’d ever done. A liberating experience that had made her realise she didn’t need her father’s approval, or his charity. She took a slow, calming breath and gave her cheeks one last swipe with a fresh tissue from the vanity unit.
Finally figuring out what a heel Andrew was could well be the next smartest. She breathed out again, glad not to hear a single hitch. She’d cried her last tear over Andrew Rocastle—and her father for that matter.
She screwed the tissue up and shoved it in the pocket of the bathrobe. Flushing the toilet, she walked out into the living area of the suite. Her stomach knotted as she spotted the soft leather sofa where Andrew had been sitting when she’d walked out of the bathroom in her underwear.
Surprise had quickly given way to fury when she’d discovered what Andrew had in mind for their so-called business trip. Didn’t she realise where their relationship was leading? he’d said. As if she’d been a party to his ridiculous fantasies. Frankly she’d been more turned on by one look from Zack Boudreaux, the hotel tycoon from planet sexy, than she had by all Andrew’s attention in the last few weeks. He’d accused her of sending him mixed messages. Tears of humiliation clogged up her throat as she recalled how he’d shoved her out of the suite while she’d been giving him another message entirely, at top volume.
Kate sniffed the tears back and gave a weary sigh, pushing the aggravating memory to the far reaches of her mind. She had other, more pressing problems to deal with now. She was back at square one, right where she’d been when she’d walked out on her father and his indifference ten years ago—broke and ‘scrubbing johns’ for a living. Except this time she was doing it thousands of miles from home with a distinct lack of clothing.
She plumped herself down on the sofa.
At least she’d learned something from this situation. Never trust anyone, and don’t kid yourself. If something looks too good to be true, it is.
Picking up the TV remote she switched on the huge plasma screen that took up the opposite wall of the suite.
Perma-pressed chat show hosts and adverts for haemorrhoid cream flicked by as she trolled through the channels. Her thumb stopped dead as a raunchy scene in a daytime soap opera flashed onto the screen. A buxom blonde appeared to be Unibonded to a hairless muscle-bound male torso. Kate tilted her head, trying to figure out where the chest ended and the blonde began.
‘For Pete’s sake, isn’t that a bit much for ten in the morning?’ she said out loud as the camera lifted and the couple proceeded to suck each other’s faces off.
Then the guy came up for air. He droned a series of banal lines but all Kate noticed was the jewel-green tone of his eyes. It reminded her of someone.
She tucked her legs up under her, refusing to acknowledge the tingling sensation between her thighs. Her thumb jerked down on the channel-change button, but not before she’d had the errant thought that Zack Boudreaux’s eyes were a much more compelling shade of green and that she’d bet her knickers the hotel tycoon had hair on his chest.
Of course, once she’d conjured up the picture of Boudreaux’s naked torso in her mind she couldn’t get it out again. No matter how many channels she surfed through.
Eventually she gave up and turned the telly off. Throwing the zapper down on the glass-topped coffee-table, she grasped her ankles and willed herself to calm down. Hadn’t she just promised herself she wasn’t going to put herself at the mercy of any man again, especially not a man like Zack Boudreaux? The guy had testosterone oozing out of his pores. Not only that, but she’d spent all of twenty minutes in his company and it had taken her about two seconds to realise he was exactly the sort of guy any woman with a single independent thought should stay well away from. A man like him would trample all over you without even realising he was doing it.
Stop thinking about him right this instant, she told herself sharply. Now if she could just get rid of the warm, liquid and completely unprecedented feeling that had settled between her thighs…
Kate’s head snapped up at the sharp knock on the door.
‘Hi, I’m Michelle.’ The pristine young woman standing in the corridor had one of those megawatt sales assistant’s smiles pasted on her face. ‘I’m from Ella’s Boutique downstairs. Mr Boudreaux asked us personally to bring up a selection of clothes for you to look at.’
Kate cursed the guilty flush that spread up her neck at the mention of his name. ‘He did?’
‘Yeah, he did.’ The young woman beamed back and then shuffled into the room wheeling a portable garment rail behind her. A profusion of colours and fabrics hung from it. ‘He said for you to pick out as many outfits as you need for your stay with us.’
‘Oh.’ Kate didn’t know what else to say. She’d expected a pair of hotel overalls or something, not a selection of the latest catwalk fashions.
‘Would you like me to lay them out for you?’
Kate stared at the rail. ‘Um.’She bit her lip. ‘No, don’t bother.’
Silk dresses vied for position with designer jeans, cashmere sweaters, a Dolce & Gabbana T-shirt. Kate rubbed a satin top between her thumb and forefinger. The cloth was a deep vivid purple, cool and whisper smooth to the touch. Lifting it off the rail, she studied the perfect stitching, the delicately beaded neckline, the way the cloth draped in shimmering waves. She’d never owned a piece of clothing this gorgeous in her life. Or, she imagined, this expensive.
‘Why don’t they have any price tags?’ Kate asked, hooking the purple blouse back onto the rail.
‘Oh, well.’ The girl’s smile faltered as she hesitated. Obviously her customers didn’t usually concern themselves with something as mundane as prices. ‘You don’t need them, ma’am,’ she said, brightening again. ‘Mr Boudreaux said to charge everything to the hotel.’
Kate gaped at the girl, momentarily struck dumb by Boudreaux’s generosity. Then reality intervened. That was ridiculous—he couldn’t possibly have intended to give her hundreds of dollars worth of clothing. The boutique staff must have misunderstood. He had probably intended for them to charge the clothes to Kate’s hotel room.
‘I’d still like to know the prices,’ she said, trying not to sound ungracious.
The girl looked confused. ‘I guess I could call down to the boutique and get Monica, my supervisor, to itemise them once you’ve made your selection.’
‘All right,’ Kate said. Although it wasn’t all right. She’d much rather know the prices up front. As beautiful as the clothing was she didn’t want to be scrubbing johns in Mr Irresistible’s hotel for the rest of her life, which could very well happen if she picked the wrong thing. Most of this stuff would retail in the hundreds, possibly even thousands.
But at the same time Kate didn’t want to embarrass herself further by making a big deal of it, and she also didn’t want to seem ungrateful. Frankly, she’d been astonished when Boudreaux had offered to help her out in the first place, she didn’t want to press her luck.
She opted for the plainest pair of jeans she could find and a simple blue T-shirt with The Phoenix logo on it. At the bottom of the rail was a box with a selection of shoes. Once again, the designs, colours and craftsmanship had her controlling a whimper. She recognised a pair of Fendis and some Manolo Blahniks from the style magazines she loved to paw over at home. She turned to Michelle, who was busy boxing up her selections.
‘Do you have any trainers?’
‘You don’t like the shoes here?’ Michelle looked thoroughly crestfallen now.
‘Oh, no, it’s not that, they’re gorgeous. It’s just I need something less dressy.’
‘Dressy?’ The girl glanced at the shoes, her eyebrows lifting. She obviously considered five-hundred-dollar shoes perfectly acceptable for day wear, but to Kate’s relief she didn’t say it. ‘The sportswear store in the hotel forum sells Converse and Nike—is that what you mean?’
‘Perfect.’ Even with the hotel mark-up, she was sure she could find something for fifty dollars.
The girl’s eyes widened, but she nodded. Kate had no doubt at all the shop staff would soon be abuzz with gossip about the dotty English girl in the Sunset Suite with the dress sense of a teenage boy. She forced herself not to care. With the stuff she had she could at least leave the suite—and start work tomorrow—without being indentured for life.
The girl took her shoe size and promised to have a pair sent up to the suite. She wheeled her rail back out the door, but stopped when she got over the threshold. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. Mr Boudreaux sent up a package for you.’ The girl unclipped a white hotel bag from the end of the rail with an envelope attached to the front. ‘I swear, I’d forget my head if it weren’t glued to my neck,’ she said, giving Kate a nervous smile.
Kate smiled back, or at least she tried to. Why would Boudreaux be sending her packages? Her hand shook ever so slightly as she reached for the bag. ‘Thank you.’
‘Well…’ The girl hesitated. Kate guessed she might be waiting for her to open the package. She wasn’t about to oblige. She had no idea what was inside, but the way her luck was going lately she thought it might be bad, like a demand to leave. Maybe he’d changed his mind about helping her out.
‘He brought it into the boutique and gave it to me specially,’ the girl continued, the awed tone of her voice making it sound as if she thought Boudreaux were the new Messiah.
Kate slung the package under her arm and rubbed her dampening palms on her hotel robe. ‘I really appreciate you going to all this trouble. Do tell your supervisor thanks from me, too,’ she said, as politely as possible.
Maybe the girl was waiting for a tip? If she was, she was going to be waiting a very long time.
The girl gave a slight hitch of her shoulders. ‘No problem, it’s all part of the service.’ Her eyes flicked to the package one last time. ‘Have a nice day.’ So saying Michelle took off down the corridor, the clothes-laden rail making a swishing sound on the carpet as she pulled it along behind her.
Kate closed the door and leaned back against it. Why did her knees feel wobbly? She glanced at the flimsy package, which she could have sworn was now throbbing under her arm like a ticking bomb. While she’d been standing in the doorway waiting for the girl to leave it had occurred to her just how dependent she was on Boudreaux’s largesse. Sucking in a deep breath, she walked into the room and flung the package on the coffee-table. The white envelope attached to the front had her name written on it in bold black ink. It had to be his handwriting, she thought. The large looping letters and the thick black line slashed under the words seemed to exude confidence, arrogance even—just as he did. She could imagine him writing it with the fountain pen he’d been tapping on his desk, his long tanned fingers moving quickly and efficiently across the paper.
She sighed and sat down. Oh, stop it, you dope. Just open the stupid thing and get it over with. If he’d asked her to leave, she’d leave. He’d honoured the promise about the clothes, which was the main thing. No reason why she couldn’t find a job in another hotel now, until she paid him back and earned her airfare home. That the thought of leaving the hotel made her feel a little depressed was simply ridiculous. Why on earth should she care? She wasn’t any better off here than she would be anywhere else in Vegas.
She guessed the butterflies jitterbugging in her stomach and the cold fingers of dread flitting up her spine must be the result of exhaustion and her recent emotional trauma, nothing more. She folded her legs and tugged the envelope off the package in one quick, decisive move. Still, as she put her finger into the seam and ripped the envelope open the feeling of dread tightened into an icy fist.
Five crisp new hundred-dollar bills spilled onto her lap. She scooped them up and stared at them. Clutching them in one hand, she unfolded the thick cream paper with the hotel’s green and gold letterhead at the top. It took a moment for her eyes to focus on the brief note, scrawled in that same dominant black ink in the middle of the page.
Kate,
Hope you found something to go with those proper knickers.
Meet me for dinner tonight, 8pm in the Rainbow Room.
Z
The signature Z had been slashed across the bottom like the mark of Zorro.
Kate blinked and read the note three more times, but there was still no mention of the five hundred dollars. The feeling of foreboding had gone, but in its place was something much more disturbing. Heat shot into her cheeks and the butterflies in her belly were all burned to a crisp. What was this fixation he seemed to have with her knickers? Why did she find it arousing instead of insulting? And what exactly was the five hundred dollars for?
She didn’t want to meet him for dinner tonight. She didn’t want to make a fool of herself again, or, worse, come across like someone on the make. But the invitation sounded like an order, and she couldn’t afford to annoy him.
She remembered the small package then. The hotel bag had been taped shut. It didn’t look as if there was much in it. Undoing the tape she upended the bag and a scrap of lacy crimson satin with a Post-it note stuck to it fell out onto the coffee-table. She picked it up, and pulled the satin thing tight between her fingers.
A thong! Her cheeks blazed and her breath got choppy.
She read the Post-it note: ‘These are for you, Kate, in case you want a break from your proper knickers.’
‘Why, you cheeky…’ Kate was outraged.
But a bubble of something worked its way up her torso. The light and airy feeling fanned out across her chest and a smile she couldn’t seem to stop spread across her face.
Then, completely against her will, she began to laugh, for what felt like the first time in a millennium.
CHAPTER THREE
KATE WASN’T LAUGHING when she stepped into the elevator that evening. As the empty car whipped soundlessly up to the nineteenth floor she knew the weightlessness in her stomach had more to do with nerves than gravity.
She studied her reflection in the mirror on the elevator’s back wall. At least she didn’t look like a vagabond. After a short but fortifying nap, she’d taken one of the hundred-dollar bills Boudreaux had given her and hit The Strip, aware she could hardly wear her Tom Sawyer outfit to the hotel’s swankiest restaurant.
She absolutely was not dressing up to impress Boudreaux, but she didn’t want to look ridiculous either. Luckily for Kate, she happened to be an expert at styling on a budget. She’d found the vintage blue and gold silk dress in a Salvation Army thrift shop for twenty dollars. It was a little snug around her breasts, showing a bit more cleavage than was probably intended, but otherwise it could have been made for her. The classic hourglass nineteen-fifties styles looked retro, not out of date, she told herself, especially once she added the heeled sandals and clutch purse she’d found on sale at an outlet store on Fremont Street. Kate had never been a shopaholic, she’d never had the finances for it, but she did get a buzz out of coordinating the perfect outfit for peanuts. She’d trolled the cosmetics counters at the nearest mall and picked up a sack full of free samples, so even with the headscarf she’d bought to tie up her hair she’d managed to keep her spending under eighty dollars.
Keeping back twenty dollars for emergencies, Kate stuffed the other four hundred dollars Boudreaux had lent her inside her new purse. She pressed it against her belly and peered over her shoulder to get a view of her bum. The tangle of nerves and anticipation eased a little. She looked great. Maybe a bit unusual, but still great. Unfortunately, she didn’t feel all that great.
Ever since she’d started getting ready an hour ago, a troop of Morris dancers wearing hobnailed boots had been having a hoedown under her breastbone.
Why did Boudreaux want to have dinner with her?
They hadn’t exactly hit it off up to this point. The obvious answer was that he saw in her an opportunity for a quick conquest. While the thong had made her laugh, she knew letting her guard down with Boudreaux could lead to disaster. It wasn’t the quick fling he no doubt had in mind that she objected to per se. She didn’t consider herself a prude. She enjoyed hot, healthy sex as much as the next girl and it was a very long time since she’d had any. Plus, she had a feeling hot, healthy sex would be Boudreaux’s forte. But her confidence had taken a huge hit with Andrew and she didn’t want to end up feeling used again—however mutual it might be.
She’d worked out her strategy. She would be polite and distant. She must not encourage him. He was a dangerous man, both good-looking and magnetic, and he knew it. From the tone of his note, and the teasing sparkle in his eyes earlier, she suspected he would be well practised at the art of seduction. And, if that wasn’t worrying enough, her attraction to him had a heat and intensity she’d never experienced before. She must not rise to the bait, or she could end up getting seriously burned.
The lift doors opened onto a plush lobby area, but Kate barely noticed it, her gaze drawn to the panoramic view of night-time Vegas on the other side of the restaurant. Past the maître d’s lectern and the candlelit tables, a wall of glass showcased The Strip and the darkness of the desert beyond. Boudreaux’s hotel wasn’t the largest of the huge casino hotels, but it certainly had pole position. Nineteen storeys up, the neon plumage of The Bellagio, The Mirage, Caesars Palace and a host of other famous names lit up the night like a flock of narcissistic peacocks. The city, seen from this lofty angle, glowed with expectant glamour.
Kate drew in a careful breath as she approached the maître d’ and gave him her name. She was bang on time, but as the waiter led her to a booth at the back of the restaurant she saw Boudreaux had arrived ahead of her. He stood up as she approached, his tall, imposing physique silhouetted against the flickering neon of the cityscape.
He was wearing a conservative, expertly tailored grey suit, one hand tucked into the pocket of his trousers and his white shirt unbuttoned at the neck revealing a few wisps of chest hair. Kate realised he looked relaxed and completely at home in his surroundings. Tall, dark, handsome and devastatingly sexy. As her pulse buzzed in her ears and the Morris dancers went for broke in her stomach she wondered if she had overestimated her ability to resist the irresistible.
Zack had been sitting at the table for ten minutes, nursing a Scotch and soda and debating whether the thong might have been a tactical error at this stage in the game. He’d bought it on impulse and dashed off the note because the thought of getting Kate all fired up again had amused him. But once he’d been shown to their table, he’d begun to wonder if he might have overplayed his hand.
Did the woman even have a sense of humour?
But as soon as he spotted her walking towards him through the dim lights of the restaurant, Zack found all his misgivings obliterated by an explosive surge of lust.
She looked stunning. The gold threads in her dress caught the candlelight, shimmering over her curves and accentuating the way the material clung to every delicious inch of her. She was taller than he’d first thought, her blonde hair piled up on her head with a flash of blue silk and her smooth bare legs finished off with a pair of glittery gold heels. Whether or not she had a sense of humour, she certainly had a sense of style. The outfit looked like a throwback to the days of Marilyn Monroe, but it worked on her. His eyes drifted down to her cleavage where the pale flesh of her breasts strained against the fabric. His mouth went bone dry.
Marilyn, eat your heart out.
He made a mental note to give the boutique manageress a raise for her inspired product purchasing. Kate gave him a polite smile as the waiter placed the menus on the table and excused himself.
‘Hello, Mr Boudreaux,’ she said in that snooty, husky voice that made him think of warm flesh and soft sheets. ‘I hope I didn’t keep you waiting?’
‘Call me Zack.’ He took the hand she offered. Her fingers trembled and he caught a whiff of the perfume she wore. Sultry but subtle, the provocative scent whispered to him as she let go of his hand. He resisted the urge to bury his face against her neck and breathe it in, but only just. ‘You were worth the wait,’ he said, letting his gaze wander over her figure. ‘That’s one hell of a dress.’
‘Thank you.’ She smoothed her hands over the silk and sat down, the picture of demure, but he caught the spark of mischief in her eyes as they met his. ‘Better than a bathrobe, then?’
His lips quirked. So she did have a sense of humour. Damned if he wasn’t going to have fun tonight. ‘Depends,’ he said, ‘on what you’ve got under it.’
Regrets, he decided, were for wimps.
With his emerald eyes hot on hers and his devastating face relaxed in a challenging grin, Kate felt all her good intentions jump up and shoot straight out of the window. ‘Gosh, are we talking about your knicker fetish already?’she said in her haughtiest voice. ‘I thought you’d at least let me have a drink first.’
He barked out a laugh, his eyes glittering with appreciation. ‘Okay, let’s get you a drink.’ He snapped his fingers at the waiter. ‘But I’ve got to warn you, this fetish is fast becoming an obsession.’
‘Really, Zack?’ The corner of her mouth inched up. ‘That doesn’t sound very healthy.’
The waiter arrived and she ordered herself a glass of Kir, conscious of Zack studying her the whole time. The trickle of awareness became a torrent.
‘You’re right, it’s not healthy,’ he said, once the waiter had gone, his voice low and intimate and full of fake concern. ‘Maybe I need therapy?’
‘Or maybe you should stop sending thongs to women you don’t know.’
The glass of cassis-tinted wine arrived and she took a fortifying sip.
‘That might work,’ he said, the gravity in the words not the least bit convincing. ‘Or maybe I should get to know her first.’ He reached across the table, stroked his thumb across the back of her hand. ‘How does that sound?’ The light touch had heat spearing up her arms and across her chest.
Okay, not just practised in the art of seduction, more like world class. And to think she’d thought he was forbidding in his office earlier. He wasn’t forbidding, just extremely dangerous. But the perilous urge to play with fire overwhelmed her. Why not? After the day she’d had, a bit of harmless flirtation would do her good.
‘As long as you’re not talking about getting to know her in the biblical sense—’she took a sip of wine, her mouth suddenly dry ‘—because that’s going to bring us right back to your knicker problem again, isn’t it?’ she said, her voice tapering off as his eyes flashed hot and a muscle in his jaw tensed.
He arched one black brow, the heat in his gaze undimmed. ‘It won’t be a problem for long, Kate. I guarantee it.’
Uh-oh, Kate thought as the temperature in the room soared and a blush spread up her chest. This flirtation was nowhere near as harmless as she’d intended. He was looking at her as if he’d stripped her naked already. The fireball of need between her thighs meant he might as well have done. She had to cool things down now, or they’d both go up in smoke. She wasn’t playing with fire here. She was playing with an inferno. And she had no idea how to handle it.
Zack knew the instant he’d gone too far. Colour stained her cheeks and her eyes clouded over. He thought it was a shame, but he didn’t blame her. He’d never got so hot, so quickly before in his life. Hell, when she’d put her lips on her wine glass, his blood had gone south so fast he got a little light-headed.
She opened the menu, a slight tremor in her hands as she studied the listings in silence. She lifted her head, a nervous smile on her lips. ‘Shall we order? I’m really hungry.’
He was hungry too, he thought, hungrier than he’d been in a very long time, and he wasn’t thinking about food. But he nodded, picking up his own menu. ‘Sounds good to me.’
He allowed her to let the conversation drift to harmless small talk as they ordered.
The quiver in her voice a moment ago had been a big red stop sign. As much as he would have liked to drive right through it and risk the crash, he knew he shouldn’t. He’d found out as a young man that patience was more than a virtue. It was a pleasure. It got you what you wanted, but allowed you to savour it first.
He had a feeling that Kate Denton—with her smart mouth, her lush little body and her sassy sense of humour—would be worth savouring.
The food was exquisite, and Kate was starving, but by the time the delicate slice of chocolate pecan torte was placed in front of her she’d barely managed to swallow a bite. She couldn’t seem to stop babbling. Maybe it was the intense way he absorbed everything she said. Or the questions he asked, as if he really cared what she had to say.
He knew London well, had lived there for several years in his teens, apparently, and they’d chatted about her home town for most of the meal. It should have been a relaxing, innocuous conversation, but every time she caught his eyes flicking down to her lips, every time she noticed the sexy way his mouth curved when she said something sharp or funny, her blood pressure shot up another notch.
She placed a spoonful of the rich chocolate dessert onto her tongue. It tasted dark, sensual and delicious, despite the jumble of nerves and excitement making whoopee in her tummy.
‘How’s your pie?’ he said, his gaze dropping to her mouth again. Her pulse jumped.
‘Fabulous.’ She licked her lips, shocked by the reckless thrill when his eyes followed the movement. ‘Chocolate should be one of the seven deadly sins, don’t you think?’
‘I thought it was,’ he said, his voice as rich and sinful as the chocolate.
It is now, thought Kate, spooning up another mouthful of chocolate. ‘Do you fancy a taste?’
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he said, the intensity in his gaze convincing her they weren’t talking about her dessert.
She lifted the spoon. Wrapping strong fingers round her hand, he guided it to his lips. As she watched the thick velvety chocolate being devoured the well of desire she’d been holding back geysered up. Her nipples tightened against the smooth silk of her dress and her thighs tensed, unable to hold back the flood of heat. The sensual battle she’d been waging with her body all evening had been well and truly lost.
‘Thanks. That was delicious.’ He caressed her fingers before releasing her hand. She saw the glow of triumph in his eyes and realised he knew he’d won.
It didn’t take him long to claim the spoils.
‘Kate,’ he said, leaning back against the leather booth, one forearm resting casually on the table. ‘You’re beautiful, you intrigue me and I’m very attracted to you. I’d like to make love to you tonight. How do you feel about the idea?’
Well, he was certainly direct and to the point, she thought, her breasts throbbing now, her heartbeat pummelling.
She should have said she wasn’t attracted to him, that she didn’t want to make love. It was sheer madness to encourage something so reckless, so impulsive. But the lie refused to come out of her mouth. It was as if some devastating chemical reaction had taken control of her body and wouldn’t let her utter the words.
Maybe it was madness, but it wasn’t just that she couldn’t say the words—she knew she didn’t want to. Zack Boudreaux was every woman’s fantasy. And the way he was looking at her right now was giving her heart palpitations. She’d never been this sexually aware of anyone before in her life. This man could make her forget the mess she was in—if only for one night. Didn’t she deserve at least one fleeting chance of escape?
Kate concentrated on his face, revelling in the rush of desire as she decided on her reply. ‘I feel quite enthusiastic about the idea, actually.’
