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