by Nancy Warren
Doing the drawings for Leonardo’s Sex For The Seriously Inhibited had been a tremendous amount of work. The move from a closed stuffy studio, where she’d spent days positioning naked, or almost naked, models into simulated sex positions, to open, breeze-swept beaches, was like a dose of mega-rich vitamins, as was the challenge of drawing for children. Besides, there was only so much pretend sex a woman could take.
“Ya’ll buckle up back there now, ma’am.” The pilot’s voice, with its hint of the south, came over the intercom. “We’ll be landing in a few minutes. Should be a smooth one.”
Esme did as instructed and peered out the Cessna’s generous window. Delacroix Island, its saltwater bays, lake, and bayou, stretched beneath her. The endless expanse of sea beyond, the swath of low grassy dunes, sun warmed and waiting, looked lush and tempting. She imagined a few stolen hours from her work, basking on a towel by the shore, taking some long overdue downtime.
Esme sighed and leaned back in the plush seat. No more naked bodies; just two weeks of bliss and beaches, thanks to Marilee. All she had to do was drop off hers and Leonardo’s business case and do a drawing of McCoy’s home. A small price to pay for his hospitality. That done, she intended to work hard, and stay well out of his way. If Marilee was right, that wouldn’t be a problem, because, according to her, he spent his days locked in a computer room making money.
Correction. More money.
Marilee said he’d made a gazillion running his company, some kind of electronics firm, then another gazillion when he suddenly sold it a couple of years ago. All he did now was stare at a computer screen and watch his fortune grow.
While Esme doubted it was that easy, Dane’s preoccupation with moneymaking faintly repelled her.
Marilee described her older brother as a business shark, a fierce kill-the-competition-style workaholic, who was totally unstoppable when he wanted something. She’d also said he was very handsome in a middle-aged kind of way, but that he was always so “stressed to the max,” he looked like an ogre on mean pills.
In what Esme called her past life, the one lived before she began seriously pursuing her art, she’d counseled more than her share of Dane McCoys. The money gods, she’d called them, and to a man they were ambitious, driven, stunningly egotistical—and when required—utterly charming.
She didn’t miss them . . . those empty men with fat wallets, thin libidos, and joyless souls.
She especially didn’t miss the one she’d married.
Esme rubbed at the tight spot above her breasts, the site left vacant by love and inhabited now by wariness, self-protectiveness, and a determination to live—and love—her way, or not at all.
Esme Shane was no mouse.
Tall, dark-haired, and athletic, she was built for sport—both indoor and out. Meeting her was like rounding a quiet corner and bumping into a parade.
Wearing tight jeans, a wildly bright silk shirt, and yellow sneakers, she hit the eye hard and fast, a surge of energy and color that made everything around her muddy and gray. When she extended her hand, and Dane enclosed it in his, every bone and muscle in it vibrated against his palm. Damn near electric.
Esme Shane was hot.
Dane suddenly wished he’d shaved, had a haircut. Both thoughts pissed him off, as did the thought that this “mouse” was going to be damned hard to ignore for two weeks—if he let her stay that long.
“Dane,” she said, clasping his hand and smiling into his eyes. “Thanks for coming to meet me.” She stopped, tilted her head. “You’re as good-looking as your sister said you were.”
“You’re not,” he said, then cringed, shaking his head at his own stupidity.
Her eyes widened.
“Sorry.” He attempted a rally. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s just that Marilee described you as more . . . conservative. And you’re . . . not.” She’d said nothing about sharp, sexy green eyes, and a lush mouth he had trouble taking his eyes from.
She laughed, tugged her hand from his. “Compared to your sister, Paris Hilton is conservative.”
“Yeah.” Her mouth—smiling—caused a tight feeling in his throat. He began thinking about how long it had been since he’d had sex. Shit!
Her smile grew and her eyelashes swept down. He had the sick feeling she knew exactly what he was thinking and was amused by it.
She was a witch. Marilee had sent him a witch—with an agenda.
Dane gestured toward the Porsche. “Your bags—”
“One bag, one portfolio case,” she corrected. “I travel light, and I didn’t want to scare you by bringing so much luggage you’d be afraid I’d outstay my welcome.”
Not possible. “Not a problem,” he muttered, again nodding toward the car, where Granger had stowed her gear. “The top’s down. I can put it up if it bothers you.” Her hair, loose to the middle of her back, was as thick and straight as a curtain. The wind would mess it up big time.
“Oh, no. The fresh air will be great.”
When they were both in the car, she gave him a curious look. “I had you in mind as older.”
He put the car in gear, reversed to make a turn, and slanted a gaze her way. “Marilee again. She thinks anyone over thirty was around when they built the Statue of Liberty.”
“How old are you?” she asked, while making a rough braid from her long hair and securing it with a blue stretchy thing she’d dug from her tote.
“Thirty-nine.” He eyed her, decided on tit-for-tat. “What about you?” Twenty-six, he guessed.
“Thirty-two. Next month.” She finished her braid, rested her head back on the seat, and drew in some long deep breaths.
As heaving bosoms went, he rated hers an A-plus. Hell, they’d be A-plus whether they heaved or not.
With her eyes still closed, she asked, “Do you live far? I can’t wait to get out of these clothes. Take a long—make that endless—shower.”
Dane’s mouth went dry, and his Neanderthal brain thickened with sexually charged images.
What was behind his zipper thickened, period.
“A half hour tops.” He geared down, revved the Porsche’s powerful motor, and screamed out the gate. For the first time he understood the relationship between a fast car and a man’s libido.
They were at his house in twenty minutes. His best time ever.
Two seconds after she closed the door to her room and shut out the dour-faced Dane McCoy, Esme flipped open her cell phone and called Marilee, because one second after meeting her brother, she’d smelled a rat—and it wasn’t him.
Marilee picked up.
“What’s going on here?” Esme demanded, her heart thumping in her chest with enough force to damage her ribs. She’d spent the last half hour being cool, and she’d run out of ice. Nothing about McCoy jibed with Marilee’s description, and she wanted to know why.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You told me your brother was some kind of middle-aged hermit, a super nerd—your exact words as I recall—with no time for—” She stopped.
“Sex?” Marilee finished. “And it’s the truth . . . almost.”
“Almost?” Loaded word, almost. So conveniently vague.
She sensed Marilee’s shrug. “He sees women when it suits him, I guess. But he doesn’t seem to like them much, and he doesn’t put much effort into it, if you ask me. But sometimes they call or just . . . show up.”
I’ll bet! Esme thought, visions of his cobalt eyes slanting down at her with enough residual punch to make her swallow.
Marilee went on doggedly. “But mostly he never sees anyone, hardly ever goes out. Except for those weird trips he takes with Janzen, who’s pretty high on the weirdness scale himself—to do business stuff. All he does is sit at his stupid computers and count his gold. Kind of like that Midas guy.” She stopped. “I thought, if he met you—”
“You’re matchmaking!” She sat solidly on the edge of the king-size bed. “How could I have been so stupid?”
“I
am not doing anything of the kind.” Marilee sounded incensed. “I just thought you could loosen him up, bring him out of himself . . . you being a therapist and everything.”
“Ex-therapist. And I didn’t come here to ‘loosen up’ your brother. I came to make a simple delivery, and do a house drawing in exchange for some hospitality. I have no intention of interfering in your brother’s life.”
“He’s awfully cute, though, isn’t he?”
My God, he’s so far beyond cute he’s in another dimension. “Cute has nothing to do with anything,” she said, striving for prim, which was a major joke.
“Okay, I’ll level with you. Leonardo and I really need Dane’s help to open our spa. It just makes sense. You know Leonardo has the credentials—”
Esme couldn’t deny that. Leonardo was a brilliant, caring and dedicated psychologist. He also had three degrees behind his name.
“—and I’m already back at esthetician college. But Dane won’t even talk about what we want to do. I swear he thinks we plan to open some kind of high-class brothel or something. He’s totally off the wall about it.” She paused, took a breath. “What we want to create—in tandem with the usual reinvigorating spa environment—is a place where a person has the time and privacy to discuss sexual issues and deal with whatever inhibitions stop them from experiencing the joy and bonding inherent in a healthy, happy sex life, and—”
“Stop quoting Leonardo, Marilee. I know exactly what he wants to do.” And she thought it was a fabulous idea. In her years as a sex therapist she’d learned one thing: there was a woeful shortage of understanding and a glut of confusion surrounding sexuality, much of it mired in guilt and secrecy. And a lot of people were unhappy and depressed because of it. Shine a light where a light is needed, Leonardo had said; Esme agreed completely.
“Well, I want it, too. For him and me.” Marilee’s tone was stubborn. “The idea is, I’ll deal with the tense and tired body while he handles the uptight sexual psyche. It’s perfect.”
“Tell me something. Does Leonardo know you set me up as your business agent? Or to be more accurate, your Mata Hari.”
More silence filtered down the line. “No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“When Dane said no, Leonardo said that was his right, that we’d find the money somewhere else.”
“Sounds smart to me.”
“But we haven’t!” Marilee said, her voice growing desperate. “And we’re running out of time.”
“So you recruit me to seduce the money out of your brother?”
“No! Like I said, he refuses to talk to me about the spa. I thought if you could get close to him, he’d listen to you—or at least be polite. Then you could tell him all about Leonardo, how incredible he is . . .” She sighed. “I thought putting a face on things was so much better than dropping a file on his desk filled with a bunch of dry numbers and projections. That’s all. Honestly.”
“Did it occur to you that Dane might hate me on sight?”
She made a dismissive snort. “I know my brother. When he isn’t antisocial, he goes for smart, ambitious women . . . with great legs. You rate on all counts.”
Trust Marilee to have her own vision of things. “I’ll give him your business case, because I said I would, and I’ll talk about it—if he asks—but that’s it,” Esme said. “Then I do my drawings, and I’m out of here.” A thought came, and she grimaced, afraid to ask the question that sprang from it. “Marilee, you told me your brother ‘wanted’ an artist’s rendering of his house. Is that true?” The drawing was how she planned to repay his hospitality.
“Well . . . almost. I said he’d ‘love’ one . . . although he might not exactly know that.”
“I can’t believe this.” With her free hand she shoved her hair roughly back.
“Esme, ple-e-ase. Just talk to him. If not for me, for Leonardo.”
“Good-bye, Marilee.” She clicked off, tossed the phone on the bed, and fell backward, arms above her head. “Damn!” she said to the ceiling.
I wonder where the closest motel is.
Two
Dane showed Esme to her room, went directly to the library, and poured himself a shot of single malt Scotch.
Janzen ambled in, took a seat on the arm of the sofa, and stretched his legs in front of him. “That is one spectacular female you drove in with,” he said.
Dane ignored him. “Want a drink?” he asked, raising the bottle in his direction.
“Sure.”
Dane poured a shot, walked over to where Janzen sat, and handed it to him. “You still have any of those shady connections of yours left over from your spy days?”
“One or two. Why?”
“I’m thinking of taking a contract out on Marilee.” He downed his drink.
Janzen laughed. “You’re talking about the woman I plan to marry.”
“So you keep saying. Might be tough. She says you give her the vapors.”
He frowned at that. “I think I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You take everything as a compliment.” Dane poured himself another drink and forced himself to sip it, then sprawled in the leather wingback across from Janzen.
“This conversation isn’t about me—or my future bride,” Janzen said. “It’s about that beauty you just parked in the bedroom across the hall from yours.”
“It’s a nice room.”
“It’s a convenient room.”
Damned if it wasn’t. “Did you check out that South Africa deal?” Dane asked. Good a time as any to change the subject, get his mind off a leggy brunette who’d do nothing but distract it given half a chance.
“Yeah. It’s clean. And a small investment considering the potential benefits. Fifty thousand should take care of it.”
“Personnel?”
“In place. They’ll make sure the money gets into the right hands.”
“Good. I’ll do the transfer later tonight.”
Janzen stood, finished his drink, and lifted his eyes pointedly toward the ceiling, the second floor. “What about her?”
“What about her? She’s a friend of Marilee’s and she’s here for money.”
“You’re a suspicious prick, McCoy.”
“That, I am. And I can connect the dots when I have to. How about this?” Dane eyed his partner and friend. “First dot, Marilee’s got herself a new boyfriend. His name’s Leonardo.”
That got Janzen’s interest.
“Second dot, aforementioned boyfriend—and Marilee—want money to open some kind of sex shop.”
That made Janzen blink.
“Third dot, Marilee arranges for major sexpot to spend two weeks with her brother. The brother who has refused repeatedly to finance her and Leonardo’s . . . rub-and-tug operation.”
Janzen narrowed his gaze. “Not necessarily connected.”
“And the fourth dot?” He paused for effect. “The sexpot is the boyfriend’s sister.”
“You checked her out.”
“With what I’ve got going on here, I check everyone out.”
“Then why’d you let her come?”
It was Dane’s turn to blink. Hell, a guy couldn’t admit to an ex-CIA type he was putty in the hands of his little sister. “I didn’t get the information on her until just before I left for the airport.”
“What all did you get?”
“Not much. Full name, Esme Patience Shane. Divorced three years ago. No criminal record. She actually is an illustrator—been one for about four years. Successful by the sound of it. Before that she was some kind of therapist. She lives in San Diego. She doesn’t lie about her age . . .” She has intense, smart green eyes, a body created for a man’s hands, and legs long enough to wrap—
“That’s it?” Janzen prodded, looking puzzled.
Dane snapped back to the present “And her brother’s name is Leonardo Billings St. James. Other than her being a ‘best friend’ ”—he made quote marks in the air—“of my irresponsible sister, she’s a
n all-round staid and upstanding citizen.”
Janzen made a show of shuddering, then grinned. “The worst kind.” He stood, drained his glass, and set it on the edge of Dane’s desk. “You want me to get rid of her?”
Dane turned the glass of amber liquid in his hand, mulled over Janzen’s suggestion. Getting Esme Shane off the property—and off the island—would be the smart thing, the safe thing. Then his brain veered off, formed an image of her luscious mouth, the way her eyes met his, warm and confident. In the five years since he’d made Forbes’s goddamn rich-list, that kind of look was rare. More likely, a person looking at him now, had eyes full of avarice and manufactured friendship—or they were so nervous they sputtered.
“No.” He stood. “It’ll be fun to let her pitch Marilee’s deal and fail. Teach Marilee a damn lesson. But keep an eye on her while she’s here, will you? I’ve got a lot on my plate.”
“No can do.” It was Janzen’s turn to stand. “I’m out tonight, and I’m off to New York tomorrow, remember?”
No, he hadn’t.
Janzen strode to the door, stopped. “You’ll have to do your own ‘eyeing.’ ” He grinned again. “And thinking of that babe upstairs, I can’t bring myself to feel sorry for you. Have fun, McCoy.” He walked out.
Dane stared after him. Damn. He’d been counting on pawning the woman off on Janzen. So . . . he should be disappointed and pissed off that his plan was scuttled. Which didn’t account for the expectancy pacing in his tired brain, or the odd lightness in his chest. Janzen said to “have fun.” Now there was a thought. Dane headed for the computer room. Hell, he wouldn’t know “fun” if it hit him broadside.
And woman-type fun? More particularly Esme Shane–type fun? Uh-uh. That was an extreme sport he had neither the time nor the energy for.
He quickened his pace, but before he sat down at the computer console, he called the kitchen. “Peggy, Janzen won’t be here for dinner, but I have a guest—”
He looked heavenward. “Yes, that’s right, a ‘living, breathing’ guest of the female variety. Call her, will you? See if she needs anything. She’s in the green room. And tell her dinner will be at six. Yes, I know that’s early.” He prayed for patience. “Six, Peggy. Thank you.”