Suite Seduction

“If my dreams are like this, who needs a restful sleep?” Ruthie murmured

Now convinced Ruthie was awake, Robert didn’t pull away when she reached for him again. Then he nearly lost it when she said hoarsely, “I want your hands all over me.”

“Here?” Robert whispered against her neck, moving his palm until it scraped her pebbled nipple under the lace.

“Yes. Please, yes.”

She didn’t have to ask him twice. He pushed her camisole up, and he was unable to withhold a smile of male satisfaction as her breasts fell free. She moaned when he slid his hands over them, catching her nipples with his fingers. Then, unable to wait, he lowered his mouth, replacing his fingers with his lips.

She nearly came apart. “I need you,” she whispered, reaching down to the waistband of his trousers. Realizing Ruthie wasn’t in the mood for slow and easy, Robert followed her lead, undoing his slacks and letting her push them from his hips.

As he stepped back to get the condom from his pocket, Ruthie finally opened her eyes. “Oh, my.” She stared at his blatant arousal and a smile curved her lips. “I’ve never dreamed of quite so…much before.”

Dear Reader,

Hot sex with a gorgeous stranger. Not exactly P.C. these days, but it’s still such a naughty, delicious fantasy that I just had to explore the concept for Temptation.

Ruthie Sinclair is the girl next door, the girl who is everybody’s best friend, who bemoans her hair, her weight and her miserable love life. So when she finds herself in bed with the most amazing man she’s ever—make that never—known, she’s completely out of her element. And Robert Kendall, a man used to corporate piranhas, finds himself way over his head when confronted with a zany, redheaded temptress who makes him hotter than any woman he’s ever met.

Their love affair is torrid. Outrageous. Flamboyant. Wow, I had loads of fun writing this one!

I so enjoyed hearing from readers after my first release, Temptation #747, Night Whispers. Please drop me a line and let me know what you think of my follow-up book. You can e-mail me through my Web site: www.lesliekelly.com, or write to P.O. Box 410787, Melbourne, FL 32941–0787.

All the best,

Leslie Kelly

Suite Seduction

Leslie Kelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my editor, Brenda Chin. Thanks for letting me have another turn on this crazy, wonderful merry-go-round.

And to Betty. You knew I could, and I really did.

How I wish you were here to see 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

Epilogue

1

IF Ruthie Sinclair could have wrapped her hands around the throat of the genius who’d composed “The Wedding March,” the guy would be six feet under. Every note resounding from the bowels of the organ in the eaves of the church pierced into her skull like the prick of a needle, grating on her nerves until her eyelids twitched. Not an easy feat considering the bride’s makeup consultant had coated about a pound of thick, black mascara onto her lashes.

“I’m really starting to hate this song,” she muttered through gritted teeth, earning a glance from her cousin Denise, the other bridesmaid. The blonde shook her head, a disapproving frown on her brow, and gestured toward the bride, who stood a few feet away in the vestibule. Luckily, she hadn’t heard.

Ruthie knew she should be happy. Her cousin and best friend, Celeste, was marrying the man of her dreams. For a woman who considered herself a cockeyed optimist, the fairy-tale happy ending should have had Ruthie cheering and doing cartwheels. And she would…when she stopped feeling so darned depressed.

“Smile! Maybe you’ll catch the bouquet,” Denise whispered. The words might have been meant to cheer her up, but the tone was pure Denise—pure sugarcoated spite. “Like when you caught mine two months ago.”

Ruthie’s teeth hurt as she tried to pull her face into a smile. “I sure was excited about that, you can bet.” Especially when she got to dance with the twelve-year-old junior usher who caught the garter—his nosy little eyeballs had come right to the center of her cleavage!

A wicked light shone in Denise’s eyes, and, not for the first time, Ruthie wondered if they were truly related. Maybe Denise was adopted. Or maybe Ruthie was. That would explain the more eccentric Sinclairs who sometimes led her to believe she’d fallen into an episode of a TV sitcom.

When she considered some of her other family members, one catty, obnoxious blonde wasn’t too surprising. The only surprising part was that Denise was Celeste’s older sister. Ruthie’s younger cousin, the bride, was real sugar to Denise’s saccharine, real class to her sister’s pretension.

Ruthie had nailed Denise’s real character years ago, when her cousin had accidentally dropped a big wad of bubble gum in Ruthie’s hair. In the middle of the night. When she was supposed to be sleeping in another cabin at their summer camp. Ruthie had spent that year looking like the freckle-faced kid on the Cracker Jack box, short red hair and all. Then there was the time Denise had locked Ruthie in a freight elevator. And the time Denise had put toothpaste in Ruthie’s bottle of peppermint foot lotion.

And today. Ruthie glanced down and grimaced as she once again beheld how hideous she looked. Yes, she would be willing to bet Denise had a hand in today’s debacle: a bridal-shop error that had landed her in what had to be the butt-ugliest bridesmaid dress in the annals of wedding history.

“Maybe if you catch it twice in a row, Bobby will get the hint,” Denise said, a note of amused malice in her voice.

Celeste walked up and overheard her sister’s comment. “As if Bobby needs any hints about how wonderful Ruthie is! Denise, you’d better check your makeup, your green is showing through.”

Denise smirked, then walked away. Ruthie’s frown deepened. “I’ve come to the conclusion that Bobby doesn’t take hints very well. I’ve all but popped out of a cake in a G-string and pasties and he still hasn’t….” Ruthie caught a glimpse of the minister in the front of the church and felt her face go red. “I’m sorry, I can’t believe I said that in here!”

Celeste squeezed her hand in commiseration. “Maybe hinting’s not the right approach. I’d say it’s time to be direct. Maybe he hasn’t been reading your signals.”

Ruthie figured any man would have to be completely clueless not to have realized she was interested in a more serious relationship after four months of dating. Conservative, quiet, and subdued he may be, but he was an adult male.

Still, at this point, seeing not only Denise and Celeste marry within months of each other, but also the remarriage of her own mother, she was willing to try just about anything!

Forcing a smile to her lips, she winked at Celeste, then prepared to begin the procession. As she passed, Denise simpered at her. “Don’t trip in that lovely gown, now, Ruthie.”

Ruthie grimaced. Lovely? Yeah, right. Denise looked lovely. She, at least, was wearing the right dress. Its dusty rose color set off her pale skin and ash-blond curls to perfection. Ruthie, on the other hand, looked utterly ridiculous. Like a breakfast sausage link found in the bottom of a dirty old refrigerator. Moldy, green and puffy.

Ignoring her cousin, as she had most of her life, Ruthie took a deep breath and walked beneath the archway to the aisle. “Just get through the wedding, then you can go back to the hotel and drink enough champagne to work up the nerve to make a serious pass at Bobby,” she told herself.

Maybe Celeste was right. Perhaps the time had come to be direct with Bobby. And tonight would be the perfect time, at the romantic reception held in the wonderful old hotel that was a huge part of Ruthie’s life. Her family’s pride and joy, the Kerrigan Towers was the perfect spot to seduce a man.

Celeste’s father, Ruthie’s uncle, was the manager of the Kerrigan, and had given every member of the bridal party a room for the night. So a seduction could be carried out easily.

It had come as no surprise when Celeste decided to have her reception at the hotel. The Kerrigan had been owned by the Sinclair family for decades. And, like Ruthie, Celeste worked in the hotel, handling the business side of things in the cashier’s office, while Ruthie indulged all her creative urges as the head chef in the hotel kitchens. Celeste had even planned her wedding for a Sunday to be sure everyone would be able to get the evening off, since Saturdays were just too busy.

Casting one more glance over her shoulder, Ruthie saw the joy in Celeste’s face. She wanted that feeling, the feeling of being loved…being in love! She wanted it very badly.

So, seduction at the Kerrigan it would be. She was ready. She could do it. She was a mature, confident woman, a talented chef, a respected hotel board member. None of which changed the fact that she was probably going to make a major fool of herself. But it’s worth a shot!

Giving her flirty lace parasol a spin over her shoulder, she proceeded to march. Right foot. Pause. Left foot. Pause. Concentrate on Celeste’s happiness. Pause. Forget Denise. Pause. Stop imagining what a fool she was going to appear if Bobby turned her down. Pause. Forget her cousins were happily married and she couldn’t even get her boyfriend to cop a feel. Pause. Forget her miserable romantic track record. Pause.

Not to mention her butt-ugly dress.

ROBERT KENDALL felt a trickle of sweat slide from his hairline, through the slight indentation at his temple, and on down his cheek. The din of conversation and tinkling glasses in the crowded hotel bar receded as he focused on his companion, Monica Winchester. And what she’d just handed him. “Your room key?”

Of course it was her room key. He stared dumbly at the small object as if it was a venomous insect about to inject poison into the vulnerable flesh of his right palm.

“I was hoping for a more…enthusiastic response.”

Swallowing hard, Robert finally looked at the other item, the small square on which the key rested. The foil package was unmistakable. Not his brand. Probably not his size. But absolutely recognizable.

“You haven’t said anything.” Monica’s voice gained an edge. “Surely you aren’t surprised by this.”

He looked at the woman seated across from him at the lounge table. Not surprised? How could he not be surprised that his boss’s daughter had handed him her room key—and a condom—and practically ordered him to show up in her room that night?

“Come on, Robert, we’re two consenting adults. We’re in a strange city, stuck in this drafty old hotel for who knows how long. Why don’t we enjoy ourselves while we can?”

Robert stifled the first answer that popped into his head: Gee, maybe because the last Winchester Hotels employee you enjoyed yourself with ended up on the unemployment line.

Instead, he stalled, picking up his vodka tonic and bringing the glass to his lips. He sipped, his mind working overtime to think of a graceful way out of this predicament.

“Monica, obviously I’m flattered,” he said, knowing a lot of men in his situation would jump at what she offered. No question, the woman had an earthy, direct sexiness that would appeal to a lot of men—until they got to know her. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea to mix pleasure with business.”

Monica Winchester, obviously not used to being turned down, waved her hand in disregard. “I’m barely involved in the business. I talked my way into this trip for one reason only.”

Robert’s eyes narrowed as she confirmed his suspicion about her motives for insisting she come to Philadelphia with him to check out the Kerrigan Towers. “I wondered about that.”

She smiled broadly. In the dim light of the smoky room her white teeth were predatory. “You’re my father’s golden boy, Robert. The son he’s never had. He relies on you and would like nothing better than for you to become a part of his family. Why do you think he’s been trying so hard to set us up?”

“Pairing us at dinner parties and inviting me for holidays isn’t quite the same as handing me a condom and a room key,” Robert said as he gestured to the waiter for another drink.

She chuckled. “It’s not like it’s an engagement ring. Why can’t we test the waters, see if we’re compatible?”

“Couples generally see if they’re compatible by going out on a few dates, catching a movie, maybe some dinner.”

“I’m not going to waste time having dinner with a man who doesn’t cut it for me in bed.”

Before the waiter could place the fresh drink on the table, Robert grabbed the glass and downed a third of its contents.

“I’ve surprised you.” Her amused tone annoyed him no small amount. “Listen, I have a few calls to make, then I plan to take a hot bubble bath. You stay here, have a drink or two, and come up when you’re ready. My room number’s on the key tag.”

“Monica…” he said as she stood and reached for her bag.

“Don’t say anything now you might regret later, Robert.” He wondered if he heard a threat in her voice. Sleep with me or I’ll get my daddy to fire you? It seemed ridiculous, of course. Ridiculous, but not impossible.

“I’ll see you later.” Not content to just walk away, she bent over and lightly kissed him. “Don’t disappoint me.”

A half hour and an additional drink later, Robert glanced at his watch, debating his course of action. Going to her room was out of the question. He could not have a one-night stand with James Winchester’s daughter. The man had earned Robert’s respect in the eight years they’d worked together. He’d trusted Robert from the first, when he’d been another fresh-from-Grad-school know-it-all who wanted to change the world. Or own it.

Maybe he hadn’t changed the world, but he had helped mold Winchester Hotels into the fastest-rising chain in the country. Not bad for a country boy from North Carolina, who’d never even stayed in a classy hotel until he’d graduated from college.

His parents hadn’t understood his need to get away, to go live in New York City, of all places, leaving behind his five siblings, assorted aunts, uncles and cousins, and the family auto repair business. But Robert had been born with wandering feet, with dreams of building things, maybe even with a bit of a shark’s killer instinct.

Those qualities had served him well in his years working for Winchester Hotels. And James Winchester was not cheap about showing his appreciation. Plus, Robert genuinely liked the man. He couldn’t repay him by sleeping with his “little angel.”

Standing the little angel up, however, seemed infinitely more dangerous. Especially now, during a delicate scouting expedition of this grand old Philadelphia hotel. The Kerrigan Towers would transition nicely into a Winchester Hotel. But not if Monica threw a fit and sabotaged their critical meeting with the current owners the next morning. If she walked in playing corporate prima donna, the board, most of them members of the Sinclair family, would close ranks and fight the inevitable.

One thing he could not do was sit in the bar any longer. Dropping a tip on the table, he left the lounge and entered the deserted corridor. Working in the business had him paying attention to all the details other guests would never notice. The pale blue carpet in the hall was worn—clean, but threadbare after years of being walked upon by the hotel’s elite clientele. The plastered ceiling was yellowed, showing signs of spidery cracks that had been hastily repaired. He took mental note that the walls needed paint, and the rickety elevator groaned like an overworked old woman. Heck, even rooms in need of electronic keys to replace the archaic metal ones, like the one burning a hole in the right pocket of his sports coat!

The Kerrigan Towers was ripe for the plucking. And Robert had come to Philadelphia to pluck.

Noticing the lobby was deserted, he decided to do some snooping. Robert knew exactly where he needed to go. One of the most important spots to investigate in any hotel was the kitchen. He’d seen dozens of seemingly elegant establishments with ovens dirtier than any 24-hour roadside diner.

Since his reason for visiting the Kerrigan was hush-hush, at least until tomorrow’s board meeting, he certainly couldn’t ask for a tour. Now, just after midnight, seemed a good time to investigate. No one would be around, no one would be the wiser.

Robert slipped stealthily into the closed restaurant. Dodging between the backs of cushioned chairs, he took note of his surroundings. So far so good. The floor looked pristine. The air smelled sweet of fresh-cut flowers and well-prepared food. A hint of pine cleanser also indicated cleanliness, without being cloying or antiseptic.

Pushing quietly through the swinging doors, he looked around, assessing how well he could see in the darkened kitchen. But the room wasn’t completely dark. In the far corner, he saw a single light burning, and wondered if it was left on as a security measure. Walking gingerly on the tile floor to avoid making any noise, he made his way toward the light.

A hiccuping sob told him he was not alone.

“Please let me forget what an absolute fool I made of myself tonight!”

He froze.

“Please let me close my eyes and pretend I’m not a whiny, pathetic woman in an ugly green dress.”

Hidden in the shadows of a huge wall oven, Robert studied the woman sitting at a worktable beneath the single light.

Her dress really was damn ugly.

She, however, was quite lovely. She sat on a stool in front of a large, butcher-block table, where the chef probably worked when the restaurant was open. Her bare feet rested on the top rung of the stool, and her dress was haphazardly gathered in a mound of green fluff on her lap. Her legs were enough to stop his breath. Sweet, so sweet, encased in what appeared to be white thigh-high stockings that ended with a flirtatious bit of lace just below the edge of her hefted-up gown.

“Maybe one more bite,” the woman muttered. Robert bit the inside of his cheek to stop a laugh as he saw her plunge a fork into about half of what had once been a very large chocolate cake. She brought a portion to her mouth, letting out a pleased sigh as she bit off little pieces of it. Her tongue flicked out to lick the icing from the metal tines of the fork, and Robert had to swallow hard to contain the moan of appreciation he felt sure was going to spill across his lips.

She closed her eyes, dropping her head back, and he continued studying her, noting the long, smooth line of her throat, the generous curve of her hip, and the indentation of her waist in the tight dress. Not to mention the gorgeous, full breasts so magnificently displayed in the low-cut gown.

The overhead bulb caught the highlights in the mass of red curls surrounding her face. Judging by the beaded headpiece lying on the table, and the scattering of bobby pins beside it, she’d just taken her hair down and allowed most of it to fall freely in a soft curtain about her shoulders.

Lovely shoulders. She was soft-looking, with the pale skin of a redhead and the curves of a real man’s fantasy. Not thin and angular, no, she was rounded and curvaceous like an old-time movie starlet. Maybe not the fashion today, but so physically appealing to Robert he suddenly found it difficult to draw breath.

He heard her grunt, and watched as she opened her eyes and began struggling with her dress. As she pushed down on the mound of fabric on her lap, the sides poufed out, nearly forming an O-shape. Robert stifled a chuckle as he realized what she was wearing. It appeared, from where he stood, to be one of those god-awful southern belle style bridesmaid gowns.

“I swear as soon as I get home you’re going to get a taste of my shears. Though I don’t dislike my neighbors enough to make curtains out of you,” the woman said as she finally subdued the dress hoop. “No wonder the south lost—there wasn’t any room for men with every woman taking up ten feet of floor space!”

This time, Robert wasn’t able to contain the chuckle.

RUTHIE HELD the crushed dress tightly against her thighs and was reaching for the long neck of an expensive bottle of champagne when she heard a very masculine laugh. “Who’s there?” she asked, immediately hopping up from the stool and bumping her hip into the edge of her worktable. “Ouch.”

“Are you all right?”

She peered into the dark recesses of the kitchen, finally seeing one shadow separate itself from beyond the huge, stainless steel refrigerator. A figure approached her in the darkness. It had to be a man, she assumed, because of the height. He moved slowly, silently, almost gliding across the floor like something supernatural. She’d never met such a tall man who moved with such grace. Ruthie tensed as visions of a vampire movie she’d recently watched on cable flooded her muddled brain.

“Who are you?” she asked sharply as her fingers skittered across the table toward the knife block. She’d just about decided on the meat cleaver when she heard his warm laugh again.

“I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to intrude.” The man stepped closer until he walked into the small pool of light cast by the overhead fixture. Then, when he was fully illuminated, Ruthie could only manage a sigh.

He was like something out of a GQ-inspired fantasy. Tall. So tall she’d have to tilt her head all the way back to look up at him. His hair was thick, wavy, the rich brown of her very best au jus. The face was classically handsome, smooth-shaven, cleanly shaped with high, strong cheekbones that drew attention to the heavily lashed, dark brown eyes. His face was creased by a broad smile outlined by a pair of lips so sensual they were made to be kissed. Her own lips parted, puckered slightly, of their own free will, as she continued to examine him.

He wore a navy sports coat, tailored to highlight the shoulders that seemed too wide to fit through any standard doorway. His white dress shirt, open at the throat, revealed tanned skin and a hint of chest hair. Ruthie had always found that particular spot fascinating on a man, particularly one as well built as this one. Not that she had inspected any up close anytime recently. Like within the past three years.

Light gray slacks, tailored to fit him perfectly, skimmed his lean hips. They were expensive, obviously, but also tight enough to leave her speculating that he wore boxers, not briefs.

“I’m dreaming,” she finally managed to say, shaking her head mournfully. “I’ve fallen asleep, my face is right now resting cheekbone high in a six-inch tall cake, and in the morning someone’s going to come in and find I’ve asphyxiated myself on Ghirardelli.”

He grinned. “I’m very real, I’m afraid. We seem to have had the same idea. Sneaking into the kitchen for a late-night snack?”

Ruthie shook her head, trying to sort through the champagne-inspired cobwebs clouding her thoughts. “I needed some serious chocolate,” she finally said.

He held her eye and slowly nodded. “I think I do, too.”

Ruthie grabbed a fork from a stack of washed dishes on a nearby counter and tossed it to him. “Help yourself.”

He caught it easily, sat on another stool next to the one she’d vacated, and dug right in.

Ruthie watched a smile of satisfaction cross his face as he tasted. Okay, he was real. He wasn’t a vampire. Vampires didn’t eat food, except, maybe, raw steak. Certainly not sweets. And this guy obviously appreciated the cake. Another point in his favor, considering she’d made it!