Читать книгу: «The Sex Diet»

“I can make you come right now,” Hank told her. “Just say yes.”

Oh, God, how Sam wanted to. She pushed her aching nipple farther into his palm and whimpered when he thumbed it through her shirt.

“I’ll take you to the edge, as many times as you want, I promise.” He licked her neck, creating a blaze of sensation. “Starting right now. All you have to do is tell me…”

Hank found her mouth and kissed her deeply. His hand left her breast and slowly moved lower, slipping beneath her waistband, then beneath her panties. At the first brush of those talented fingers, a startled cry broke from her lips.

His hot breath fanned against her ear. “All you have to do is say yes…” he whispered.

A shiver shook her. Ahhh, this felt good, Sam thought. But the warm tingling feeling had only just started when Hank moved his hand, making her inhale sharply, bringing her instantly to the peak.

“Yes, yes, yes!” Sam cried, reveling in the waves of exquisite sensation as her first ever orgasm ripped through her.

Dear Reader,

When the idea behind this book first came to me, it really struck a chord. I think at some point in our lives we all go through an ugly-duckling stage—and some of us stay in it longer than others! Let’s face it, the things we go through during those awkward years are enough to make any woman question her self-worth. After all, we live in a world where the words thin and perfect are synonymous with beauty.

But it isn’t right. And so, in The Sex Diet, I’m taking authorial license to write about things the way they should be. My heroine, Samantha McCafferty, is the ultimate ugly duckling. Only, she’s not going to take it lying down…at least, not yet. First, she has a plan. She’s going to do whatever it takes to have Hank Masterson, her first and only love, right where she wants him—in her bed! And if she’s lucky, she might even be able to keep him there.

I hope you enjoy Hank and Samantha’s story. And for those of you thinking about trying the sex diet themselves, watch out for allergies!

Happy reading!

Rhonda Nelson

P.S. Be sure to visit me at my Web site, www.BooksByRhondaNelson.com.

The Sex Diet
Rhonda Nelson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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This book is dedicated to a wonderful woman whom I love and respect, a loyal friend, confidante and kindred spirit, a cousin by relation, but a sister of the heart—

Sheila Pierce Sherrod. My life is so much richer with you in it.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

1

“YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING.”

The perky receptionist behind the counter of Clearwater Bed and Breakfast smiled uncomfortably. “Er…no. I don’t have a reservation in your name, Ms. McCafferty.”

Samantha McCafferty absently scratched her arm and squelched a vicious stab of irritation. The damned antihistamine was wearing off and if she didn’t get another dose soon, she’d undoubtedly break out in ugly red hives from head to toe. That would certainly negate any appeal she might hope to garner through this sex diet, Samantha thought as she pictured her swollen, hive-covered face wearing a seductive smile. Ugh. Not pretty. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She didn’t have time for this inconvenience. She needed that medicine now.

“Look, I don’t care whether you’ve got my name in your system or not,” Samantha told her, making a valiant effort to keep a note of annoyance from her tone. “I have a standing reservation. I’ve been vacationing here since I was a child, and have continued the tradition into my adulthood.” She smiled sweetly. “The first week of September, in the Oleander Suite. Put me there.” Before I turn into one giant red blob, Sam thought, covertly scratching her side. Oh, the pains one endured to be attractive.

The receptionist—Tina, according to her name tag—winced regretfully. “I’m afraid that room is already booked.”

“What?” Samantha felt the first stirrings of genuine alarm and leaned forward anxiously. That couldn’t possibly be right. This had to be a mistake. Her entire plan—Operation Orgasm—centered around this vacation. She was three days into the sex diet—the one guaranteed to make her attractive to the opposite sex—for pity’s sake and, if the way the guy in seat B2 on the flight down had been acting had been any indication, it was definitely beginning to work. She couldn’t afford for things to get screwed up now. Annoyed, she scratched her thigh.

“It’s booked,” Tina said apologetically and lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “Everything is booked. Has been since they announced the Belle of the Beach contest.”

Oh, no! Samantha mentally wailed. This could not be happening. Everything could not be booked. Surely Hank wouldn’t do this to her. He couldn’t have. Not this time, dammit. She’d kill him.

Samantha had been so busy pondering the everything-is-booked statement that it took a moment for the rest of what the clerk had said to filter through her turbulent thoughts, but when it did her brow furrowed. “The Belle of the Beach contest?” It sounded vaguely familiar, she thought. Had Hank mentioned it?

Tina gestured a manicured hand at a flyer on the wall. “Yep. It’s this weekend. The winner gets an all-expense-paid trip to the Bahamas, as well as a new SUV and ten grand in prize money.”

Samantha whistled low, gazed at the glitzy flyer. She could certainly use ten grand. She’d been steadily setting aside a nest egg since she’d graduated from college for a down payment on a future house, but living expenses combined with her student-loan debt had hindered her progress.

She made a good living as a dietician at one of Aspen’s posh spas—Cedar Crest—but the cost of living was staggering and, for reasons she didn’t fully understand, she’d recently decided it was time to return to her southern roots, move back to Orange Beach, Alabama, where she’d grown up.

Samantha had lost her parents at sixteen—victims of a drunk driver—and had moved in with her grandmother, her only living relative. Then, sadly, two years later, Gran had passed away, leaving her completely orphaned. Were it not for Hank Masterson—her longtime friend and, lamentably, the unrequited love of her life—and his parents, Samantha didn’t know what she would have done. The Mastersons were her godparents and had done everything they could to help make her way easier. She’d appreciated their help, but staying in Orange Beach and attending community college just hadn’t seemed right, particularly after Hank had moved away to Tuscaloosa.

Four years older than her, Hank had graduated from the University of Alabama the year she’d graduated from high school. Samantha had fully expected him to return to Orange Beach—had been particularly hurt that he hadn’t—and, when he’d decided not to come home, Samantha had decided it was time for her to leave as well.

The decision had been difficult, but one that she didn’t regret. She’d needed the space, the change in scenery. She’d traded sea and sand for mountains and snow and could honestly say that the move had been just the therapy she’d needed at the time. She’d moved to Colorado, attended college and made yearly pilgrpImages** back to Orange Beach, back to the Clearwater B&B where she’d spent so much time as a child. But over the past several years, each time she’d come home, it had grown increasingly harder to make the trip back out west.

Because Hank had returned.

He now owned the old B&B. Samantha had literally spent years of her life here in this old ante-bellum house snugged against the Gulf of Mexico. She loved it here, loved the salty breezes and the squish of sand between her toes. She sighed a wistful breath, clawed at a place behind her ear. She couldn’t wait to move home, but knew that until she had a substantial down payment for a house, that dream would simply have to wait. She’d take a significant cut in pay when she did make the move and she didn’t want a giant mortgage hanging over her head when that time came. Unless a windfall landed in her lap, a few more years in Aspen would be in order.

Samantha smirked wryly. And that would undoubtedly be the case, she thought as she eyed the Belle of the Beach poster. She had about as much of a chance to win that heaving bosom, bronzed-body contest as she did to land Hank with this crazy sex diet—nil.

Like most men on the planet—with the exception of one painfully poignant moment years ago when he’d been drunk and she’d been stupid—Hank didn’t seem to realize that she existed.

A sad smile drifted over her lips as she recalled that almost-kiss. She could still feel the butterflies in her belly, could still remember the frantic, desperately hopeful beat of her heart, the rush of anticipation…then the subsequent burn of humiliation when his eyes had widened and he’d stopped just short of settling his lips over hers. He’d sworn, then apologized, and Sam had pasted a brave smile on her face and pretended like the rejection hadn’t hurt. But it had. Dearly.

He had no way of knowing it, of course, but that almost-kiss had been a favor in many ways. It had forced her to come to a hard truth, had forced her to realize that no matter how desperately she might want him, he would never want her. She’d resigned herself to be content with their friendship. Did she love him? Without a doubt. Would she always love him? Most definitely. But what good was love that wasn’t returned? She’d turned her focus else-where—her career, then more recently on Operation Orgasm and making herself attractive.

To put it in the gentlest of terms, Samantha had been a late bloomer. She’d been a frizzy-headed, rail-thin, freckled, bespectacled wreck and she knew it.

Pictures didn’t lie.

Thankfully over the past year, she’d found a good stylist and had learned how to tame her curly strawberry-blond locks, she’d gotten contacts and, by supplementing her diet with high-calorie protein milkshakes—science could put a man on the moon, but no cure yet for brain freeze?—she’d packed on twenty solid pounds in the past year. She actually had curves and had increased her bustline a full cup size, a feat she was most proud of. Sure, the contacts were a plus, and her new hairstyle was certainly flattering, but the breasts…now they were powerful. All she had to do was draw her shoulders back a little and bam!—self-confidence surged through her. Remarkable.

A woman had to strike while the iron was hot and luckily, she’d inadvertently stumbled upon the one thing she sincerely hoped would guarantee her success—a sex diet.

Several months ago, Samantha had accidentally found what she suspected was the perfect combination of foods to heighten sex appeal, stimulate the emission of pheromones and rejuvenate lumbering libidos. Her gaze turned inward as she remembered that bizarre day. She’d planned her menu, balanced nutritional values just like she always had. But this one week, in particular, had resulted in heightened sexual arousal in the woman and, more important, reciprocated interest in the men.

That week, trendy Cedar Crest—which prided itself on social graciousness and decorum—had all but turned into an orgy of sexual depravity that would have made the legendary parties at the Playboy mansion seem tame by comparison. The lodge had practically vibrated from the lusty sounds of sex.

Samantha had been astounded with the results and, just to make sure that it hadn’t been a fluke, a month later she’d served the same menu plan to a completely new batch of clients—with the same results. She’d decided that if it could work for the Viagra set, it could certainly work for her.

It had to, because being chronically, perpetually, miserably sexually frustrated was slowly driving her mad. If she didn’t have an orgasm soon, she’d undoubtedly need a little padded cell devoid of sharp objects.

But how could she not be sexually frustrated when everywhere she looked there was another reminder of her nonexistent sex life? Movies, books, commercials, television, the Internet. Hell, you couldn’t thumb through a magazine without seeing a half-naked woman or a ripped guy with six-pack abs. And why? Because sex sells. And why did sex sell? Because, with the exception of very few, everyone wanted it, most especially herself. Young, old, rich or poor, mankind had that one thing in common—the desire, the need, the drive to procreate. Samantha’s own desire had been steadily humming for a while now, but in recent months had begun to screech and wail.

She’d grown tired of reading about/watching romance and never having any for herself—it was torture. Weary of the achy feeling in her chest when she saw couples holding hands or stealing a kiss—more torture. Tired of that hollow unfulfilled sensation deep in her belly when she found herself locked in the tight jaws of unrelieved sexual frustration. Which was woefully often. She expelled a heavy breath.

In short, she was tired of never having sex, of being an OV—orgasm virgin.

But by the end of her vacation, if this diet progressed the way it should—and she had no reason to suspect that it wouldn’t—that at least would be one less thing for her to be weary of.

Granted when the week was over she might still be alone…but at least she wouldn’t be pathetic, for pity’s sake. At least—provided she found a skilled lover—she would have had a real honest-to-goodness back-clawing, earth-shattering, screaming orgasm. The one and only time she’d ever had sex, it had been a miserable, awkward experience, which had lasted less than a successful bull ride. The combination of alcohol, loneliness, curiosity and screaming hormones had perpetuated the rash decision and, ultimately, she’d wasted her virginity on a bumbling, overzealous nerd who didn’t know any more about the act than she did.

She wouldn’t make that mistake this time—this time she was prepared.

Using her inherent Type-A tendencies, Samantha had planned this vacation down to a T, knew precisely what she wanted and how to go about getting it. Between the combination of the sex diet, her newly improved looks and a beach full of single horny men, surely to God she could find one interested in having a little recreational sex with her. Find one who would know how to do the business properly, so that she would at least be satisfied when it was over. Her lips curled into a slow smile.

Hopefully multisatisfied.

Her gaze strayed to the flyer once more and a prickle of irritation strummed across her frazzled nerves. Just her luck that the one week she’d have the added bonus of diet-induced sex appeal, the beach and B&B would be crawling with tanned, toned and thonged competition.

“Would you like me to call and try to arrange other accommodations for you?” perky Tina asked.

Samantha blinked out of her reverie. “No,” she said, exasperated. “I would like to have the accommodations I reserved.”

Her smile faltered. “I’ve told you—”

“I don’t care what you’ve told me,” Samantha interrupted tightly. She clawed at her belly, an insistent reminder that she needed those antihistamines now. Her ace-in-the-hole sex diet had one distinctly uncomfortable disadvantage—it primarily consisted of seafood…which she just happened to be mildly allergic to. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

She’d invested—and ingested—too much to turn back now.

Her entire plan hinged on this vacation. She blew out a frustrated breath. “Where’s Gladys?” Samantha asked impatiently. Gladys would take care of this snafu and all would be well.

“Somewhere on the Pacific Ocean.”

Sam blinked. “What?”

“She got married last week. She’s on her honeymoon.”

Gladys got married? Crusty old Gladys snagged a husband? Hank had definitely not mentioned that, Samantha thought absently as she managed a sick smile. That she would have remembered.

Sam contemplated that disheartening little revelation and wished that she were a big enough person to be happy for Gladys without feeling sorry for herself, but apparently she wasn’t, because all she could think was how more pathetic her life seemed now that even Gladys had gotten married.

That settled it, Samantha thought determinedly—she’d get laid this week and have a damned orgasm, or die trying.

“Well, that’s nice,” Sam finally managed weakly. “What about Hank?”

Another prickle of irritation surfaced. Quite honestly, she’d wanted a minute to freshen up before she saw Hank—a moot point since he didn’t care what she looked like—but she couldn’t help but look forward to seeing his reaction to her new-and-improved self. She didn’t expect him to turn into a lust-crazed maniac—she wasn’t stupid enough to even so much as hope that would happen—but a flicker of surprise would be nice. Vain? Yes. But after the effort she put into making herself more attractive, she thought she deserved a little gratification.

Tina blanched. “H-Hank?”

“Yes, Hank,” Samantha replied slowly, intrigued by Tina’s oh-hell expression.

“Er…he’s not here at the moment.”

Samantha’s eyes narrowed as she watched Tina gnaw nervously on her bottom lip. “I can see that,” she said patiently. “Where is he?”

Tina paused, heaved a protracted sigh with a roll of her eyes. “He went to fish a sand crab out of the pool,” she admitted begrudgingly, and lifted a small walkie-talkie from the desk. “I’ll call him.”

From the tone of her voice, a pelvic exam conducted by Captain Hook held more appeal.

Tina depressed the call button and spoke into the black-and-neon-green gadget. “Hank, could you come to the front desk please?”

Static, then, “Is there a problem, Tina?”

Jeez, Samantha thought, just hearing his voice made the fine hairs on her arms stand on end, forced her to repress a shiver. A current of electricity zinged up her spine, tingled her nipples and buzzed her sex with warmth.

Hank Masterson was the epitome of the quintessential beach bum—tall, tanned, built, blond and gorgeous. He had the clearest, most beautiful sea-blue eyes and a lazy, slumberous smile that made a woman’s brain melt and her blood simmer. He exuded easy, effortless charm and had cornered the market in sex appeal. In addition to being absolutely gorgeous, he had a great personality and a brilliant head for business. Hank was the total package and if a woman ever managed to hook his attention even for a little while, she had better net him while she could. Men like Hank were few and far between.

And, Samantha thought with a grim, melancholy stab of regret, completely out of her reach.

She might be able to go from geek to chic for a week, but a permanent transformation was more than she could reasonably hope for. Besides, she knew Hank well enough to know that over the years he’d considered her as many things, but regrettably potential girlfriend or lover had never been one of them.

A smile caught the corner of her mouth. The word nuisance leapt immediately to mind. As children, Hank had grudgingly tolerated her presence with the sort of martyred stoicism reserved for pesky little girls. But miraculously, by the time she’d reached her teens, she and Hank had developed a very close friendship—one they’d maintained over the years via e-mail, phone calls and yearly visits—and she would have liked nothing better than to parlay that special connection into something more.

Hank, though, had never been remotely interested.

Her lips twisted with wry humor. Hell, if it hadn’t been for that ill-fated almost-kiss, she wouldn’t have been convinced he’d even noticed that she was a girl. God knows, he’d always treated her just like one of the guys. He’d never displayed the least amount of modesty around her, had routinely stripped and gone skinny-dipping right in front of her drooling, flaming face and, oftentimes, had even shared intimate details of his relationships with other women with her. Things, she was sure, he shared with his male cronies. Items that had made her squirm with longing and jealousy, made her want to break things and scream.

Of course, she’d never done any of those things. She’d always smiled, listened and teased and been her typically amiable self because she’d rather be flayed alive and dipped in boiling oil than to admit her feelings were anything more than platonic, that she’d wanted more from him than a chuck under the chin or a friendly pat on the back. Samantha knew that if Hank ever discovered her true feelings for him, she’d go from being his friend to an object of pity—which was completely intolerable.

When she’d first considered the sex diet, for one blazingly beautiful dramatic moment, Samantha had allowed herself the luxury of dreaming that it would work on him—after all, being drunk almost had—that he would take one look at her, be utterly bowled over by his attraction for her, that he’d curse himself for a fool for never realizing what a prize she was.

Then she’d burnt herself with the curling iron and reason had returned—if he hadn’t figured out what a prize she was after all this time, realistically, what were the chances of that happening now?

None.

She’d long ago resigned herself to be content with the relationship they had. She’d wasted enough time lamenting what might have been and had decided to put the remainder of her energy into an attainable goal—finding a lover for this week who would and could induct her into the Big O Hall of Fame.

Hank could, without a doubt—just thinking about it made her thighs quiver with repressed longing—but there was a huge difference between could and would, and she knew he wouldn’t.

“We have a small reservation error, yes,” Tina glumly admitted.

“Another one?” Samantha detected a slight hint of annoyance in his tone.

Tina closed her eyes miserably. “Yes.”

A deep sigh, then, “All right. I’ll be right there.”

Clearly hers wasn’t the only booking error dear Tina had flubbed up, Samantha thought and offered up a sympathetic smile.

Tina’s nervous gaze found hers. “He’ll be here in a minute.”

Samantha nodded, confident that Hank would see to this mess, and absently scratched the inside of her arm. She was quickly running out of time—she needed an antihistamine and a shrimp-cocktail snack. More blasted seafood, the main ingredient of this damned diet. Besides, every moment spent standing at this desk was a moment she could be using to size up possible lovers, officially put her diet to the test.

Her lips curled. Who knew? With a little pheromone therapy and a little luck, hopefully she’d score.

HANK MASTERSON DEFTLY DEPOSITED a crab onto open sand away from the pool area and made his way back around the front of the house to handle another Tina screwup. God, how he missed good old dependable Gladys. Gladys, who despite her cranky nature and the cigarette perpetually crammed in the corner of her mouth, could work the computer reservation system blindfolded and handle any crisis—real or imagined—without his input.

But all good things eventually come to an end and the old adage had held true with his help, because Gladys had been wooed away from Clearwater by a man who had more to offer her than Hank—a few million and a yacht. Hank had hired Gladys’s granddaughter as a favor—“She’ll be fantastic!” Gladys had assured—and he’d wrongfully assumed that efficiency and competence would run in the family.

Not so.

So far Tina had fried two top-of-the-line computer systems, had lost his backup copies of past guest registers and had managed to single-handedly sabotage every electronic device save the walkie-talkies since she arrived. Hank figured it was only a matter of time before those went, too.

The only thing that saved her from a pink slip was the fact that, despite her penchant for tearing things up, she was very personable, had good phone skills…and she was related to Gladys. Hank sighed. He couldn’t in good conscience fire Tina, when her grandmother had been like a second mother to him over the past several years.

Still, Hank thought as irritation pulled at a muscle near his mouth, there were times—like now—when the idea held immense appeal. Between wrapping up the busy season and this godforsaken Belle of the Beach contest, things on his little stretch of sand were really hopping. He needed a dependable desk clerk. He didn’t have a single bed left and he’d had to call in a temp agency to assist his overworked kitchen staff. A full house made for a fatter bank account, so other than being pleasantly exhausted—and having a receptionist from hell—he really couldn’t complain. Hank blew out a breath, loped up the front porch steps and emptied the sand out of his shoes. All in all he—

“Hi, Hank,” Candy, one of the Belle contestants, called from the front porch swing.

Hank stilled for a fraction of a second, morphed a wince into an amiable smile and returned the greeting. Candy wore a come-pump-me grin and her eyes glittered with blatant invitation. Despite the fact that he’d ignored every suggestive overture and turned down the opportunity to see her tattoo several times over the past couple of days, Candy nonetheless continued to stalk him. Considering the fact that she wore a bikini which bared all but her nipples and narrowly covered her crotch, Hank grimly suspected the tattoo was on a part of her anatomy best avoided.

As a rule, he avoided all female guests at the B&B who seemed interested in pursuing a little recreational vacation sex. It wasn’t good for business. There were too many other available women in the world to take an unnecessary risk and so far he’d never been uncontrollably tempted. Tempted? Yes. But beyond the scope of his control? No.

Granted things had been harder this week, what with the half-naked gorgeous Belle contestants parading along his stretch of sand. But he could handle it. He pushed into the foyer, felt the welcome blast of cool air from the air conditioner. In a few days this contest would be over and he’d have the time to find a suitable partner, one not on his guest roster and not affiliated with this damned contest. He’d simply have to wait it out and—

Hank’s thoughts fractured and his step faltered as his gaze landed on the most delectable backside he’d ever seen.

Sweet Lord, he thought as perspiration suddenly dotted his upper lip and a bolt of heat threatened to incinerate his groin, another hottie.

Hell, she didn’t even have to turn around for him to know that she was absolutely gorgeous and absolutely, unequivocally hot. A mass of light-red curls tumbled sexily over her shoulders and down her slim back. She had a tiny waist, nicely flared hips and legs up to there. Unlike every other woman around here, she had no tan to speak of and her skin glowed with a pale, peachy health. A sweet fruity scent assaulted his senses, her scent he knew, and the very essence of that smell triggered something hot, wild and primal within him. Curiously it seemed vaguely familiar.

Pure unadulterated lust chugged through his veins, sped purposefully toward his groin. His skin prickled and his mouth parched. She was temptation on legs and every instinct he had went on full-tilt red alert, causing a roaring through his head. This went beyond the typical run of the mill lust, was somehow sharper, keener, more intense. Less manageable, Hank thought ominously.

There was only one remedy for an attraction like this, Hank thought grimly—absolute quarantine.

He’d have to avoid her like the damned plague.

She turned around then and recognition sucker-punched him, driving every bit of breath from his lungs. Hank felt his eyes bug and his jaw drop. The roaring he’d heard just seconds before ceased abruptly and was replaced with a screeching howl akin to a jet engine gearing up for takeoff. His vision blackened around the edges as he pulled her familiar face into sharp focus.

Samantha McCafferty?

2

SAMANTHA SMILED WARMLY and breathed an audible sigh of relief, then rushed across the foyer and gave him a tight hug. Hank reacted automatically, hugged her back, though he still felt like the world had been turned upside down.

“Hank, thank God. There’s been some sort of mix-up and apparently my room isn’t available.” She drew back and those twinkling green eyes gazed up at him. “Please tell me you can fix this.”

“Samantha? Sam?” Hank said, still in a state of slack-jawed shock over her transformation. The rest of the room swelled back into view, but he still felt like he’d been knocked over the head with an anvil.

“Yeah, it’s me,” she confirmed with a small shrug, not the least bit offended. She did a delightful pirouette, then looked back up and met his gaze. “I, uh, gained a little weight.”

She’d gained more than a little weight, Hank thought as his breath once again evacuated his lungs—she’d gained one helluva figure. My God…she had breasts. He blinked, swallowed, blinked again. Great breasts that lay under her tank top like a couple of lush, ripe peaches. And that wasn’t the only change, either, Hank noted as he continued to stare at her in openmouthed amazement. She’d lost the glasses and her light green eyes sparkled with amusement and something else, something mysterious and not so easily read. Something almost…wicked.

In the dimmest recesses of his mind a warning bell sounded, but he was too stunned to pay it any heed.

In addition to that, her hair no longer looked like it had had an unfortunate accident with an electrical outlet. Her curls were still tight, yet soft and tumbled over her shoulders like long strands of curly ribbons. Which seemed appropriate, considering she looked like a delectable gift, ready to be opened.

She’d always been beautiful to him—Sam was gorgeous to anyone who took the time to notice because, despite popular opinion, true beauty was something that couldn’t be measured aesthetically. It came from within, was the sum total of the entire package. His gaze drifted over her once more. But he’d be a liar if he said he wasn’t affected by the outward changes. He was a guy after all and every guy responded to visual stimuli. Not that he’d needed any additional reason to want her—he’d been secretly in lust with her for years—from the summer she turned eighteen to be exact.

Hank scratched his temple, tried to gather his scattered wits. “Fix what again?” he asked, still bewildered.

Then it hit him. Her room. First week of September. God, how could he have forgotten? he thought, mentally smacking his forehead. He’d talked to her just a couple of weeks ago, had been looking forward to her coming down. Her visits were one of the brightest spots of his year. Hank scowled. It was this damned Belle of the Beach contest. He hadn’t had time—

“My room,” Sam repeated. “According to Tina, I don’t have a room. Which isn’t possible because I have a standing reservation. Right?”

Yes, Hank thought hesitantly, she should…but he had a terrible suspicion that she didn’t. A knuckle of unease nudged his belly. “Er…let me take a look.”

He moved behind the counter, searched the system for Samantha’s reservation and, just as he’d grimly suspected, she didn’t have one.

Hank winced, rubbed the back of his neck and gave her a regretful smile. “It’s not here.” He shot Tina a pointed look. “We’ve had some computer problems lately.”

“Hank,” Samantha all but wailed, scratching the inside of her wrist. “What am I going to do? It never occurred to me to call and verify my reservation. I talked to you a couple of weeks ago, remember?” She blew out a breath, cast him a glance. “When will the people who are in my room be leaving?”

Hank checked, braced his arms against the counter. His blew out a breath. “Not until Sunday.”

“Oh, hell.” She shifted, seemingly at a loss. “What about any of other rooms? Will any of them come available?”

Hank made a show of checking, but knew the answer to that without looking. “We’re booked solid.”

She swore, rubbed a hand over her elbow.

Hank frowned. “Is something wrong?”

She arched a brow pointedly. “You mean aside from the fact that I don’t have a room, friend?”

“Yeah.” He gestured to her hand. “You’re scratching.”

She immediately stilled and flushed like a kid who’d been caught with a hand in the cookie jar. “No, nothing is wrong…except for the fact that I’m tired and hungry and I’ve been looking forward to this vacation all year. Which, I distinctly recall telling you in a recent e-mail,” she added pointedly. She pushed a hand through her curly locks. “God, I can’t believe this is happening.”

A deeper explanation lurked behind that guilt-provoking excuse, but Hank didn’t have any idea what on earth it could be. He studied her thoughtfully. Something else was at work here. Still, she was right. Given the recent reservation screwups, he should have checked and made sure that hers were secure. He just hadn’t thought about it. Things had been too damned crazy.

She rolled her eyes, then heaved a dramatic put-upon sigh. “Well, if you’ll help me get my bags back out to my rental car, I guess I’ll head straight back the airport.” She moved to pick up a bag.

“No, you won’t,” Hank heard himself say. “You can stay with me.”

She straightened slowly. “What?”

“You’ll stay with me.” So much for avoiding her like the plague, Hank thought, but then what choice did he really have? This was Sam. He couldn’t let her leave. And he didn’t want her to. Having her here this week would be the only thing that would make it bearable.

Her brow puckered. “Where?”

“In my room,” he said patiently, nonchalantly because that was how he was supposed to feel, how a friend would feel. But he didn’t—not by any stretch of the imagination. There was nothing patient or nonchalant about the blood sizzling in his crotch. He’d had a hard enough time battling his lust over the years without her turning vamp on him. It was a nasty turn of events, but he’d simply have to deal with it. He’d had a lot of practice, after all.

Her expression grew comically blank. “Your room?”

Despite his present turmoil, Hank chuckled. “Have you developed some sort of hearing disability that I’m unaware of? Of course, my room,” he said with mock exasperation. “Where else? You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch.”

“But you hate that couch.”

He heaved a dramatic put upon sigh, tried to look humble. “All the more reason you should appreciate the sacrifice.”

A reluctant grin tugged at her lips. “I’d forgotten just how full of sh—”

“Shining light and goodness I am, I know,” he finished magnanimously. He sighed deeply. “Just say thank you, and it’ll all be worth it.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Thank you.”

The issue settled, he smacked his hand against the counter. “Besides, you’re probably saving my life,” he added grimly.

“How so?”

He shot her a look. “Mom and Pop would kill me if I let you leave.”

Her eyes suddenly glittered with a warm, knowing humor and her lips curled into a distracting smile. “In that case, I’d hate to be the cause of your untimely demise. How are the pioneers, anyway?”

With effort, Hank forced his gaze away from that ripe mouth. It was unusually carnal, a fact he’d noticed many years ago when he’d almost made the monumental mistake of kissing her. Sam had always been the one woman he could trust, could bare his soul to, could confide in. She was his sounding board, his voice of reason, and was always good for a laugh.

For lack of any better explanation, he liked himself when he was with her, and he couldn’t say that about anyone else. Theirs had been the ideal relationship. His feelings for her had always been strictly platonic, there’d been nothing remotely sexual about it—until the summer she turned eighteen.

Hank could still remember the moment his interest had shifted, could still feel that terrifying combination of affection and lust as sharply today as he had the afternoon it had happened. He and Sam had taken the ferry over to Dauphin Island, for what reason exactly, he couldn’t remember now. But the trip back—that was one he’d never forget. He and Sam had been standing side by side—a pose as natural as breathing—had been leaning against the railing watching the surf lap at the hull of the boat. He’d caught a glance of her from the corner of his eye—the soft slope of her cheek, that woefully familiar smile, and just like that—in the blink of an eye—his feelings had changed. He’d been hit with the nearly blinding urge to kiss her right then.

But he hadn’t.

He and Sam had a good relationship and he’d had no intention of letting something as fickle as lust screw it up. Not now, not ever. Though it had almost happened once. Drink had dulled his determination and, though common sense had prevailed in the end, he’d almost kissed her and ruined everything.

Since then, he’d never let his guard down, had learned to keep the attraction under control. He slid a glance over her and felt his mood turn grim. A premonition of dread resonated in his belly. Undoubtedly it would be more difficult now.

“The pioneers are fine,” he managed to say belatedly in answer to her question. The thought of his Mom and Dad drew a smile.

His parents had taken an Alaskan cruise for their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary, had fallen in love with the Last Frontier and decided to turn the B&B over to him and head off to Alaska. Though he enjoyed running the B&B, he still missed them terribly. During the off season, he made regular visits, however those small bits of time never seemed like enough to catch up.

“That’s good to hear,” she said, then bit her bottom lip. “Are you absolutely certain that you don’t mind if I stay with you? I could take the couch. Or try to find another hotel.”

Hank shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll stay here. Let me get your bags and I’ll show you to…our room.”

Hank came around the counter, hefted Samantha’s bags and gestured for her to follow him down the hall. That fruity, mantrap scent swirled around his head once more, making his nerve-endings hum and his blood sizzle. He blinked, feeling almost dazed, then mentally swore and shook off the sensation.

He looked back at her from over his shoulder and her absolute beauty slammed into him once more.

She’d mentioned in passing conversation over the past year that she’d made some changes to herself, had been spending a lot of time at the gym, but he’d never dreamed that this would have been the end result.

He should have known better.

That’s what he’d always liked about Samantha. No bullshit. Yes meant yes and no meant no, and he never had to worry about being politically correct or any of that other crap. He could just be himself with all his little idiosyncrasies and imperfections, and know that she wouldn’t pass judgment. Furthermore, when she set out to do something, she did it. Failure with her was simply not an option. Still… “What kind of perfume are you wearing?”

A frown wrinkled her brow. “None. Why?”

Hank turned back around, continued down the hall to the back of the house. “You smell good. Fruity. Sweet.”

She hummed under her breath. “Must be my fabric softener.”

Some fabric softener, Hank thought. It made him want to rip her clothes off.

He was suddenly hit with the insane urge to slide his hands over her newfound curves, taste her ripe, peachy breasts and sample that utterly carnal mouth of hers, to fasten his mouth on her sex and see if that hot slick valley between her thighs smelled as sweet and fruity as the rest of her. To see if it tasted as sweet as she smelled.

Hank squeezed his eyes shut and, with extreme effort, derailed that demented train of thought. This was not good, he thought as he slipped the key in the lock. A mixture of anticipation and doom congealed in his belly as he pushed the door open and ushered her into his room.

So much for the quarantine, Hank thought numbly. Unless he wanted to move out of his house, he wouldn’t have a prayer of avoiding her. And the hell of it was…he didn’t want to.

SAMANTHA COVERTLY SCRATCHED the underside of her arm as Hank busied himself with opening the door. The minute she got into this room, she would have to excuse herself to the bathroom and pop an antihistamine before it was too late and these mere tingling irritations turned into full-blown hives. That would not be good, and the last thing she needed was for Hank to become suspicious. Samantha inwardly shuddered. She would die of mortification and embarrassment if he ever found out the lengths she’d gone to in order to get her rightfully deserved orgasm. Quite honestly, being strip-searched by a butch lesbian with a billy club fetish held greater appeal.

Hank walked across the gleaming hardwood and dropped her bags at the foot of his rumpled four-poster bed. “I’ll clean out a couple of drawers and see if I can make some room for you in the closet.”

“Thanks.” She jerked her thumb toward the en suite bath. “I’ve got to…”

Hank nodded succinctly. “Sure.” He glanced around the room, winced, then shoved a hand through his sun-bleached hair. “I’ll straighten up a little bit, too.”

“Still not letting housekeeping in?” Samantha said as she carefully picked her way over dirty clothes and orphaned shoes. She remembered that he’d always been a slob, and frankly, found the idea ridiculously endearing. Of course, she probably wouldn’t if she had to clean up after him.

“Nah,” he replied, absently gathering trash from the nightstand. “I can’t ever find anything after they’ve been in here.”

Samantha grinned and let herself into the bathroom, then sagged against the closed door.

Sweet Lord. No matter how many times she saw Hank, no matter how many times she told herself that this time things would be different—she wouldn’t be so affected by him—she always felt like the wind had been knocked from her sails, felt the ground shift beneath her feet. A curious buzzing sounded in her head and a hot sweet rush of affection and desire flooded her, pushing an instant smile to her lips. She’d undoubtedly looked like a goofy geek—she couldn’t help it, that’s who she was—but she’d never been able to pretend to be less than thrilled when she saw him. She simply couldn’t help herself.

When he’d strolled into the foyer looking like he’d just stepped off the set of Baywatch and immediately flashed that gorgeous, oh-so-lazy smile at her, it had been all Samantha could do to keep her watery knees from buckling. That achy place between her legs had throbbed and her nipples had tingled. She’d always been in lust with him—show her a female who wasn’t and she’d show you a liar—but the sensation had been altogether sharper, keener. A product of this sex diet, no doubt.

In addition to her howling, woefully neglected hormones, she’d eaten enough shellfish, kelp, pine nuts, honey and any other known aphrodisiac to sink a ship in the past three days. It was only natural that her desire would be sharper, more intense. Truthfully, she wouldn’t have thought it was possible.

Over the past year, she’d been a sexually frustrated wreck, had even gone so far as to consider hiring a man for the night—anything was possible in Aspen, for the right price. But there had been something so pathetic about paying a man to sleep with her that she hadn’t been able to go through with it. Granted she was running a risk doing things this way—she might end up with a dud and wind up as unfulfilled as she’d been during the first go round.

With a professional, that wouldn’t have happened. She could have insisted on a money-back guarantee. The idea drew a slow smile. Still, it had just been too depressing to pay for sex. She’d take her chances with the sex diet. She only wanted an orgasm, after all, and she had absolutely no illusions about falling in love.

Sam inwardly snorted. She’d given up on that pipe dream. Regardless of how great she looked now—and, dammit, she did look pretty good, if she did say so herself—she didn’t know if she’d be able to keep up the maintenance. It took a lot of effort to be pretty. Hair gel, plucking, tweezing, moisturizing, makeup and protein shakes.

She knew the effort was worth the reward—she certainly felt a lot better about herself when she knew she looked good. Still, sometimes it just seemed like too much. Unfortunately she hadn’t been born one of those women who could roll out of bed and look gorgeous au naturel. Samantha smirked, tossed an antihistamine into her mouth and chased it with a sip of water. Regrettably, she needed all the help she could get.

Thus, the sex diet.

It made her more appealing to the opposite sex and, when combined with her plan, practically guaranteed her success. Better still, whomever she finally invited into her bed would actually want to be with her—unlike a male escort, who would smile and compliment her and do all of the wonderfully wicked things she longed to experience—but with an agenda. It would be for the cash, not the act, and that was the difference. That was what she hadn’t been able to stomach. She’d have all of those things and more—she’d have a man who genuinely wanted her.

At least until she went off the diet.

The only fly in the ointment, but she was past caring. She wanted—needed—to get laid.

As long as she followed through with her plan—she’d consulted every how-to-hook-a-man book and sex manual she could get her hands on, as well as faithfully read every trendy magazine that offered tips on dating and sex—she didn’t see how things could go wrong. Furthermore, she’d learned everything that men didn’t like from Hank. Years of listening to him bemoan certain female behavior had left her with a better understanding than most of what a man might look for in a temporary partner.

And, as an added bonus, she felt at home here, in her element and comfortable enough with the clientele along this end of the beach to know that she couldn’t go terribly wrong with whomever she chose.

In addition to packing a few key snacks for her diet, she’d brought along an arsenal of various protection. She’d prepared for this week like a general prepared for war. She was ready. Past ready. Hell, it was unnatural for a woman her age to have never had an orgasm, to have never experienced the legendary Big O.

Samantha swallowed a frustrated groan. She wanted to get laid—properly! She wanted to know what it felt like to have a man’s mouth feeding at her breast—Ted, her lackluster first and only, hadn’t even bothered to cop a feel, had moved with alarming rapidity to the grand finale.

Sam wanted someone to make love to her, to feel a man’s body, his hard weight against hers, have him touch that secret place inside her that throbbed from neglect. She wanted to know what all the fuss was about. Why so many books, shows and magazines made such a tremendous deal about doing it right, doing it wrong, the where, the when, the how and the who.

She’d been with a guy who’d done it wrong—she wanted to be with a guy who would do it right. It wasn’t too much to ask.

Hank’s handsome image loomed instantly to mind. Frankly she’d like nothing better than to experience it with him, but knew that no matter what she’d shocked him with her new and improved self—she most definitely had. Gratifyingly, his jaw had dropped and she’d seen a true glimmer of male interest flicker before realization had snuffed it out.

She knew that no matter how much she’d changed and despite the fact that he’d noticed those changes, he’d still look at her and remember the frizzy hair, freckles, bottle-bottom glasses and scrawny body. Sadly, to him, no matter how many improvements she made physically, he’d always look at her and see an ugly duckling, not the swan she’d managed to turn herself into.

He’d always see a friend, not a potential lover.

Samantha stared glumly at her reflection and a pang of regret pricked her heart, but she determinedly squelched the sentiment. There would be no regrets on this trip. This trip was going to be the most memorable week of her life and she wasn’t about to let a little thing like unrequited lust—or love, as the case may be—get in the way.

After all, she had bigger fish to fry. Her lips quirked with perverse humor.

But first she’d need to eat some.