Seduction By Chocolate

by Nina Bangs, Lisa Cach, Thea Devine

  She'd dreamed that the plane had crashed in the mountains of Costa Rica's central valley. She and Dangerous— both mysteriously wearing only their underwear— had been the sole survivors. They had been forced to hack their way through steaming jungle to get back to civilization, surviving on crackers, coffee, and orgasms….

  She giggled, then winced. Giggling only made her headache worse. Was she still dreaming? she wondered. Was that why she could see rain forest through the plane's small windows? And mountain ridges, their peaks wreathed with garlands of smoky cloud, that looked like volcanoes?

  "Where are we?" she demanded.

  Smiley Sue's smile widened. How did so many teeth fit into one mouth?

  "We 'ave arrived at San José Airport, señorita. Bienvenido a Costa Rica! Welcome to Costa Rica!"

  Chapter Three

  Cord Westridge scowled as he checked the black face of his slim platinum watch.

  Just his luck to have a flake for a seat companion on the flight down from New York, instead of the fellow scientist he had planned to share the flight with.

  And now, although Sidney Frost, crack tropical agriculture engineer and biotechnologist, had apparently reached the beautiful Las Floras hotel on the outskirts of the city of San José without incident, and had also checked into the suite Cord's New York secretary, Marcia, had reserved for him, the man had chosen to ignore his voice-mail message invitation to join him for dinner.

  Neither had he called to offer his apologies. Cord knew, because he'd checked his messages twice. There'd been one from his corporate offices in New York. Another from his manager, Raymondo Sevillas at Rancho Corazón. Zero from Señor Frost.

  Lindermann had sung the guy's praises, but Cord was beginning to form his own opinions of the man— none of them favorable.

  With a nod to the waiter, he stood and pushed back his chair.

  "Buenas noches, señor."

  "Good night, Alfonso."

  Leaving the terrace, he strolled back to his luxury suite overlooking the orchid-shaped pool.

  Torches on long bamboo poles lit the area. The flames undulated like yellow ribbons on a light, sultry breeze.

  The mosaic pool deck, surrounded by chaises, was quite deserted now, although it was a balmy, moonlit night, perfect for stargazing or a moonlight swim.

  After the day's heat, the water would be as silky, warm, and welcoming as a woman's body.

  A smile of anticipation replaced his scowl. Why not? he asked himself. After the frigid weather he'd left behind in upstate New York, a midnight dip was exactly what he needed before turning in.

  Sydnee unzipped her largest bag with shaking hands, swearing under her breath when the zipper wedged, snagged on something.

  She should just forget it. There was no way Westridge would have waited this long for her to join him. Her shoulders sagged. Damn, damn, damn! She might as well accept it. She'd really blown it this time!

  Angry tears pricked her eyes, but it was anger directed at herself. What was wrong with her? She was usually so punctual! In fact, her punctuality was a source of pride to her. Back home, everyone knew Sydnee Frost was never late for anything, and that she expected them to be on time, too.

  So how could she have overslept tonight, when she knew Mr. Westridge expected her? She'd stood him up, for crying out loud! The department could lose both the endowment and a wealthy benefactor because of her.

  Because she'd fallen into a drunken stupor!

  She'd noticed the phone's flashing message light as soon as the busboy left the room, and had quickly retrieved the voice-mail message.

  It was from Cord Westridge, inviting her to have dinner with him on the hotel's Cattleya Terrace, which overlooked the Orchid Gardens and a rockery. He would expect her at eight-thirty, he said. Meanwhile, he hoped she'd enjoy a taste of Cordero products.

  As she hung up, she noticed the gift basket on the table by the louvered French doors. It was filled with tropical fruits and an array of Cordero chocolate and coffee treats, done up in gold-edged cellophane. The paper was printed with a gold C logo. Very classy.

  Yellow butterfly orchids and a big gold bow decorated the basket's handle. A tiny envelope was tucked inside among the bananas, mangoes, and limes. It was addressed to her, although her first name had been spelled wrong, Sidney.

  It was from Cord Westridge, to welcome her to Costa Rica. He added that he hoped the flight down had been uneventful and said he looked forward to discussing the project over dinner.

  She'd told herself an hour's nap, plus a couple of aspirins, would get rid of her thumping hangover. But when she dragged herself awake what seemed only minutes later, she'd been horrified to see the digital clock on the nightstand. Eleven forty-five. She was three hours late for Mr. Westridge's dinner!

  Three whole hours!

  What would he think of her?

  Despite what she'd told Ella, she'd hoped to make a good impression on Cord Westridge of Westridge Enterprises. But now that she'd missed their dinner meeting, she dreaded meeting the man.

  She reread his note. His handwriting was bold, decisive, the strokes strong yet nicely balanced. The few lines he'd written seemed alive with power and energy, ready to leap off the paper.

  Here was a man of action, those dashes and racing loops said. Someone who processed info rmation, made decisions, and followed through in a coolheaded, logical fashion.

  His recorded message supported her first impressions. Westridge had sounded somehow familiar, perhaps because he had the deep, smooth voice of a late-night deejay. But the steel that underlay that smoky velvet hinted at a man who was used to being in authority and to having his commands obeyed without question.

  In short, he was the sort of man who expected an employee to show up, on time, when he invited— no, no, make that summoned— her to dinner.

  After all, this wasn't a vacation, not for her. Westridge was, for the time being, at least, her employer. And the department was relying on her to get that endowm—

  In midthought, her mind went totally blank. Her green eyes widened. Her jaw dropped, slack with horror as she stared down at the contents of her soft-sided bag, unable to believe what she was seeing.

  The airline had messed up! This wasn't her luggage at all. True, her handwriting was on the baggage tag, and some of her belongings were tucked inside among the clothes, but these definitely weren't her clothes!

  Where were they? The crisp short-sleeved blouses in conservative pastels and muted checks she'd folded and packed with such care? The cotton pajamas edged with dotted swiss? The relaxed-fit jeans? The long skirts? The Birkenstocks?

  Gone. All gone.

  She held up the only pairs of jeans she could find, but they bore no resemblance whatsoever to the comfy, figure-hiding ones she'd packed.

  One pair was black, the other a more traditional denim blue. But both had Calvin Klein labels and, although her size, they promised to be significantly snugger on her than her own baggier style.

  There were several blouses, too— skimpy little silk tanks, one jade green with pale pink orchids, another lavender with mint green palm fronds, among others. Matching wraparound skirts.

  In horror, she hooked the tip of her finger through a snaky black strap and lifted out what appeared to be an item of underwear. She let it dangle from her fingertip like a piece of evidence to be tested for prints in a homicide case. A loaded gun, perhaps?

  It must, she decided, horrified, be what Ella had described as a "thong." She stared at the tiny triangle of satiny black fabric trimmed with lace and tiny red rosebuds, and its harnesslike arrangement of flimsy straps, in openmouthed disbelief. Her hand flew to her throat. Did women— real women— actually wear these things? Voluntarily?

  There was a matching black lace bra, too. And a black garter belt, also with silk rosebuds. Black fishnet stockings. Numerous pairs of tiny panties in solid colors or prints so wild and bright, they hurt her eyes.

  The underwear explained it. Her own clothes ha
d been swapped for an exotic dancer's stock-in-trade. A bizarre mistake made by a customs official during a random luggage search, perhaps?

  She'd heard that Costa Rica was very vigilant about what was brought into their little country. The government— of which customs was a part, of course— took an aggressive stance to keep out drugs. Luggage searches would naturally be a part of that effort.

  An official must have returned the wrong items to her bag, and given her clothes to someone else. Someone— presumably female— who had dubious taste in underwear. It was the only explanation that made sense, she thought as she dumped the bag's contents out onto the bed to make a thorough inventory.

  Or… was it?

  For the second time that evening, she found herself staring at a small white envelope. She recognized the handwriting on this one immediately as Ella's.

  Don't panic, Sydnee, darling. Your unmentionables haven't been traded for a stripper's, the note assured her, as if Ella had guessed what Sydnee would think when she saw what she'd done. The goodies are a little surprise gift from me to you. Aren't they brilliant? Don't bother to call. Time enough to thank me when you get home. Have a lovely time! It was signed Ella.

  Don't bother to thank her? Was the woman insane? Thanking her was the very last thing on her mind. She wanted to strangle her! As Ella had known all along…

  "Ella! How could you?" she wailed as her fingers closed over a slinky black swimsuit trimmed with leopard print. She held it up against her. It was only a bit wider than a large rubber band. No way it would ever fit! And if it did… well, it would be indecent.

  To prove her point, she slipped off her wrinkled clothes and stepped into the swimsuit, pulling it on with a wiggle of her hips before turning to the dressing-table mirror.

  A woman she hardly recognized stared back at her as she fastened the halter neck.

  Her creamy blond hair had lost its scrunchie. It spilled over her shoulders in silky ribbons, a longer-layered version of Meg Ryan's sexy, tousled look.

  Her figure was almost… well, voluptuous, its modest curves defined by the black Lycra, her pale gold skin complemented by the tawny leopard-print trim. Even her breasts seemed more generous, somehow, in this Tarzana getup. And her legs looked longer, too. So long, in fact, that they seemed to start just under her armpits!

  Sydnee shook her head. There was nothing else for it. First thing tomorrow, she had to take one of the little orange taxicabs into the city and buy some real clothes. Undo Ella's well-meaning but horribly misguided efforts as soon as possible.

  She only hoped she could find what she needed before Westridge whisked her off to Rancho Corazñn….

  Her stomach chose that moment to gurgle, a reminder that she hadn't eaten since leaving Newark. She'd been far too nervous on the plane to think about food. Maybe room service…?

  But a quick glance at the menu confirmed that room service ended at eleven.

  And so, wrinkling her nose, she settled for a Cordero chocolate from Westridge's gift basket. Nibbling it, she stepped through the French doors, onto the wrought-iron balcony, drawn by the play of light on water.

  Two floors below lay the beautiful orchid-shaped pool that, along with the Orchid Gardens, gave the Las Floras its name.

  It was surrounded by a deck of mosaic tiles, designed to look like fronded foliage with the flower-pool at its heart.

  Flaming torches, underwater lighting, and a beautiful full moon enhanced the magical atmosphere. It looked so inviting.

  There was no one about, either in the pool or lounging on the deck area. The water was probably heated, too. If she went now, she could take a leisurely moonlight dip without being watched by sunbathing tourists….

  "Why not?" she asked herself impulsively, licking melted traces of rich dark— and surprisingly delicious— Cordero chocolate from her fingers, then her lips, like a kitten washing itself. "In this slinky getup, I can be the femme fatale Ella wants me to be for a little while!"

  And while she was enjoying her swim, maybe she'd come up with a good excuse for missing Westridge's dinner. Or better yet, a big fat— but entirely plausible— lie.

  Despite the late hour and the city's mountain elevation, the night breeze was balmy and scented with exotic flowers as she slipped off the impractical high-heeled sandals she'd found in the bag. Barefoot now, she padded across the mosaic deck.

  From the trees surrounding the pool area, an unseen bird called, briefly rupturing the hush. The sudden cry was answered by the shriek of another night creature, before the velvet silence descended once more.

  Jungle sounds, mysterious and exciting. Quite unlike the sounds of Ithaca at night. In the college town, the noisiest nocturnal creatures were students.

  Her heart began to beat faster. The blood raced through her veins.

  Unwinding the black-and-animal-print sarong she'd knotted around her, she let it float to the deck, removed her thick glasses, and set them on one of the low chaises.

  Poised on the very edge of the pool, she dived soundlessly into the water, a pale, moonlit curve that was seen and gone in the wink of an eye.

  Chapter Four

  Cord surfaced from his underwater lap gulping air and flicking water from his black hair.

  Drops flew like diamonds as, from the corner of his eye, he thought he caught a movement— the flash of a pale moonlit curve as it entered the water.

  But when he turned his head for a better look there was nothing. Nada.

  Deciding it must have been a trick of light— the play of flickering torches on water— he took another deep breath, held it, and dove smoothly underwater again.

  At the far end of the pool, Sydnee resurfaced and looked around. Then she, too, held her breath as she ducked her head below the surface again, relishing the way the warm water caressed her body like liquid silk.

  She'd enjoyed swimming since she was a little girl. It was a sport her nearsightedness had not kept her from being good at, unlike softball or gymnastics. Would she still love it? It had been ages since she'd taken time off from her research to do something purely for fun.

  She need not have worried. Nothing had changed. She knew it the moment she slipped into the water. That delicious sense of being boneless and weightless, of fluid grace and incredible freedom were unchanged. Warm water flowed over her skin like a lover's caress as her body moved effortlessly through it. It was… erotic, almost. Sensual. Sexual…

  Slowly releasing the deep breath she'd taken, she was halfway across the pool before she saw a dark shape beneath the water, several yards away.

  She squinted, trying to see whatever it was more clearly. But without her glasses or the contact lenses Ella had persuaded her to get last summer, she could make out only a dark and threatening blur. One that was rapidly growing closer!

  Frightened, she exploded from the pool like a rocket with a shriek of panic, stunned to see a dark-haired man, looking just as startled, erupt from the water a few feet away.

  The air between them crackled, filled with explosive currents, electric charges, and unspoken challenges as they glared at each other.

  Sydnee was the first to respond.

  "Oh!" Her heart in her mouth, she gasped, turned, and started swimming for dear life, as if she'd spotted the dark dorsal fin of a shark.

  "Hey, wait! It's okay!" he called after her.

  But she ignored him, swimming for the steps as fast and as hard as she could, her usually graceful strokes clumsy with fear.

  "Don't be frightened!" Cord called, swimming after her. "Señorita? Do you speak English? I won't hurt you."

  To his relief, she halted at the bottom of the steps and turned to face him, without climbing out. She looked embarrassed as she reached up to touch her throat and hair, a shy gesture that he found really sexy.

  "Yes, of course I do. It's just that— well, I thought I was the only one here, you see? Then I saw you underwater. You startled me," she admitted with a shaky little laugh.

  He grinned. "You we
ren't the only one." He shook his head.

  It was her turn to smile now. "I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to butt in. Enjoy your swim," she murmured, turning back to the steps.

  "If anyone's leaving, it should be me," he insisted. "Please. Don't go."

  Sydnee hesitated. That smooth, sexy voice could charm the birds from the trees, she thought. And, while he could be Costa Rica's very own Jack the Ripper, or San José's answer to the Boston Strangler, he was very good-looking, too! Or at least, what she could see of him was good-looking, in a blurry sort of way.

  Broad-shouldered and tanned, he had a flat stomach that carried muscle like little plates of armor. And those arms!

  So why was she just standing there? Sydnee wondered. Why wasn't she running screaming into the night?

  Instead of running or screaming anywhere, she smiled shyly at him and heard herself murmur, "I would like to swim for a little longer, if you're sure I won't be interrupting?"

  Interrupting? Was she nuts? Cord wondered. Didn't she know most men would kill to be "interrupted" by a woman like her?

  But he only said casually, "Not at all. I think this pool's more than big enough for two, don't you?"

  She wasn't the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, he decided, but she was close. Damn close.

  Her eyes were the green of the finest Hong Kong jade, fringed with lashes that were dark for someone so fair-skinned. They were set above high cheekbones that gave her features a Nordic cast. Swedish genes somewhere, he guessed. Or Norwegian.

  Her nose was small and narrow, her mouth wide, the lips full and pink, as if she'd just been kissed. Had she? he wondered almost jealously. And if so, by who? A husband? A boyfriend? A lover?

  Her shoulder-length hair, dark now, clung to her head in sleek wet strands. What color would it be when it dried? he wondered. Blond? Brown? And how would it feel? Silky and straight, or curling softly around a man's fingers?

  The slinky black swimsuit, edged with narrow bands of leopard print, showed off her knockout figure. Round, high breasts. Flat little belly. Curvy hips. And the way the suit was cut at the thighs made her legs look a mile long.