that wasn’t enough motivation, her mother would have a stroke.
But her mother wasn’t here, and this was the perfect opportunity, a little-heeded voice persisted. She could do it. There was nothing here to stop her, nothing to prevent her from giving Desiree this week and giving Meg a little excitement in the process. Throw caution to the wind, so to speak. Meg stopped outside her room and fumbled around in her purse for the key card.
“Looks like we’re neighbors.”
Meg looked up. Him. Lust kindled, then detonated, burning her up from the inside out.
It was a sign, Meg decided.
“So we are,” she said, the first truly articulate thing she’d managed so far.
Perhaps trust and discretion had nothing to do with her reluctance to engage in a no-strings affair, Meg thought as she watched her mystery man let himself into the room next to hers. Perhaps she’d just never been presented with the proper motivation.
And, as every good pastry chef knew, timing was every bit as important as the ingredients. This week, combined with Mr. Next Door, certainly looked like a recipe for romance to Meg. She’d just bet he’d be delicious.
2
WHAT was she doing in there?
And what the hell was that noise? To Nick’s supreme consternation, Desiree had been in her room for hours. He had heard the unmistakable sound of packages being delivered and enthusiastically opened. She’d oohed and ahhed excitedly at one point, so he assumed she’d gotten something that really pleased her. In addition, room service had been by and her phone had rung at least half a dozen times.
But of all the various noises filtering through the wall, the most intriguing—the most infuriating—had to be the ominous low buzzing hum which now emanated softly from her room.
Nick grimly suspected it was a vibrator.
Exhaling mightily, he shoved away from the connecting door and paced the small area between the foot of his bed and the wall. He speared his fingers through his hair. Irritation and, yes, dammit, lust hurtled through him at the thought of her lying over there doing…things to herself.
Despite the fact that he’d only gotten a vague impression of what she might look like underneath that garb, his imagination nonetheless filled in all the other necessary images, tantalizing him—torturing him—with visions so graphic, so depraved it was all Nick could do to keep from bursting through the door and showing her what the real article could do.
At present, his article was about to explode, and all because he suspected her of using a vibrator. One of the toys he detested.
It galled him to no end.
With little effort, Nick could imagine himself being slowly driven insane by presumed acts of carnality. Visions of her naked, lithe, dewy body writhing in ecstasy on that king-sized bed sent his personal mercury into the triple digits. Nick gritted his teeth. And the hell of it was, he didn’t even know if she possessed a lithe, dewy body. The unknown combined with his suddenly fertile imagination had turned his brain to mush. He couldn’t stand another minute of this, much less a week.
But he had to. The alternative wasn’t acceptable.
The infernal buzzing hum suddenly stopped and Nick found himself straining toward the door to listen harder. Several seconds passed, then the sound of running water filled the empty silence. Nick smiled wryly. Atta girl, he thought. Keep the toys clean. At least she practiced good hygiene.
Nick growled under his breath and opted for a shower. A cold one. He needed perspective and listening to every move Desiree made next door and attaching some sort of sexual connotation didn’t facilitate clear thinking.
Nick disrobed, then stalked, naked, to the shower. He adjusted the spray, then stepped in. The frigid water stole the breath from his lungs, resulting in a litany of anatomically impossible expletives. He muttered one final oath, then determinedly steered this thinking back to the task at hand.
Before he’d gotten sidetracked by eavesdropping all day, he’d had a perfectly acceptable plan. Nick had decided to put her under surveillance, then stage a few coincidental meetings. To corroborate his in-town-on-business lie, those meetings would have to take place at night. He’d have to quietly hibernate in his room during the day, and plan to see her in the evenings.
According to Ron, the trade show would keep nine-to-five hours, freeing everyone up in the evening to examine the products. Nick chuckled darkly. After five this posh high-rise would turn into Hotel Fornication.
Nevertheless, he sincerely hoped that Desiree would keep to that schedule. It would make his job considerably easier. He assumed that she’d go down to the hotel restaurant in the evenings. Nick would simply turn on the charm, and the rest would be history.
Or so he hoped.
The sooner he got this over with, the better. If things went according to plan, he could be home as early as Wednesday, back to his regular routine, which consisted primarily of work. It had occurred to him that it might not be necessary to stay the entire week. He’d find out if she was a fraud—which he sincerely doubted—then report his findings to Ron. Then he could get back to his productive life at the office. Though he knew Ron needed him, Nick felt off-kilter when he was out of his element. He liked being in the boardroom, closing deals, finalizing mergers, reviewing contracts. Spying on a sex-toy critic, for heaven’s sake, was simply not his area of expertise. Still, he’d prepared for this week as best he could.
Nick had read Desiree Moon’s critiques and could easily see why she’d become so popular. To begin with, it was obvious that she was educated. She wasn’t the stereotypical bored lower-class housewife looking to add a little excitement to her life.
Though Desiree used explicit terms to convey her meaning, she managed to do it in a classy, yet sexy way. She was witty, used a self-deprecating humor that engaged the reader, kept them scrolling the tool-bar until she’d said what she wanted to say. Simply put, she not only critiqued, she entertained. In addition to that, her conclusions were thorough and insightful.
Nick couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps her assessments of Ron’s products weren’t right on the money. He certainly hoped not. Nick still had to help him, and by default, protect his mother. His mother had sacrificed enough on her children’s behalf—her health—and Nick couldn’t let her waste one more penny.
Nick’s mother had worked in a sewing factory for twenty years. She suffered from carpal tunnel syndrome and arthritis, and could barely hold her toothbrush as a result of that labor. His father had been a first-rate mechanic who had worked himself into an early grave.
Like most parents, the Devereaus had wanted a better life for their children, and though they’d had their problems, they’d succeeded, and more. His father had been a wily businessman and had squirreled away enough money to put both Ron and Nick through college, and to see to it that his wife had been provided for.
Nick had used his funds as his father had intended—education. Ron, in another misguided attempt to earn his father’s approval, had taken his college fund and opened his own garage. The decision had been a poor one—not Ron’s first—and the business went belly-up within a year. Ron had been on a quest to prove himself ever since.
Nick stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist and stared into the mirror at his foggy reflection, the familiar guilt settling around him again. He blew out a resigned breath. When this was over, he planned to sit down and have a long talk with his little brother. Ron needed to let go of the past, to forgive their father for his mistakes, and he needed to quit relying on his family for financial support.
To Ron’s credit, this particular business had been operating profitably right up until Desiree Moon began to bash his product line on the Internet. Nick had looked at the books, seen a direct correlation.
And, if what Ron suspected were true—if Desiree Moon was a fraud and lacked the experience