Until she’d walked in the door.
Christ, what was it with this place? Adam had heard people say Texas had the hottest women, but this hotel seemed to be stuffed with them. First there’d been the receptionist out front, with the dominatrix hairdo and the screw-me mouth, and then there was her coworker with the wide gray eyes and sweet, hippie-ish appeal. And now there was this one, with her wary but beckoning gaze, dark hair curling down over her tanned shoulders, and curves in all the right places.
And now she was supposed to give his naked body a rubdown?
Nope. Not going to happen. How would she react mid-massage, when he turned up with the inevitable hard-on elicited by the first pair of female hands to touch him in months? She’d probably kick him in the balls and then out the door, and she would be absolutely in the right.
He should’ve gone for a swim in Barton Springs instead. Knocking out a few laps in blessedly cold water would have been a hell of a lot more relaxing than this.
“Stupid,” he muttered, buckling his belt and then looking around for his shirt. Forget whether the massage was a dumb idea—this self-imposed-celibacy thing was the real dumb idea. And he placed the blame squarely on Dan and his ridiculous contract. Adam had refused to sign the thing, and yet he’d still managed to feel guilty ever since, every time he felt even a shred of attraction to a member of the opposite sex.
It had all started a couple of months ago, back in early February, when a journalist from a popular online magazine had contacted Adam for an interview, to run over Valentine’s Day. Adam had been happy to do the interview, excited for the exposure—until the feature went live, and he’d learned the journalist had thrown him under the bus. Instead of focusing her piece on the wild success of Adam’s startup and his unusual matchmaking theories, she had called his relationship status into question, positing that if Mister Match was single, his matchmaking techniques couldn’t possibly have any merit.
That week, there had been a precipitous drop in new member enrollments on the site.
The following week, a celebrity gossip magazine had happened to run some photos of Adam at a Dallas coffee shop he’d visited with his stepsister, Jess, and her toddler son. The pictures had shown Adam goofing around with Benny and sitting with his arm slung across the back of Jess’s chair. Apparently, playing with a toddler and having minimal, thoroughly platonic bodily contact with a member of the opposite sex was enough to convince gossip bloggers of a romantic connection. “Is He or Isn’t He?” the photos’ headline had read, with speculation about “Mister Match’s mystery woman” and his “secret bride and baby.”
That week, new member enrollments on the site had soared.
Clearly, when it came to the success of the business, Mister Match’s marital status mattered. Hence, the contract. Dan had asked Adam to agree to avoid romantic entanglements and stay quiet about his marital status, in order to allow the media to continue drawing its own conclusions—the hope being, of course, that the media would keep assuming Mister Match had a wife and child waiting for him at home.
“It’s for the good of the company,” Dan had reasoned. “Just while the site’s getting its feet off the ground. After that, you can do whatever—and whoever—you want.”
Adam, of course, had told Dan exactly where he could stick his contract. And yet, his partner’s point had hit home. Adam was the face of Mister Match. If he wanted people to believe his dating theories had any merit at all, he couldn’t let them see him as the failure at relationships that he really was.
So he’d decided, on his own, to set aside his personal life in order to devote his time and energies to the business. It wasn’t like he had any time for dating, anyway. But apparently, that decision had turned him into some kind of oversexed maniac who morphed into a big, throbbing erection at the sight of gorgeous brown eyes and a nice pair of breasts.
He was halfway finished buttoning his shirt when his fingers stilled. He rolled his eyes. Slow down, tiger. He was being an idiot. What was he, an animal, in thrall to hormonal surges, unable to control his own behavior? He’d seen that massage therapist for less than five seconds. How did he know whether her breasts were nice or not? Okay, sure, they were big. So he was going to sneak out and cancel the massage because she happened to have more than a couple of handfuls of womanly assets?
“This is ludicrous.” He started unbuttoning the shirt again, and then froze once again. How much time had he already wasted, going back and forth like a moron? She’d said she’d be back in a minute. She was probably on her way back down the hall right now. She was going to walk in on him half-naked again, and then he’d really feel like a genius. She’d probably think he was some kind of exhibitionist flasher creep.
He closed his eyes for a moment, shook his head. He was acting like a teenaged boy about to get his first awkward grope from an older girl. “Cool it, Masters,” he muttered. “It’s a massage, not a hand job.”
With an annoyed growl directed solely at himself, he removed his shirt as quickly as possible and hurriedly stepped out of the rest of his clothes.
He was not an animal. He’d repeat it to himself as often as necessary. He would get the damn massage, and he would not get an erection. This was for the sake of relaxation, not stimulation. He was thirty-two damn years old, not fifteen. He could control himself while a gorgeous woman rubbed her hands all over his naked body.
He folded his clothes quickly and stuffed them along with his shoes in a messy pile in the corner. Then he dove under the waiting sheet draped over the massage table, and focused on getting his breathing, and his gutter-brain, back to some kind of normal.
Out in the reception area, Lisa tossed the clipboard onto the counter, where it landed with a clatter. “I need to swap with Willow.”
“Why?” Clare asked, without looking up from the mirror she was using to tweeze the already perfect lines of her eyebrows.
“I’ve got a DNA match in there.”
Clare didn’t immediately react to Lisa’s code phrase she’d invented when she first started working at Indulgence—a “DNA match” referred to a client that was just too attractive on an animal level to make for a professional, detached massage environment. It was a rare occurrence, but it happened enough that Lisa had taken it upon herself to come up with a name for it, and a protocol: When one of the massage therapists had a DNA match, another would take over the appointment, no questions asked.
Instead, Clare calmly arched a brow at herself in the mirror, and then answered after a long beat. “Will’s already in seven with Longbaugh. Their session started five minutes ago.”
“Crap.” Lisa puffed out a breath, wondering if her cheeks were still pink. “You should see this guy. He’s like somebody out of GQ. His body is like those David Beckham underwear ads, minus the tattoos.”
Unlike Willow’s, Clare’s tastes in men ran a lot closer to Lisa’s. She finally stopped staring at her reflection and pretended to melt in her chair. “Oh, I am so wishing I’d finished my massage certification right about now. I would do that guy for you in a second, and I do mean do. God, you’re so lucky!”
Lisa let out a breath. Clare was right, even if she had an oversexed way of putting it. As much debt as she was in, she should take any job she could get, regardless of how tough it might be to stay professional.
And what was she, an animal? She could touch this guy without jumping his bones or drooling all over his perfect body. She would prevail over her traitorous DNA.
Clare frowned. “You know, he is basically a demigod, but it’s not really your style to fall into a guy’s lap like that. Maybe Willow’s right with all her crap about the stars. So?” She stared up at Lisa, as expectant as a kid in front of a Christmas tree that was just about to light up. “Is he just absolutely delicious?”
“Pretty much edible,” Lisa confirmed. “And, of course, I walked in right in the middle of him taking his clothes off.”
Clare squealed and bounced up and down in her swivel chai
r. “You saw him naked! You lucky skunk! What did he look like?”
“Not naked! Just shirtless. I’d think you, of all people, would’ve seen a man’s bare back before.”
“I’ve sure as hell never seen him naked before.”
“I told you, he wasn’t naked, he was still wearing his under—”
Clare held up her hands as if to shield herself. “No, don’t ruin my fantasy! In my fantasy, he’s completely in the buff. So what did he look like?” She leaned forward and lowered her voice to a sultry purr. “Make it juicy. I want details.”
“Details, like, he wears black Calvin Klein boxer briefs?” Lisa sighed. “All right, he looked...” Against her better judgment, she told the truth. “Like a Greek god who’s spent his life getting his muscles rubbed down with cocoa butter.” She lowered her voice. “His back was incredible. And his shoulders, oh, my God.”
“And you don’t even usually go for athletic types,” Clare breathed. “God, I wish I could take the appointment instead of you.”
“Yeah, so do I.” Lisa stared down the hallway toward door number four.
“Hey.”
When she looked up, Clare was watching her.
“What’s the matter?” Clare asked.
Lisa paused before answering, because admitting it aloud was almost too difficult. Definitely too embarrassing. On the other hand, she knew she could tell her friend anything.
“Another reason I didn’t want to do the massage was...” She swallowed. “I was planning to go to Rodney’s place this morning. Try to get some money out of him.” She frowned down at her shoes. “It’s ridiculous, I know.”
Instantly Clare was on her feet, rounding the reception desk to drop into a crouch in front of Lisa. “Oh, honey,” she said, giving Lisa’s wrists a commiserating squeeze.
“Yeah.” Lisa glanced wryly at her. “Bet you didn’t think I could get much more desperate, did you? Neither did I.”
“You must have heard about his new yoga studio,” Clare said, neatly avoiding commenting on Lisa’s level of desperation.
Heard about it wasn’t exactly accurate, but Lisa wasn’t about to admit she’d been Facebook-stalking her ex for months, whenever she went to check email at the library. “I take it you heard, too.”
“Wonder which students he’s lining up to boff this time.”
Clare was just being a loyal friend. Lisa knew that. Still, her derisive attitude toward Lisa’s ex stung a little. The reminder of Rodney’s penchant for extracurricular sex with his yoga students stung even more. “Actually, I hear he moved in with his new girlfriend.”
“What!” Clare looked outraged. “Like that worked out so well the last time.”
The last time, of course, had been when he’d moved in with Lisa. She shrugged. “He’s allowed. He’s moved on. It’s a good thing.” Maybe, she thought, saying it aloud would make it true.
“Well, good luck to whoever she is, getting involved with an embezzler who’s going to suck her dry and then drop her on her ass for somebody younger and more toned.” She glanced quickly at Lisa. “Not that you aren’t extremely hot. You know you are.”
“Yeah, sure.” Another reminder of what Rodney had done to her, and this one stung most of all. Or maybe it was just the cumulative effect. “Maybe he’s changed,” she offered lamely.
Clare looked at her like she was insane, or at least very, very dim-witted.
Which was somehow soothing. Deep down, one of Lisa’s biggest fears was that her relationship with Rodney had imploded not because he was a liar and a cheat, but because there was actually something wrong with her.
No, she thought vehemently. Screw that. And screw this open-minded-and-mature pretense she was trying to get Clare, and herself, to buy.
“You’re right,” she said. “He’s a total prick. I hope his girlfriend screws him over. I hope she cheats on him with his best friend, steals all his money and gives it to a yoga cult.” She narrowed her eyes. “And I hope she gives him genital warts.”
Clare pumped a fist approvingly in the air. “That’s the spirit. Feels good to let loose a little rage, doesn’t it? Screw yoga—revenge fantasies are what’s good for the soul.”
Lisa snorted, and then squirmed. Clare was studying her for a little longer than was comfortable.
“What?”
Her friend rose and sat in the chair next to hers. “Look, I’m going to give you a little unsolicited advice. And I hate to say this, because believe me, I’d be first in line with my baseball bat if you decided to have a Rodney-piñata party. But I think you should just let him go, Lees. Really. Just write the whole thing off as a loss and a learning experience, and move on.”
“But he owes me—”
“I know, honey,” Clare said, cutting her off. “That’s what I mean about letting him go. Staying engaged with him, with any of it, in any way... I just don’t think it’s healthy for your—” She waved a hand. “Your psyche, or your aura, or whatever Willow would call it.”
“I know.” Lisa shook her head at the floor. “But I could really use that money. He owes me thousands of dollars. I’m actually embarrassed to tell you how much.”
“And you really think you’re going to get it back?” Clare’s direct gaze was full of the cold, hard truth. “You think you’ll get one penny by dropping by his house and asking nicely for a check?”
“No,” Lisa mumbled. “I guess I figured...” She sighed, closed her eyes for a moment, and straightened. “I don’t know what I figured, really,” she admitted.
“Look at it this way. You’re doing fine. You’ve got a job that pays pretty damn well. You’ve got most of your former clients coming here now, purely because they love you. You’ve got the two best friends in the whole entire world, and we’ve got your back. And most importantly, you’re rid of the Rod. You’re free, and you’re loved. Things could be a whole lot worse.”
Lisa’s eyes suddenly prickled. Sometimes, Clare surprised her with wisdom beyond her years.
“It’s funny. That’s exactly what I was telling myself just a little while ago.” She smiled at her friend, then stood with a sigh. “Guess I’d better get back in there. That was plenty of time for him to get fully undressed, right?”
Clare snorted. “I’d be surprised if he hasn’t fallen asleep by the time you get in there.”
“Right. Remind me to kill Willow later.”
Chapter 4
____________________________________
When she knocked on the door to Room Four the second time, she made sure to wait for his call before sliding the door aside.
She found Adam Masters lying on his back on the padded massage table, a white Keiko sheet draped over him from the chest down.
“Mr. Masters, I’m Lisa DeLuca.” Looking him in the eye still felt too embarrassing, so she stared instead at his feet, which he’d left poking out from the bottom of the sheet, and his nice, knobby ankles. His toes were long and well formed, his arches high, but not too high—
I’m sick, Lisa thought. Apparently, she had a previously unrealized foot fetish. Mortified, she looked away, but that just led her gaze up the sheet, to the bulge at the juncture of his thighs.
Obviously, the man had some assets. She swallowed. Okay, nothing wrong there. The only thing wrong was in her sex-starved, utterly depraved brain.
She blinked hard, jerked her eyes away from him altogether and turned to slide the door shut.
“Hey, listen,” he said. “Lisa? That’s your name, right? I’m sorry about—a few minutes ago.”
Somehow, unlike with hairy Harry Richmond, she didn’t mind that he called her by her first name. “It happens. Don’t mention it.” Hiding a quick, embarrassed smile, she dimmed the lights and glanced over the client sheet. “All right, I have you down for a sixty-minute session today, is that right?”
“I’d love to do more, but I have an interview later this afternoon, so I should probably leave plenty of time to prepare for it.” He sighed and shifted on t
he table. “I’m all worked up for some reason. You’d think you’d get used to it, but I still get nervous every time I have an interview scheduled.”
“Well, if you want to relax, you’ve come to the right place.” Lisa opened her supply box and quickly arranged her bottles on the stand in the corner. Apparently she was still feeling awkward—she knocked a bottle down by accident, and fumbled to right it again. “Um, is it all right with you if I use massage lotion, or would you prefer a scented oil?”
“Lotion’s fine. Whatever you like working with.” He moved to prop himself up on an elbow and looked at her. “Hey, call me Adam, would you? I don’t really like Mr. Masters. Too formal. Makes me think of my dad. Not that I don’t like my dad.”
She glanced over at him, he grinned at her, and she was undone. His lips were wide and his smile was just the littlest bit crooked, like he had a secret he just might be willing to let her in on.
And his chest. Propped up like that, the contours of his muscles were even more defined than when he’d been lying down. His skin was tanned, as if he ran outside without a shirt. His nipples were dark, and she found her gaze drawn to them for an instant before she remembered to quit ogling him, already.
She was definitely going to have to be careful with this one.
She looked away. “All right. Lotion is better, and this one’s really nice,” she fudged, wishing again for her usual brand. “It has a light, almond-y scent. I think you’ll like it.”
She shook a dark lock of hair out of her eyes and reached back to bind the bulk of it into a ponytail. “Would you like for me to turn on some music? I have several different options.”
Some clients preferred silence, but she hoped he’d say yes. Music would help her get into the right mindset. She thought of massage as a form of sculpting, and felt that her best work happened in the state of mind in which she could communicate with a body through her hands, sensing intuitively what it needed.
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