Up Close and Personal

Jess watched with detached appreciation—her work with all things sensual made her take a more clinical approach to arousal. Of course, her experience with men tended to distance her, too.

She just hoped she would bring the right mix of enthusiasm to the table tonight to present her material in a convincing manner. Stepping back from the rail, she sent a prayer off into the universe, grateful for the way the heavens must be smiling on her. She’d wanted to arouse these women with her first class on reclaiming their sensuality? Thanks to the U.S. Navy, her audience had already been majorly warmed up.

Now she simply had to divert their attention from the mouthwatering men and proceed.

“Ladies, if I can have your attention for just one hour, you’ll learn the touches that will have any man begging to be in your bed.”

Half the heads on the porch turned her way and two women exchanged winks.

Not satisfied with a fifty-percent success rate, Jess pressed on, determined to make this class an instant smash hit. She had an idea for parlaying one of her planned demonstrations into something that would keep this group talking for weeks.

“In fact, as a bonus for tonight only, I’ll be glad to show you firsthand how these techniques play out in real life. With a real man.” Capitalizing on the interest of the group, she made the most tantalizing offer she could think of. “If any one of you ladies would like to hunt us down a willing male specimen for practice, I’ll demonstrate how quickly the power of touch turns any guy into a smoldering mass of muscle ready to fulfill your every last sensual wish.”

A chorus of “oohs” and feminine squeals filled the balcony as the rest of the women spun away from the ocean view. And before she could consider the logistics of what she’d just proposed, two of the ladies shoved their way through their peers toward the exit.

IT HAD BEEN a long time since Ricardo—Rocco—Easton had cause to wear a bow tie. And the last time he’d donned one, the suit had been a hell of a lot more upscale than what he had on now as he worked the generic black neckwear into a knot to complete his waiter’s disguise.

Still, his fingers hadn’t forgotten the drill and the man in the mirror in his white shirt and tie reminded him of dress whites and—

Hell.

He turned away from the hotel bathroom mirror with an oath, knowing he owed the bout of stupid nostalgia to this place. Coronado Island. He’d avoided this part of San Diego ever since his injury had cost him his spot among the SEALs. He couldn’t even look out at the damn view from the glitzy Hotel del Coronado without a wave of memories threatening to drag him under like the surf once had along this same stretch of shore.

But for the sake of investigating the woman who had possibly scammed his car dealer father, Rocco was willing to sacrifice a few hours of mental peace.

He shoved open the bathroom door so hard it banged off the wall behind it, his thoughts of his father’s failing mental health upsetting him all over again. His dad had days of clarity and days where he was more than a little muddled, so Rocco didn’t know how much stock to put in his claim that he’d been swindled by a beautiful car buyer who had no intention of making a single payment on the vehicle she’d purchased from Easton Luxury Motor Cars.

Possibly his father had his facts wrong. But the preliminary paperwork backed up his statement. Jessica Winslow wasn’t making her payments.

And although she was only one person—one alleged scam artist—she represented a growing new trend in deception Rocco found abhorrent. There seemed to be a rising willingness in women to use flirtation as a means to commit crime—a way to catch men off guard.

If his father had been Jessica’s victim, Rocco would see she paid the dealership every cent of the loan she’d been in default on for months. The old man’s business had been floundering for the past year and another bad debt could very well close his doors for good.

The injury to Anthony Easton’s pride would be even more devastating than the wound to his wallet.

So tonight’s mission to learn the truth was instrumental in Rocco’s goal to help his father stay independent for as long as possible. And since weeding through a paper trail that might not reveal the full extent of Jessica Winslow’s circumstances, Rocco’s work tonight would be as up close and personal as hers promised to be, thanks to the free pass a waiter’s uniform gave him around the hotel. He’d check out the woman’s seminar and see for himself if she was legit.

“Oh my.”

A feminine voice in the corridor ahead forced his thoughts back to the moment at hand. As he relinquished his strategic planning long enough to take stock of his surroundings, he noticed two elegantly dressed ladies frozen in the middle of the hall, matching pink drinks sloshing around their martini glasses.

At their mutual look of openmouthed surprise he was hard-pressed not to check his fly. More likely, his expression, as he thundered down the hall, had caught them off guard.

Damn it. Had his time away from the SEALs turned his covert operational skills to crap? He schooled his features into something he hoped resembled a smile.

“Ladies.” He tossed in a quick bow and then realized that was something waiters only did a hundred years ago.

“Can I help you find anything?”

His words broke the spell and one of them—a brunette probably nearing sixty and still smoking hot—grinned like the Cheshire cat.

“As a matter of fact…” She turned to her friend with a raised eyebrow as if seeking approval. At the blonde’s nod, the dark-haired lady continued, “We’ve been charged with finding a little help for a demonstration at the workshop we’re attending here.”

The blonde silently pointed to a door a few feet behind them before leaning in to take a sip of her neon-pink drink.

Jessica Winslow’s room. Jessica Winslow’s workshop.

Showtime.

He nodded, unable to resist the lure of an open invitation into the very seminar he’d hoped to investigate. Did Ms. Winslow run a legitimate business? He’d look for the vehicle she’d defaulted on after he gathered a little intel on the woman herself. In her case, simply repossessing her SUV wouldn’t bring him enough satisfaction if she’d swindled his dad.

Rocco had turned to the recovery business after his doc at a military hospital told him he’d never be fit for the teams again. While repo work wasn’t exactly his lifelong dream, he’d figured he could at least help out his father by providing the old man with the service free of charge. He made money off his other clients—repossessing vehicles from deadbeat debtors. It paid the bills while he figured out what to do with his life now that he couldn’t serve his country.

“I’m your waiter for the evening and I’d be happy to help.” He didn’t offer an arm to either woman, knowing that wouldn’t be a waiter’s style, but damned if the old cougars didn’t each grab an elbow and cling to him like white on rice.

Not that he minded. Their friendly disposition would make it all the easier to wrangle his way into Jessica’s turf. Feel out her business practices.

She’d bought an Escalade from his father’s car dealership six months ago and had spent an hour in the office dishing about her work and her years in San Diego, treating the old man like a long-lost friend as she casually signed a contract she hadn’t made good on. In the normal course of Rocco’s business as a recovery agent—the PC term for a repo man—he would have simply repossessed the vehicle. But given that his father’s personal trust had been violated by a woman who’d blatantly charmed him into not running an extra credit check, Rocco had decided to give this repossession his personal attention.

Arriving at the suite, the blonde opened the door. Rocco didn’t know what to expect exactly from the title of the Winslow woman’s workshop: Better in Bed: Reclaiming Your Sensuality. What the hell did that mean? Did she consider herself some sort of sex expert? Bad enough she’d applied feminine wiles to deceive his dad. Now she wanted to teach the art to new disciples?

Less than a dozen people sat around the spacious room as his two new female friends led him inside. The place had been redecorated like some sort of ritzy club. The normally reserved color scheme of the Hotel del Coronado had been smothered in scarlet material while white candles flickered all around. For a minute he wondered what kind of demonstration these chicks had in mind as they all stared at him. The unanimous predatory glances made him wonder if they’d been hunting for some kind of ritual sacrifice victim.

“Well done, ladies.”

A woman stepped through the circle to the center of the room, her conservative black suit and messy updo in no way detracting from her blatant sex appeal.

He recognized her face—no, make that her hair and her kick-ass bod—from his father’s surveillance cameras, a routine safety precaution at the dealership that had helped Rocco locate more than one debtor.

“I’m Jessica Winslow.” The instructor nodded politely without offering her hand. Loose pieces of her auburn hair swayed around the chopstick device she’d used to impale some sort of twist at the back of her head. “We really appreciate you helping us out tonight for our demonstration.”

Rocco had a habit of sizing up people in no time, a practice that predated his days in the Navy, although it was one that had come in handy during some tight situations overseas. But the female in front of him didn’t lend herself to quick conclusions with her designer suit and her shoes, carefully polished, to hide scuff marks.

A completely remorseless defaulter would have charged new shoes while on her spending spree, so he couldn’t figure out those scuffs.

“No problem. I’m Rocco Easton and—”

Whatever he was going to say died in his throat as Jessica unbuttoned her suit jacket with quick efficiency, her French-manicured fingers moving easily over flower-shaped rhinestone buttons.

What the hell? The jacket fell away to reveal a crimson-colored lace camisole that disappeared down into the waistband of her black skirt.

While a few of the women whistled as Jessica removed her jacket, she simply tossed the garment aside and wrapped a hand around his bicep. Apparently unconcerned about the eye-popping visual her breasts made in the molded lace and satin of her fitted camisole, she gestured toward a chaise longue that had been dragged into the center of the sprawling Victorian suite.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She tugged him briskly forward, as if getting half-naked with a stranger was all in a day’s work for her. “If you’ll just join me right over here, Rocco, I’d like to show my guests a few instructional tips on massage.”

“That’s erotic massage, gorgeous,” the brunette who’d brought him into the room stage-whispered from her post at a freestanding bar where a dozen white candles flickered. “I think you’re in for a treat.”

He stopped so fast, Jessica’s feet stuttered as she pitched forward slightly. He steadied her automatically, his instinct to physically protect a woman—even from a stumble in high heels—overriding his personal beef with her.