His Final Seduction

by Lori Wilde

  “What if I want to be where the wind blows?”

  “Do you really?” she asked.

  He lounged back in the chair, studied her with heavily lidded eyes. “I don’t know. Stop making me think.”

  “Well…” she said, using the heat gun to glue the ostrich feather to the mask. “What are you hanging around me for if I strain your brain?”

  “You invited me to this, remember?”

  “That’s because I thought you’d have some creative input. Apparently, I was wrong.”

  He touched her hand. Their eyes met. He shook his head. “Go with the peacock feather. It’s got more flash.”

  She smiled, put down the ostrich plume, took the peacock feather he passed her. “Thank you. That’s all I really wanted.”

  Quint scooped up a handful of Swarovski crystals and canted his head, watching her glue the peacock feather to the mask with a speculative gleam in his eyes. He bounced the crystals lightly in his palm, rolled them back and forth between his long fingers. His nails were clipped short, his cuticles trimmed, and there were calluses on his fingertips. Elegant hands, but masculine, as well. A paradox. Here she found a complexity that belied his casual, surface demeanor. The crystals reflected the light in his flat, broad palm.

  She couldn’t help being mesmerized. She could almost feel his fingers on her skin. Instantly, her body grew warm and moist, and her pulse skittered.

  “Just like you wanted me to kiss you at Miley Kinslow’s birthday party?”

  The question ripped her gaze off his hands and onto his face. “I did not,” she declared hotly.

  Mischief danced in his dark eyes. “Liar. I saw you bumping the bottle with your toe trying to aim at me instead of Marty Guzman.”

  “You remember that?”

  “I do.”

  “How do you remember something like that?”

  “Other than the fact that you and your friend Avery kept ogling me and giggling.”

  “We did not.”

  “You did too. Come on, admit it. You were hot for me even then.” He leveled her a smug grin.

  Jorgie crinkled her nose at him. “I refuse to flatter your ego.”

  “You had a crush on me,” he challenged.

  “Ah, the folly of youth.”

  “Is that a yes? Are you admitting to a mad crush on me?”

  “Are you going to help with this project or just sit there smirking?” she asked.

  “The last part.”

  “Wrong.” She pushed the scissors toward him. “Start cutting the felt.”

  “Slave driver.”

  “Slacker.”

  “This is fun.” He beamed.

  She snorted, but grinned and picked up a braided royal blue and purple ribbon. It was fun. “What do you think?”

  “Matches the color of your eyes. We gotta use it.”

  He cut and she glued. Fifteen minutes later, they were done. Jorgie held it up to her face. “What do you think?”

  His eyes took on a look she could not describe—part awe, part desire, part amusement. “I think you’re amazing,” he said. “And I should have kissed you at Miley Kinslow’s birthday party, whether the bottle pointed at me or not.”

  That drew her up short, and she was glad she had the mask over her face to hide the blush creeping up her cheeks.

  “I’m thinking I’d kiss you right now if we weren’t surrounded by a roomful of mask-making dweebs and Maggie Cantrell wasn’t glaring at us.”

  “She’s glaring at us?” Jorgie swung around.

  “Made you look.” He chuckled. “You are so easy. Why are you so afraid of the disapproval of others?”

  “Who says I’m afraid of the disapproval of others?” she asked, laying the mask down on the table and reaching for the elastic to make the strap for holding it in place.

  “Come on, Jorgie, you’re so busy being a good girl, you don’t even know what you want.”

  “Said the man who goes whichever way the wind blows.”

  “We’re quite a pair, huh? You don’t know what you want and I don’t know where I want to be.” His gaze honed in on her lips, then slowly eased over her chin to her throat, sliding on down to her breasts. A sweet shiver of anticipation ran through her. Instantly, her nipples hardened. Traitors.

  “The judges are here,” Maggie Cantrell announced, derailing their conversation. “You have a few minutes to finish up before the judging begins.”

  “You think we stand a chance at winning?” Jorgie asked, putting the finishing touches on the mask. She placed a shiny gold button to cover the base of the feathers.

  He nodded. “Oh, yeah.”

  “You’re that confident?”

  “No one has your flair with feathers, felt and glue. Take a look around,” Quint said.

  The button slipped off. “Darn it,” she muttered.

  “Here.” He leaned over her shoulder. “Let me help you with that.” His breath was warm on her skin. He smelled so good. Jorgie struggled to ignore the heat flaring through her.

  His arms reached past her shoulders. She was trapped with him over her, around her. He was doing this on purpose. She knew it. A Casanova move. If some of his students weren’t in the room watching, she might have told him to step off.

  Actually, she was loving this. That was the trouble. All these fun and games had to end sometime.

  He placed a huge dollop of hot glue on the mask and mashed the button into place. It held. Stupid button. “There you go.”

  Maggie Cantrell clapped for attention. “Everyone bring your completed masks to the front of the room.”

  Two minutes later, with the masks arranged and the judges circling the table, Quint took her hand in his. “Nervous?”

  “Strangely enough, yes. Why would I be nervous over a silly mask contest?”

  His sexy gaze raked over her. “Because you like to win.”

  She smiled back. “So do you.”

  “And because you want that prize of spending the day with me on a deserted island.”

  “Egotist,” she accused, poking him playfully in the ribs with her elbow.

  The judges picked up the masks and inspected them closely, as if they were taking this contest way too seriously. They whispered to each other, made notes on a pad. Finally they passed their evaluations to Maggie.

  “And the winner is…”

  Jorgie bit down on her bottom lip. Quint squeezed her hand.

  Maggie picked up their mask. “Full-face peacock blue, created by Quint Mason and Jorgie Gerard.”

  “We won!” she shouted, and jumped into Quint’s waiting arms.

  In that singular moment of triumph all the lights went off, bathing the room in total darkness.

  Several people gasped simultaneously. Jorgie gave a little “Eek” of surprise. People began murmuring and bumping around.

  “It’s all right, everyone,” Quint called out. “The generators will kick on any moment. Just stay where you are. You don’t want to trip over something and hurt yourselves in the dark.”

  She couldn’t see anything. But she could feel the hardness of Quint’s honed chest beneath her fingers and she trembled, not with fear, but with something just as elemental.

  “I’m here,” he murmured in her ear. He tightened his strong, masculine arms around her, pulled her closer.

  It was as if they were standing in the synapse of time, the world stretching out weirdly into nothingness. She could feel his steady heart thumping beneath his chest. In that instant, she felt safer than she’d ever felt in her life. Quint cupped his palm at the nape of her neck, and then tilted her head upward to calm her mouth with a kiss. His lips were both hot and tender.

  She couldn’t help but wonder if he’d somehow arranged for the lights to be doused so that he could do this to her in the dark, in a crowded room. She could hear people shifting around them, breathing and swaying, murmuring and waiting.

  Jorgie was not expecting the shocking thrill of sexual excitement that sped over her
nerve endings. She felt as if everything had been switched into slow motion.

  It was almost as if he could read her mind. As if their hearts were beating to the same timpani. As if his breath was hers and hers his. It was the most bizarre thing she’d ever experienced.

  Something about him arrested her. Something about his calm-in-the-storm aura filled her with a strong sense of déjà vu. She’d never felt such a compelling mental connection to any man in her life and yet it seemed so familiar, so right. Deep inside her, something monumental stirred. Something long buried. Something hoped for and dreamed of, but never acknowledged.

  Soul mate.

  All the caution and hesitation that had defined her life to this point vanished, and for the first time since birth, she was freed from all restrictions, all limitations.

  This was no mere flirtation. This was no simple tease. This was no ordinary male-female reaction.

  Her skin tingled as the warmth of his breath feathered the minute hairs on her cheek. Her heart swelled. The rough material of his jacket lightly scratched her bare arm. His masculine scent soothed her.

  He was as hard and firm as she was soft and pliable. Their mouths were frantic hunger. Her trembling increased.

  “Jorgie,” he murmured, breaking their kiss. “I’ve got you. You’re all right.”

  His voice was thick and husky. He sounded the way red wine smelled. She found herself thinking dizzily—cabernet, pinot noir, Syrah, merlot. Musky and smoky, with an undercurrent of plump, tart, red sweet cherries and savory, juice-laden blackberries. You could get drunk on a voice like that.

  On a man like this.

  He held her in place, not moving, even as those around them crashed into things, cursing and complaining. She’d never thought of Quint as steady or reliable, but here, he was a rock. Gibraltar. Atlas. Strong, present, unmoving. Who knew he had such depth inside him?

  She heard Maggie Cantrell urging everyone to stay still and remain calm, reiterating what Quint had said earlier, promising that the backup generator would kick on momentarily. But Jorgie wanted to hear him speak again.

  She curled her fingers around his wrist and whispered provocatively. “I’m scared.”

  “Nothing to be afraid of.” His tone was low, measured, controlled. “You’re safe with me.”

  His quiet, deliberate words inspired her. Where was the chatty, teasing Quint? How come he was so different in the dark?

  Jorgie felt the heat of his hand at her waist, the pressure of his hip resting against her pelvis. She was disoriented, lost.

  Sounds were either too distant or too close, smells too sharp or too muted. The peppermint taste of him on her tongue, too sweet and too intense. The texture of his nubby jacket beneath her fingers, too authentic and yet, at the same time, too surreal.

  She forgot about the mask-making competition. And forgot they weren’t alone in the room. She forgot about everything except the feel of Quint’s virile arms around her and the echo of his sexy voice in her ears.

  She was lost in time. Lost in the moment. Lost in the dark. It was the most erotic sensation she’d experienced since their afternoon at the glass shop. The pulse in her neck kicked.

  Then the lights flickered back on. The air conditioner returned to life with a stuttering hum. People applauded. And Jorgie realized something monumental. No matter how hard she tried not to, she was falling in love with Quint Mason.

  QUINT ESCORTED JORGIE back to her room. The place was in a hubbub over the blackout. People were wandering through the lobby talking about what they’d been doing when the lights went out. Others were at the front desk complaining. The resort manager was running around soothing ruffled feathers by offering free nightcaps to anyone who felt they’d been inconvenienced by the loss of electricity.

  Jorgie carried the mask with her like a prizefighter clutching his trophy. They lingered in the doorway of her room. From the look in her eyes he could tell she would have let him spend the night if he’d just asked, but he had work to do. He suspected that the power outage had been intentional and he was anxious to speak with the head of security, Frank Lavoy. Quint had to make do with a quick kiss.“That was some evening,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Too bad it has to end.” She slanted him a come-hither look.

  “On the bright side, tomorrow we’ve got our own private picnic.”

  “The bright side,” she echoed.

  He left her standing in the doorway, a puzzled expression on her face. No doubt she was wondering what had happened to his Casanova moves. Good. It wouldn’t hurt her to wonder about him. It would up the sexual tension. Smiling at that thought, he hurried down the hall.

  A few minutes later, he found Frank in a discussion with the men from the electric company. They confirmed his suspicions. The fuses had been intentionally tampered with. No way could it have been accidental or caused by bad weather.

  Taylor Milton’s saboteur had struck again.

  13

  There’s nothing sexier than a hint of danger

  —Make Love Like Casanova

  QUINT DIDN’T get much sleep. For one thing, he was up half the night—calling Dougal to tell him what had happened, dusting the electrical boxes for fingerprints, going over the details of what had happened with Frank. They’d discovered that the fingerprints on the fuse box belonged only to the maintenance staff. Either those men were involved or the person who’d tampered with the box had worn gloves. And the rest of the night, he slept fitfully, his mind conjuring up dreams of he and Jorgie doing erotic things together.

  “We’ve got another problem,” Dougal said.“What’s up?”

  “We had an incident at Jake’s resort in Hollywood.”

  “What happened?”

  Dougal told him about the food poisoning and the letter Taylor had received.

  “Are you saying we have two saboteurs?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Or one saboteur who’s hiring people to do his dirty work.”

  “That, too.”

  “What does your gut tell you?”

  “We’re being played for fools,” Dougal growled.

  “Yeah.”

  “Interview the maintenance staff. Let me know what you find.”

  “Will do.”

  Quint then spent the first part of the morning doing just that. He interviewed the staff, but came across nothing suspicious in their answers. He called Dougal back to update him.

  Because it was Saturday, there was no Casanova class to teach. Most of the guests had left the villa for excursions, so the lobby was empty when he finished up his questioning of the staff. All except for one person.

  Jorgie stood by the concierge stand, a big wicker basket draped on her arm, a wide smile on her face. She wore the sexiest pink-and-white sundress that made him think of cotton candy. He loved cotton candy. Her shoulders were bare, save for the tiny little straps of her dress. Her glossy brown hair fell to her shoulders like a silky dark curtain. She looked gorgeous. Stimulating. Tempting. Beautiful.

  “Are you ready for our date?” she asked perkily.

  Date. Um, yeah. He shouldn’t be going on one. Not with a saboteur on the property. But he hated to disappoint Jorgie. Dougal trusted Frank, and they’d be back by mid-afternoon at the latest. Besides, most of the guests would be gone for the day.

  “Hang on, Jorgie. I have a phone call to make.” He walked off to one side and called Frank to tell him he’d be away for a few hours and to contact Dougal directly if needed. He snapped his phone closed and noticed Joe Vincent was sitting at the entrance to the Internet café, studying him with an appraising gaze. Joe gave him a wink and the “thumbs up” sign. Quint nodded at his student, then walked back to Jorgie. “Ready.”

  The concierge gave them the keys to the small motorboat moored outside the hotel and a map with detailed instructions on how to get to the island.

  “You know how to drive a boat?” Jorgie asked.

  He cocked her a knowi
ng grin.

  “Oh, I forgot. You’re Mr. Charming. Of course you know how to drive a boat.”

  He got into the boat first, took the picnic basket from her, then reached out a hand to help her in. “And a sailboat and a race car and I can fly a plane and skydive and mountain climb and…”

  “Okay, I get it. You’re worldly and accomplished. But humble?” She pulled a disapproving face. “Not so much.”

  “I never saw any reason to hide my light under a bushel, Jorgie, and neither should you.” He untied the boat from the dock and then started the engine. He sat down across from her and carefully guided the little craft through the narrow waterway leading to the Grand Canal.

  Forty minutes later, after scooting through the heavy boat traffic of Venice, they were in the lagoon heading for the small, uninhabited island.

  “It says here in the guidebook that the island is haunted,” Jorgie read.

  “Just stuff to tease the tourists.”

  “I don’t know. It says the island was once a penal colony.”

  Quint made spooky noises. “Are you afraid of ghosts?”

  “No, of course not. But it sounds eerie, like Alcatraz.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” he said gallantly.

  She snorted.

  “What? You don’t think I could protect you?”

  “You’re probably the one I’ll be needing protection from.”

  “There may be other tourists there.” He laughed. “If you’re worried about your virtue.”

  But he was wrong. When they reached the island there was no one else in sight. They ran aground on the sandy beach and when Quint looked back after tying up the boat, he realized they could no longer see Venice from this vantage point.

  Suddenly the wind whipped up, sprinkling them with water spray. This time, Jorgie made spooky noises. “We’re all alone.”

  “That’s not a bad thing.” He winked.

  “Depends on your point of view.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Depends on if you’re Little Red Riding Hood or the Big Bad Wolf.”

  He took the picnic basket from her. “You know, I always thought the Big Bad Wolf got a bad rap. He just needed a good spin doctor.”

  Jorgie scoffed. “You would.”

  “There are two sides to every story.”