“My mother.” She’d listed her mom as her contact on her employee data sheet.
“Yes. Suzanne told me where you’d landed.”
Her mom was a wonderful woman, but a little too eager to brag about her daughter’s amazing new job.
“I see. Well, thanks for the check. I hope you enjoy your stay in Maui. Aloha.”
Big hands banded her arms. Memories tumbled through her mind—the very same hands hiking up her skirt, sliding between her legs, and those long fingers parting her—Uh-uh. No hiking, no sliding, no parting. Protesting the familiarity, as well as her body’s reaction, she tried to tug out of his grasp. Tried, and failed. “Look, Mr. St. Sebastian—”
“Rafe,” he corrected. “As I mentioned, in addition to delivering your check, I wanted to speak to you. Join me for a drink?”
Though posed as a question, it sounded more like a politely delivered order. She shook her head. “I think our last encounter left you with the wrong impression. If you’re looking for a repeat—” She broke off because the band shifted into Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Game,” and her voice suddenly carried.
“Chelsea, I’m looking to talk to you. That’s all.” He released her arms and hit her with a stern frown that dug a devastating notch between his brows and set off fireworks in all her erogenous zones. “I didn’t even pack my Santa suit.”
Funny guy. Too bad she’d left her sense of humor in a supply closet. She looked at her watch. Six minutes until midnight. “I can give you five minutes. And I’ll pass on the drink. Technically, I’m working.”
“Let’s go somewhere we can talk.” Then, to her consternation, he took her hand and led her to the dance floor.
“Oh, no, let’s go to the…” Lobby, she intended to say, but it was too late. He swung her into his arms and settled her against him, breasts to chest, hips to hips—the same amazing hips he’d used to rock her headlong into the most soul-shattering orgasm she’d ever known. She closed her eyes and inhaled, attempting to settle her racing system. Bad move. She accidentally breathed in his scent, something sophisticated and dangerously compelling. Another round of aftershocks rolled through her. Slowly, she opened her eyes, and focused on his chin.
His lips curved into a knowing smile. “I won’t bite.”
Rafe didn’t think he’d ever held a more reluctant dance partner. She stood stiff, staring down, or over his shoulder…everywhere except at him. And even so, she felt good in his arms. Too good, because the thoughts filling his mind involved skin, sweat, and a hell of a lot more privacy than could be found in the middle of a dance floor.
Where were her thoughts? He moved his hand low on her back and let it rest there. A subtle reminder of how thoroughly he’d explored the territory just beyond his fingertips, and how much she’d enjoyed every second. Her quick intake of breath confirmed her powers of recall, and pushed her breasts against his chest so they plumped over the top of her strapless black dress. He imagined tugging the top down, filling his hands with those mouthwatering curves, and finding out whether she liked slow, feather-light caresses, or the rough drag of his palms across her nipples. Then he’d torture her with both until she made the same urgent little noises she’d made for him before.
Had she allowed her mind to wander back to the closet to relive their encounter? The pulse beating away at the hollow of her throat suggested she was thinking about it now.
Good, because he couldn’t get her out of his mind, and constantly having her in his head was driving him in-fucking-sane at a time he could least afford a distraction. The home stretch of hurdles his father had placed between him and his goal loomed ahead, and the Las Ventanas deal demonstrated with painful clarity he needed to give the damn process his undivided attention—not put his dick in charge of prioritizing and fixate on a woman. Especially when, as a rule, he didn’t fixate on women. He enjoyed them and moved on. Why Chelsea proved to be an exception to this formerly unchallenged rule only added to his frustration.
Maybe his ego demanded proof that the way she’d responded to him had nothing to do with her confusing him for someone else? Maybe he just craved another round with her where they could spread out, take their time, and be as loud as they wanted? Whatever the reason, when it came to Chelsea Wayne, once was definitely not enough. Luckily, he’d learned strategy from a master, and if everything went as planned, he’d have the opportunity to satisfy his lingering fascination, and even his father wouldn’t fault his tactics.
He glanced down at her. The look she shot him from beneath her lashes brimmed with anxiety and suspicion—not exactly an invitation to seduction. He had some work to do, and the first step involved getting her off the defensive. “Why Maui?”
She shrugged. “Why not? Maui offers sunshine and sea breezes.”
“So did Montenido.”
“I needed a change.” Her gaze shifted to some point over his shoulder and her glossy mouth twisted into a not-quite smile. The subtle move set off a fast, dirty fantasy of kissing her lips until they were bare and swollen. “For a number of reasons, I couldn’t stay at Las Ventanas.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He slid his hand up to the center of her back. “I hear the new owner was very impressed with you.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet. That brings us to reason number one—banging the new owner before even shaking his hand. I’m sure that sends quite a message. Something like, ‘Hi, I’m a closet nymphomaniac with a Santa fetish.’”
No way could he let her shoulder 100 percent of the responsibility for what happened. He tightened his arm around her waist in a silent gesture of solidarity, gratified when she finally tipped her head and looked at him. “I wore the suit, and I went willingly into the closet. Maybe I’m the closet nympho with the Santa fetish?”
She made a dismissive sound. “I threw myself at you. My friend Laurie had to invent a whole new word for it.”
Intrigued, he raised an eyebrow. “Which was?”
“Tackle-fucked.” She blushed. “Fitting, unfortunately.”
Rafe would have laughed had his mind not dove immediately back into the closet. Would her cheeks turn the same shade of pink when she quivered around him and called out his name? Or was this particular shade specific to embarrassment? Saying the right thing at this moment would improve his chances of finding out. “I intended to stop you, but—”
“But you didn’t.” Her blush deepened. “You went along for the ride, because you assumed I knew it was you in the costume. An arrogant assumption, if you want my humble opinion, but I guess you’re accustomed to that kind of behavior. What an exciting life you must lead.”
Nice try, but he refused to take the bait. The level of excitement in his life wasn’t the issue, and while he might win a debate over which one of them should have known better, he’d lose in the long run. The situation called for a little humility on his part. He dug deep to find some. “As much as it obliterates my ego to admit it, I know I wasn’t the intended recipient of your attention. You thought I was somebody else.”