After Steinberg introduced himself, he grasped Duke’s outstretched hand. They shook, and Duke noted that the man had a limp, soft grip.
Bad sign
, Duke thought.
Hope he’s worth Glenda’s efforts
.
Everyone sat down, and a waiter hurried over to take the newcomers’ breakfast orders. As he left, Duke caught Glenda Farrar looking at him.
It’s working
, the matronly brunet mouthed quickly, nudging her eyebrows in Steinberg’s direction.
Thank you
.
Duke bit back a smile and winked at her.
Sweet little doll
, he thought for perhaps the hundreth time. He and she had struck up a conversation by the pool yesterday, and he’d given her some advice on how to catch Steinberg’s attention. She’d looked aghast at some of his suggestions, but she’d obviously geared up her courage and used them. Duke had promised to give her some more pointers today.
“Quit stalling and eat your cereal, Mr. Araiza,” a jovial female voice ordered over his left shoulder. “It contains all the basic grains.”
The scent of Shea’s perfume tantalized him even before he swiveled his head. She looked down at him and his uneaten cereal with a sly expression of satisfaction.
She knows I hate this stuff
, he noted as he said, “Grain is for horses.”
“Hmmm. Don’t stand up,” she instructed as he and the other two men started to their feet. “I can’t stay very long.” For one instant her slender, strong hand rested on Duke’s shoulder, urging him to remain seated. He settled back in his chair and wondered how her touch could be so affecting on a neutral area like his shoulder. He’d stayed away from her the past two days, letting her mull over what had happened between them in his cottage. Staying away had done nothing but make him crave the sight of her, the scent, the sound of her voice.
“So you don’t like the cereal,” Shea noted. “Can I tell the waiter to bring you some poached quail eggs instead?” Her eyes beamed with challenge meant only for him to see.
“Nope. I like my eggs scrambled.”
“I can arrange that.”
Duke wanted to shoot back a risqué remark, but he squelched the urge. “Thanks,” he answered primly. He swept a gaze over her short linen dress and matching white jacket. Red costume jewelry accented the outfit, and her hair was smoothed back in a neat French braid with a red bow at the back. She looked fantastic, like an ad from
Vogue
.
“You look too clean,” he told her with a mischievous smile. “Like a … yeah, like a palomino all fixed up to go in the show ring. How can you stay so perfect and get any work done, Palomino?”
“You’ll be happy to know that I’ll be performing real work this afternoon,” she answered. “One of our regular massage therapists had to fly home because her mother’s sick, so I’m taking her clients.”
“Which therapist?” Chip Greeson asked.
“Marly.”
“Damn,” Chip blurted. “She’s my favorite, and I had a two-thirty appointment. Whoops. Sorry, Shea, I’m sure you’re wonderful too.”
Shea held up her hands. “Every finger full of poetry,” she deadpanned. She looked down at Duke again, and he met her self-assured violet eyes with a wink.
“Well, have a good breakfast, everyone. Mr. Araiza, your cereal is getting soggy. Shall I have your waiter bring a fresh bowl?”
“Nope. I like whole-grain mush.”
Her mouth quirking in an involuntary smile, she glided away. Duke watched her as she moved among the tables in the large room, smiling, greeting other diners. His body hardened at the thought of the taut curves and fragrant skin concealed by her dress jacket. Hell, the outfit made her sexier; it added to a mystique that he couldn’t quite analyze. She carried herself regally, and Duke decided that the next palomino filly born on his ranch would be named Lady Shea in her honor. After she disappeared through a scalloped archway, he turned toward Chip.
“I’ll trade you five candy bars for your massage appointment this afternoon,” Duke told him.
A huge smile spread over Chip’s face. “It’s a deal.”
The afternoon schedule for mud baths and massages was light; many of the guests were attending a Neiman Marcus fashion show in the estate’s main ballroom. Shea finished a massage on Dame Lydia McCall, an aging British character actress. Dame Lydia, her stately and rather large body swaddled in a white guest robe, her high-pitched voice breaking into yawns even as she tried to tell Shea one more old show-girl story, padded into a small solarium and lay down on a lounge chair for a nap.
The other two massage therapists were busy with their clients, so Shea sat down in the reception area and idly waited for Chip Greeson to arrive. She was thumbing through a magazine and thinking about Duke Araiza when Duke’s deep, melodic voice interrupted her.
“Massage me. Cover me in mud. I surrender.” He stood in the doorway, arms outstretched, a martyred expression on his face.
Shea inhaled in soft, silent appreciation. Would the mere sight of him always make her feel as if she were floating? “Pardon me,” she said after a moment, “but I take no prisoners without appointments.”
“I have one. I bartered for it. Chip Greeson’s.”
She stood, eyeing him ruefully. Somehow she wasn’t the least bit surprised at this turn of events. “And what did you—”
“Gold. Emeralds. Candy bars. Chip couldn’t resist.” Duke lowered his arms and hooked his thumbs over the elastic top of his sweatpants. He ambled toward her, his stride relaxed, the clingy pants revealing a universe of masculine delights. His eyes held a challenge. “I’ve been letting you simmer for the past two days. I had to force myself to leave you alone, and it’s made me tense. I need a mud bath and massage. So what do I do first?”
Shea silently admitted that she was glad to see him, but she was through letting him have the upper hand. Duke Araiza would get very special treatment today. A little mild revenge would make her feel more in control.
“First you go into the men’s locker room and take off all your clothes,” she told him in a polite, serious tone. Shea handed him a key to one of the lockers. “You’ll find a pair of one-size-fits-all shorts in your locker. You can wear those until I get you covered with mud, then
pull them off. Follow the signs to mud room D. I’ll be waiting there.”
“Nice,” he said, tipping his head toward her. She wore white sneakers, tailored white shorts, and a green golf shirt with a small emblem of the estate’s coat of arms on the breast pocket. His eyes wandered over her. “I haven’t really seen your legs all the way up before. I thought running only produced such wonderful results in horses.”
“Thanks. I like being compared to a horse.”
“Great fetlocks. Great knees. Great—”
“Your mud bath is waiting, sir.”
Smiling, he strode off to the men’s locker room. Shea ran to mud room D, where everything had been made ready for Chip Greeson. The room was soothingly warm, and brass wall sconces provided low, relaxed lighting, A white claw-footed tub, half-filled with creamy, mineral-rich mud, sat in the middle of the tiled floor. Six copper pails packed with mud sat beside the tub.
Shea stood there, waiting, hoping that she looked calmer than she felt. A minute later Duke appeared in the doorway. Her heart crept up under her collarbones and stayed there. Where were his shorts?
He had wrapped a small white towel around his hips, and it barely covered him. The ends didn’t really meet; Duke held them together with one hand over his hip. The towel parted over his outstretched leg, revealing his thigh all the way to the hipbone.
“There weren’t any shorts in my locker,” he said solemnly. “I’m not lying. Really.”
Shea didn’t know how she managed to remain still and look undisturbed, but she credited the discipline to years of athletic pursuits. If she could push herself to run a fast mile, then she could deal calmly with Duke Araiza even though he was only wearing a hand towel.
“Get in the tub, please,” she instructed.
He walked across the room slowly, with the kind of confident bearing that told her he’d never been shy about his body. Shea looked straight at him, but refused to let her eyes wander into the towel’s vicinity. If anything moved underneath it and she saw it move, and Duke saw her see it move … the mood would definitely become more dangerous. She’d already gotten more danger than she’d bargained for.
“Couldn’t find a larger towel, eh?” she asked as he stepped into the tub.
“Why, it would be like putting a rain coat on a Greek statue.”
“Vanity, thy name is Araiza.”
Shea watched, nearly hypnotized despite herself, as he eased down in the mud. The symmetry of his back muscles, which flexed as he settled into the tub, was pure male perfection. He leaned back, worked the towel free, and laid it across his lap. Duke Araiza, naked except for that small square of white cotton …
“Oink,” he said gruffly.
Chuckling, Shea emptied the buckets of mud on top of his torso and legs, then silently reproached herself for feeling regretful when his magnificent body was hidden from view.
Revenge
, she recalled.
“Now what?” he asked, smiling wickedly. He pulled his towel out of the mud and dropped it on the floor. “Naked and ready.”
“Now you put your head back, close your eyes, and I’ll massage your face and scalp.” She patted the black satin pillow attached to the rim of the tub.
Duke rested his head on the pillow and shut his eyes blissfully. “
Magnifico, querida
,” he whispered.
Shea spent a wistful moment studying his angular, handsome features. Then she clenched her teeth, smiled grimly, and hoisted a remaining bucket of mud.
“You deserve this,
hombre
,” she said fiendishly, and dumped the mud onto his head.
He sat up hurriedly, made a garbled shouting sound, sputtered, and grabbed for her with both big hands. Shea whooped with glee and darted back, but not far enough. He caught her by one wrist. “Take a wallow with me, hellion!”
“
Por favor! Por favor!
Please! No!” she yelped one second before he pulled her into the tub.
Shea flailed at his iron grip and began laughing as she sank into the mud between his updrawn knees. He shook his head, slinging mud everywhere like a dog shaking rainwater from its coat, and used his free hand to wipe his eyes.
“Ever think of starring in a remake of
The Jazz Singer?
” Shea managed to ask. She laughed harder. As a matter of fact she couldn’t remember when she’d ever laughed this way. She couldn’t remember when she’d sat in a tub full of mud with a naked man. Never, actually. He uttered a stream of colorful curses in Spanish and English.
“I see the whites of your eyes and the whites of your teeth,” she continued. “But otherwise you look like a giant piece of chocolate. Like one of those giant chocolate Easter rabbits …”
“You play hard,
querida
. All right, I like that,” he said in a tone that was half angry and half amused. “I deserved this.”
“Yes, you did,” she said in a voice gone suddenly soft. “And I enjoyed it immensely.”
“But it won’t be forgotten! You’ve toyed with a master gamesman! You’ve thrown down a challenge.…”
“Quiet,
hombre
,” she ordered, and kissed him.
He went still for a second, and then his muddy arms went around her in a snug, possessive hold. Mud seemed to be everywhere except their mouths.
Shea wrapped both arms around his neck and burrowed as close as she could, kissing him wildly, giddy and thoughtless of everything except his taste and touch. She hadn’t intended to kiss him, but her good intentions no longer mattered. He was outrageous, sexy, and a very good sport, three qualities that she admired tremendously. With a hoarse cry Duke twisted his mouth against hers. The kiss was wanton and yet something much more; they were equals, sharing a passion that encompassed respect and affection as well as hearty lust.
Mud slipped over the side of the tub as he squeezed her closer to him. Shea realized that she was lying between Duke’s long, muscular legs, then that he had wrapped his legs around her. It was a strange feeling, to be wrapped in his body. It was a secure feeling.
Shea ran a hand up the back of his head. “Your hair, your poor muddy hair,” she said between kisses.
“I’ll go through a mud bath ten times a day if this kind of treatment comes with it,” he replied hoarsely. He dipped his head and kissed a clean spot on her neck. “Hell, you’re not really sorry about my hair. You’re enjoying every second of what you did to me. You enjoy being reckless and bawdy. I knew those urges were hidden under that golden princess exterior of yours.”
She sighed in a way that acknowledged that truth. “Oh, Alejandro, this is ridiculous and wonderful and—”
“Alejandro?” he repeated softly.
Shea wiped mud from his face and nodded sheepishly. “Do you mind? I think it’s a wonderful name.”
He smiled, his teeth looking so white against the mud-stained background of his face that she laughed again. He laughed too, then. “No one else calls me Alejandro. If you want to, that makes it special.”
“It is special. You’re special. If you weren’t, I wouldn’t be sitting in this tub of mud with you. I wouldn’t have
kissed you.” She looked a little concerned. “I don’t know what’s going to happen between us, but—”
“Sssh. A very famous philosopher once said.
Que sera, sera
. What will be, will be.”
“Famous philosopher, my foot. That was Doris Day,” Shea retorted, chuckling.
“Yeah, so, but Doris was right.” He was smiling at her, but slowly the smile faded, replaced by a look that was hungry and serious.
“I don’t want to lose you,” she whispered.
“Lose me?” he asked in a soft, worried voice. “No way.”
“I’m not very good at relationships.”
“But what about your friend?” Duke spoke gently. “The one who was killed.”
Shea shook her head. “We weren’t … like this. There was more friendship than passion.” She laid one hand alongside Duke’s jaw, as if to reassure both him and herself as she looked into his dark, sympathetic eyes. “I grew up lonely, Alejandro. No father, and a mother who had too many problems to spend much time caring what happened to me. I’ve learned to keep people at a distance so if they don’t care about me, it won’t hurt.”