One Naughty Night

Not that anyone else seemed to notice.

While Renzo tracked her with his eyes as she inched her way between men and women playing complex games of flirtation, he realized no one else noticed the incongruity of this reserved creature in the midst of the urban jungle.

Talk about being thrown to the wolves. The feathery blonde looked completely unprepared to handle herself in a flagrant meat market like this one. Where was her big brother, damn it?

Rising to his feet, Renzo passed off his plate to a harried busboy and moved closer to the dance floor, all thought of second jobs and law school tuition forgotten for the moment.

Not that he was attracted to this woman, he told himself. Just that the protector in him couldn’t stand to watch her brand of innocence stomped by the lascivious lounge lizards populating the club.

He had already glimpsed some slick Don Juan type headed her way, two drinks in his hand. And no way did this man know the wide-eyed blonde. Renzo had seen this particular Romeo at the club every night he’d checked in on Giselle for the past month. Nico had tossed the guy out on his ear last week for aggressively dancing with a woman who obviously wanted no part of his company.

Renzo finished his bottle of water and tossed it on to the bar, keeping his eye on the silk-suited barracuda closing in on little Miss Innocent. Giselle wouldn’t exactly mind if he didn’t get back to the kitchen for another hour.

She could call him a chauvinist all she wanted. He had every intention of running interference for the blond newcomer—at least until he convinced her she was out of her depth in these shark-infested waters.

Swearing off women didn’t mean he couldn’t help out a lady in distress. Or possibly introduce himself after he’d given her a hand. He had a pulse, after all.

And, damn it, he wasn’t a monk.

ESMERALDA WONDERED if it was too late to back out of the blind date thing when she spied the man in a slick silk suit walking toward her with two drinks in his hand. He shared the same reedy, too-perfect good looks as her former boss, an association that brought a wave of nausea to her already quivery belly.

She forced herself to stand still, however, determined not to follow her instincts tonight. If this guy turned out to be Hugh Duncan, she would find a way to survive it. Although she suspected it would be easier to get through the evening if she’d worn her bra. At this rate, she’d be hunching her shoulders all night to disguise the fact.

Then again, her date might be very nice despite the strong cloud of musky cologne that reached her long before he did.

Her lovely neighbor Mrs. Wolcott assured her Hugh was a perfect gentleman.

Straightening her spine as the man approached her from the right and opened his mouth to speak, Esme jumped when another voice intervened.

“I’ve been keeping an eye out for you.” The warm, masculine rasp emanated from her left. Somehow she’d missed this man’s approach in her fear of turning her back on Mr. Reedy.

A damn shame considering the newcomer looked like a page on a girl’s pinup calendar. She had never possessed such a thing herself, but in the many hours of her life she’d spent ensconced in bookstores, Esme had most certainly spied hunk calendars. This guy, with his dark hair, even darker eyes and sexy bronze skin should have been in one of the “Studs of Italy” editions.

Not that she’d memorized her favorite titles or anything, either.

“You’ve been looking for me?” She wondered if her voice conveyed a pathetic amount of hopefulness. Glancing back and forth between Mr. Reedy who’d taken the liberty of ordering a drink for her already and the Italian stud who possessed killer muscles and yet not a hint of aggressive body language, Esme crossed her fingers that the Italian stud proved to be Hugh Duncan.

She cast a pointed look to her left, away from the overpowering cologne of Joe Slick. “I’m Esme Giles. Are you Hugh?”

The guy to her right bristled, raising himself a little taller in his polished leather shoes as he shoved a drink under her nose. “Hey, Esme, how about some sex on the beach?”

She struggled not to roll her eyes. Even the college history geeks had been above using that tired bit. Curious, she wanted to ask the man if that line had ever worked for him before, but Mr. Tall, Dark and Delicious inserted himself between them to face her.

“I’m the man you’re looking for.” He nudged the reedy guy’s glass aside with one hand while smoothly steering Esme toward the back of the club and away from the other man.

Very presumptuous. And okay, maybe a little sexy.

Part of her was grateful for the assistance since she’d been getting a sinus headache from the other guy’s cologne overload, but part of her didn’t appreciate being led around by the nose. Or in this case, the elbow.

The new Esmerelda had every intention of calling her own shots and following her own path in life.

She stopped just before they reached a secluded table, refusing to go any farther until she’d confronted Rambo.

Whirling on him, she sent her skirt in a swirl about her legs, the resulting breeze creating a delicious draft up her dress. But as she faced her rescuer again, she was struck anew by his sexy good looks. The bronze skin, the dark eyes, the longish dark hair. His sharply sculpted face was full of hard angles, relieved only by the soft fullness of his mouth.

And despite the serious feminine competition all around, this guy had noticed her and stuck around long enough to help her out of a sticky situation. The night seemed to be looking up.

Clearing her throat, she tried to remember Mrs. Wolcott’s description of Hugh Duncan and failed. Any mental vision she might have formed of Hugh had somehow transmuted into the hard edges and clean lines of the man standing in front of her. “I’m sorry, but did you say you were my date?”

“You’re meeting a blind date?” His dark eyebrows knit together in an intimidating furrow. “In this meat market?”

What a perfectly eloquent assessment of the place. Club Paradise was lushly beautiful with its rich appointments and clever lighting, but the atmosphere in the lounge was a bit—sexually overt. Mrs. Wolcott had given Esme a room here tonight so she would have safe territory to retreat to if her date didn’t work out. “It is a meat market, isn’t it?”

He grumbled something unintelligible under his breath about idiotic men as a group of dancers clad only in strategic white feathers breezed past them.

She noted with interest that his gaze didn’t stray to the expanse of exposed feminine flesh that passed almost under his nose. If anything, she had been more curious about the feathered dancers than he seemed.

Appreciation for meeting a real gentleman—something far too rare in her opinion—warmed her to her toes. And he’d known she was meeting a blind date. Obviously she had found her man. “If you think Club Paradise is such a pick-up joint, why did you want to come here tonight?”

“This wouldn’t have been my first choice, that’s for sure. Who was it you said you were meeting again?” He glared around the room as if surprised to find himself here.

“Hugh Duncan.” She snagged a fresh prepoured glass off the champagne fountain at one end of the bar and helped herself to a little more of the bubbly drink. As part of ladies night, the Moulin Rouge Lounge offered free champagne to its female guests until 1:00 a.m., according to a sign in the lobby. She’d had a glass a few minutes ago, but the nervousness chugging through her and the tingly awareness of the man standing next to her urged her to indulge in a little more. Between the rapid pounding of her heart and the swift whoosh of air in and out of her lungs, the sedative effects of alcohol would be most welcome right about now. “I’m so glad I found you. I have to admit I’m a little out of my element in here. I feel better already to be with someone I can trust.”

He was quiet for so long, she hesitated before sipping her champagne.

“Assuming you are my date tonight?” A wave of nervousness threaded through her. She’d be a little bit embarrassed at this point if he wasn’t.

He reached for the glass just as she put it to her lips, covering her hand with his own, effectively seizing the drink and awakening a long slumberous desire she hadn’t known she’d harbored until just this very moment.

“Why don’t you let me get you a drink?” He leaned closer as he spoke in soft, serious tones. The gesture was at once totally innocent and thoroughly intimate. His dark eyes cut through the shifting blue and red lights, making the rest of the noisy club disappear for one heated moment. “And I am most definitely your date tonight, Esme Giles.”

2

RENZO EASED the champagne glass out of Esme’s hand slowly, not wishing to scare her away by appearing too domineering. Didn’t she know the dangers of picking up a prepoured glass of anything in a crowded nightclub?

He’d have to talk to Giselle about getting rid of those filled glasses on top of the champagne fountain right away. The drinks were perched in a place where anyone could have access to them—not a good setup when date-rape drugs were so widespread. It took half a second for someone to drug a drink, a stat savvy club-goers kept in mind.

Not Esme Giles.

Her brand of innocence could be downright dangerous.

Applying light pressure to the small of her back, Renzo nudged her toward the table he’d staked out for himself in the back. Over her head, he crooked his finger at one of Giselle’s waitresses.

“Why don’t you let me order you a fresh drink?” He rolled out the Cesare charm, needing to keep Esme entertained and out of circulation in the lounge. “My sister is something of a food and drink wizard and she works in the back. How about if I ask her to prepare us something a little more exotic?”

Esme seemed to weigh the idea for a moment. Then she smiled up at him in a half-cocked grin that struck him as a rusty movement. “Yes. Absolutely. Exotic is exactly what I’m looking for tonight.”

God help him.