Girl's Guide to Hunting & Kissing

As she dug in her vintage beaded handbag for a tube of lipstick, Summer made up her mind to jump her visitor if he had a tattoo. She’d jump him twice if he had a tattoo and an earring.

Which left her with only one thing to ponder.

Would tonight’s Mistress of the Bordello leave her bustier ties opened or closed?

2

While stalking your prey, be sure to dress for the kill.

JACKSON STRAIGHTENED his tie outside the doorway labeled Bordello on a creamy slab of light-colored marble. The maid’s cart still propped the door open, so he hung back a moment to gather his thoughts while a sultry blues tune drifted through the open archway into the hall. He began to button his suit jacket and then, on second thought, left the olive gabardine garment undone.

If Summer proved to be half as flirtatious in person as she’d been over the phone, maybe he wouldn’t be leaving his jacket on for long anyway. A woman who designed sexy bordellos for a living couldn’t be all that reserved.

Besides, he possessed privileged information to give him an edge in his seduction quest.

He knew Summer’s secret fantasy.

Not that he planned to use the information—yet. His knuckle hovered over the door as he debated tonight’s approach. When she’d given him her name over the phone, he’d identified her as one of the four primary owners of the revamped club. Translation—she was hip-deep in scandal and controversy herself these days. Many Miami Beach residents had been cheated out of their investments with the club’s former owners and they didn’t necessarily approve of the business’s reorganization and reopening.

Just what a politician needed—to be linked to someone making all the wrong headlines.

Still, he wanted Summer. Badly. And he couldn’t officially call himself a politician yet. Despite pressure on all sides, Jackson hadn’t thrown his hat in the ring for state legislator in his district.

Reaching around the housekeeping cart to rap on the bordello door with a bit more force than he’d intended, Jackson made up his mind to live for himself tonight. He’d been a prisoner to the press and his family’s high-profile lifestyle too damn long.

He waited, watching the propped door swing all the way open while Billie Holiday belted out a torch song within.

Summer Farnsworth and her bedroom goddess mouth were there—utterly delectable and framed in a backdrop of crimson. Her ruby-red dress blended with the rest of the room while her creamy pale skin and platinum-blond hair stood out all the more. Shoulders bared in a tiny top that had to be some sort of undergarment, she had untied the ribbon that laced the outfit together.

Could she be thinking along the same seductive lines as him tonight?

His gaze searched her face for those answers, but she seemed to be studying him with every bit as much fascination. Her eyes lingered on his tie.

He could have sworn she mumbled something about no tattoo under her breath, but obviously he’d misheard.

She glanced up at him while she refastened the loosened ties just above her breasts.

Damn.

“You’re Jackson Taggart.” Her lips cocked in a wry grin not exactly brimming with enthusiasm. Tiny crescent moons dangled from her ears.

“Didn’t I mention that on the phone?” Of course he knew damn well he hadn’t. His family name carried all the wrong connotations in the press lately.

“You just said Jackson. I would have remembered the Taggart part.” Still, she stepped aside and gestured him in. “Let me get your phone.”

Not wanting to push his luck, he stood just inside the doorway and waited while she crossed the room to a sitting area. He watched with appreciative eyes as she edged her way around the antique furniture, her gently swaying hips inviting attention.

She bent to retrieve his phone from a table covered with silky black satin and lace. Good God, the woman had buried his phone in lingerie.

Knowing he was going to be shown the door in about two seconds if he let this silence stretch out any further, he tore his eyes from Summer and her undergarments with an effort. “I have to admit, I was pretty curious what a bordello looked like. Thanks for letting me in.”

Cradling the phone in her palm, she tapped the antenna against her chin in a rhythmic motion. “I’m banking on your very public reputation that you’re a gentleman. Just in case, I told my girlfriend to make periodic drive-bys to make sure I’m safe in here. If she doesn’t hear from me at the designated time…”

She shrugged, leading him to believe he’d be a dead man with the bodyguard.

Still, he had to admit it was a clever plan. “Good thinking.” But he had no intention of cruising forward too fast and possibly overstepping his welcome. “Being in the public eye definitely gives me a high level of accountability for my actions.”

And, lately, his father’s actions.

She wandered closer, still toying with his phone. “So you need to color inside the lines in your type of work, Jackson?”

His name on her lips slid over him like the silky blues music—sweet and seductive. “Can’t hurt to play it safe when you know your actions will only be dissected in the morning news.”

Pausing a few feet in front of him, she extended her hand and the cell phone she carried. “And yet you followed me tonight.”

Mesmerized by the way her mouth curled around her words as she spoke, Jackson almost missed their meaning. “What?”

“You weren’t exactly coloring inside the lines when you followed me and Brianne to the bordello earlier.” Her gray eyes pinned him, measuring him.

Suddenly his tie felt way too damn tight.

“You knew?” So much for smooth-talking his way into meeting her. He obviously wasn’t nearly as slick as he’d thought.

Waiting for her to boot him out into the hallway, he took the phone she still held out to him. His fingers brushed hers, sending a current of pure sensation through his hand.

“I’m very intuitive.” She shrugged and the dangling crescent moons in her ears grazed her shoulders. “Highly developed sixth sense. Want me to guess what you’re thinking right now?”

He was thinking how fast he’d blown his chance of ever being naked with this woman. “I’m rather hoping you won’t guess, actually. And I’m sorry about following you. It certainly hadn’t been my intent to make you uncomfortable.”

“No?” She smiled as if thoroughly enjoying herself.

Jackson was now totally out of his element. “I only hoped to meet you, but you left the lounge before I had the chance.”

“So you put your phone on the housekeeping cart on purpose?” She studied him so hard Jackson wondered if she was attempting to read his thoughts again.

Just in case, he concentrated on thinking about what a good guy he could be. Normally.

“I wanted to find a way to meet you that wouldn’t make me look like Joe Stalker.” He backed up a step toward the door, knowing he sounded like a lunatic. Good thing he hadn’t told her he’d been lured to follow her by her lips. “I’ll understand if you want me to take off now.”

Even though he’d hate it.

He wanted this outrageous woman more than he wanted his next breath. And no matter what he told her, Jackson didn’t have any intention of backing off all together. She might look at him and draw conclusions about him from the suit, but she had no way of knowing the restless man inside it.

The restless, determined-as-hell man inside it.

He hadn’t won a reputation in the courtroom by trotting out generations of Taggart good breeding and polite manners. No, he’d earned a win-loss record any prizefighter would envy by single-minded pursuit of his goals.

And somehow over the course of this evening, Summer Farnsworth had become a goal he damn well planned to attain.

SUMMER HAD ALWAYS been able to size up people.

As a child, she’d known when her parents had chosen a good cult to get involved with and when they’d landed in a militant crowd that would make all their lives a living hell.

Right now, her sixth sense told her she could trust Jackson Taggart—even if he seemed to be thinking some deep thoughts right now as he stared back at her. He might have used underhanded means to meet her, but she had to give him points for originality. In fact, she was damned flattered he’d gone to so much trouble not to spook her.

At six-foot-plus, he dwarfed her by a good five inches. His neatly buzzed sandy hair was bleached blond at the tips, attesting to a Floridian love of the sun. A strong jaw, cheekbones she would kill for and steely blue eyes made him a gorgeous man.

It was the suit that had thrown her.

Crisply pressed and perfectly pleated, his olive suit looked expensive, high-class, and just a little too starchy for her tastes. Not that she’d ever been quick to judge a book by its cover, but something about his slick exterior made her think he wouldn’t appreciate a woman who wore a bustier in public.

Then again, he might not be the tattoo-bearing, earring-wearing superstud she’d been hoping to meet, but the beach-bum muscle-heads she used to date hadn’t exactly provided lasting fulfillment.

Jackson Taggart was considered one of Miami Beach’s hottest bachelors, and he certainly filled out his suit in all the right places.

Maybe she just needed to get to know him a little better before making any decisions. If he turned out to be a stuffy, no-fun politician type, she would be able to walk away from him easily. But after their intriguing meeting, she could at least find out more about him.

“You don’t have to go.” She nodded toward the intimate sitting area on the other side of the room. “Why don’t you have a seat and tell me about your political ambitions instead?”

The smile he shot her sent a shimmer of tingly heat through her. The man would win any election with a grin like that.

“You’re going to make me accountable for my actions now, too, aren’t you?” He extended his hand in the classic “after you” gesture.

Had she ever dated a man who’d done the “after you” thing?

She obliged him, making her way to the newly varnished settee so he could have the safer seating of a taupey-gold colored wingback. Only, Jackson didn’t take a seat. He prowled about the bordello, about her, at a leisurely pace.

Summer watched him for a moment as he lightly fingered the shirred-velvet walls, exploring their lush softness.

Clearing her throat to cover the sudden catch in her breath, Summer chose to ignore his wandering fingers and answer his question.

“I just figured since you tricked me into this meeting, the least you can do is let me in on the truth behind all the Miami Beach gossip. Is it true you’re going to make a late election bid for state legislator?”

“You follow politics?” He glanced her way as he moved on toward the cherry armoire. Slowly. Deliberately.

She had a momentary vision of him in the courtroom, stalking the witnesses on the stand with his deceptively casual stroll.

“Not usually. But it just so happens your photo ends up in the paper on all the same days mine does so I’ve been sort of following the rumors surrounding you.” The media continually questioned his integrity when, in fact, it obviously had been his father who’d screwed up by accepting kickbacks from criminals in his long-ago position as an FBI director.

Still, the local paper had been quick to put Jackson under a microscope, scrutinizing every facet of his personal and professional life. Which, now that she thought about it, was a definite strike against getting involved with this man. Summer’s funky clothes and penchant for wearing crystals to resonate with whatever energies she happened to need in her life at the moment would never bear up well under a microscope.

Especially not when her mood crystals were paired with a straight-laced politician.

“They’re not true.” At the moment, he had walked somewhere behind her, so she couldn’t gauge his expression. Instead, his voice rumbled through her from a few feet away, the low, quiet intensity of his words giving passion to the statement. “I’m trying to understand my father’s decisions but that doesn’t mean I’m doomed to make the same ones.”

He seemed to loom closer as he spoke. Summer’s neck tingled all over again with that sensation of being watched. Studied. Assessed.

Goose bumps rose on her arms, the sensation not entirely unpleasant. She fought to stay focused on their words instead of the peculiar physical dance taking place in the room. That chatty sixth sense of hers told her she was way out of her depth with this man.

Curving her hands about her shoulders to warm the chill bumps away, Summer considered Jackson’s tenuous position in the public eye.

“Believe me, I wouldn’t want to be judged by my parents’ actions.” She adored Willow and Phoenix Farnsworth, but their lifestyle was far from normal. “I don’t know how you handle so much inquiry into your business.”

She’d hated that about the cults her parents had continually joined. There were too many bizarre rules, too much close contact with people who wanted to regulate your life. No, thank you. She would not “regulate” anything about herself again. Ever.

Jackson shifted behind her. Moving closer?

She waited, wondered what he might be doing back there until the soft fabric of the crocheted shawl she’d worn earlier fell around her goose-bump-covered shoulders. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Jackson’s hands on the garment for a fraction of a second before he released it, those long tanned fingers nearly grazing the back of the settee. Nearly grazing her. She sensed the heat of his body, could almost guess what those hands would feel like on her.

And instead of chasing away a chill, her shawl only increased the cool quiver dancing along her skin.

Tugging the ends of the shawl a little closer to wrap around her midsection, Summer watched as Jackson resumed his lazy prowl around the room.

As if he hadn’t just sent a shock wave of latent desire through her system.

He toyed with a framed photo on the writing desk, a gilt frame that she knew perfectly well contained turn-of-the-century erotica in the form of a naked woman playing piano.

“I remember going to my first press conference riding on my dad’s shoulders. I guess it hasn’t bothered me in the past because I was used to it. It’s getting a little too intense for me now, though.” His gaze traveled from the photo to her. He studied her with those magnetic blue eyes, his relaxed posture totally at odds with the heat of that steady gaze. “I came to the club tonight to take my mind off the whole mess. The pressure has been…distracting.”

Summer shifted in her seat, too aware of this man. The bustier that had felt so sexy an hour ago, now seemed to constrain her, provide too much friction against her breasts.

In an effort to get her mind off her rising temperature, she redirected their conversation. “You know, you never answered my question about the legislature bid.”

“You don’t miss a trick, do you?” He gave her a wicked grin before his attention shifted to the monstrous red-shrouded bed in the back of the room. “I couldn’t answer you on that because I honestly haven’t made up my mind yet.”

Could he be serious? “No one joins an election in September.”

His shrug wrinkled the perfect lines of his suit. Summer idly wondered what he would look like if she wrestled him to that big bed and messed up the rest of his tailored outfit. The Mistress of the Bordello would never let a man walk away without tousling him a bit, would she?

“Confidence is a good thing in my business, Summer.” He eyed her as he smoothed a hand over the red satin duvet covering the mattress. And while she knew technically they were discussing politics, she had the distinct impression Jackson’s confidence extended to the bedroom, as well.

No way could she delude herself that the man was the dry, buttoned-up type anymore. As of right now, she was toast where he was concerned. She wanted her one night with him. Badly.

While she debated how to make that one night a reality, Jackson blithely went back to discussing politics.

“Besides, I’ve got a solid track record in smaller elections. I’ve never lost yet.” His gaze strayed to the pile of lingerie on the coffee table. “Is it going to be my turn to ask the questions any time soon?”

She smiled at that even as she wondered if confidence might be an aphrodisiac. If anyone else had boasted about never losing, Summer would have written it off as conceit. Yet Jackson seemed to be just relating facts, quietly sure of his ability.

And she had to admit, there was something damn attractive about that. Not that she necessarily wanted to be turned on by a man so intrinsically wrong for her. She lived to create scandal while he worked diligently to avoid it.

Still, she couldn’t deny she wanted him.

Would it hurt to follow this attraction for just one night? How much trouble could one night cause to a girl’s heart?

“Can I ask you one more nosy question and then I’ll let you off the hook?”

“Ask away.” Tearing his gaze from the lingerie pile, he quirked a sandy eyebrow, waiting.

She picked at the ragged hem of her silky handkerchief skirt, certain he wouldn’t be waiting patiently much longer. Her every feminine instinct told her he was ready to make a move, no matter how lazily he strolled the room right now.

Soon, Summer would be enjoying that supreme male confidence of his in a much more physical way. She glanced up at him through her lashes, hoping she had her seductive moves in place. “How exactly did you plan to blow off steam tonight?”

Jackson couldn’t remember any pointed press conference question that had put him more on the spot than this one. His glance tripped over her willowy form draped across the settee, his eyes lingering on the satin ties that she’d refastened on her strapless crimson top.

By the time he managed to meet Summer’s not-so-innocent gray gaze he decided he owed her the truth, even while he extended their cat-and-mouse game a little longer.

“After two weeks of mental turmoil, I wanted to escape to a realm of pure physical sensation. Blaring music, flashing lights, a shot of straight whiskey—anything that might drown out the rest of the world for a little while.”

“I think you’re forgetting one very obvious physical sensation that South Beach nightlife often provides.” She retrieved the satin ties that lay across her arm and absently wound one end around her finger.

He caught the invitation behind the words. And he’d bet many a man would have made a dive for her right then and there.

But despite Summer’s come-hither outfit and the wild pink braids in her blond mermaid hair, Jackson guessed there were more layers to this woman than the sexy veneer. Her knowledgeable questions about his work had surprised him. Pleasantly so. And she couldn’t be the seduction queen her outfit implied if she was still sitting politely on her antique settee after he’d been in this pleasure palace of hers for nearly an hour.

If he leaped at his first chance with her, he might find one night of incredible physical sensation. And granted, that’s what he’d thought he wanted when he’d walked into Club Paradise tonight—pleasure without commitment.

Their conversation had made him rethink the strategy. Her scandal-making, adventurous nature fascinated him, appealed to his own wild side that he’d kept under wraps by necessity because of his family. His job.

But hell, his old man had basically incinerated the family name so he didn’t need to worry about that anymore. And as for his job, maybe he wouldn’t even have a shot at the election given the scandal surrounding him.

It seemed he was suffering all the effects of negative press and he hadn’t had any of the fun of creating it.

Maybe he wanted something more from Summer Farnsworth than a night of incredible sex. He didn’t know what that might be, but he had the feeling he would never have the chance to find out if he rushed headlong into a physical relationship.

He studied her now while Ella Fitzgerald sang, could see the surprise in her eyes that he hadn’t made a move on her yet. The curiosity.

He moved closer to her. Sank into the chair she’d pointed out to him earlier. Leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees, Jackson wanted to make it clear that just because he didn’t jump her right away didn’t mean he wasn’t interested. “The prospect of sex definitely entered my mind when I walked into the club tonight.”

“How about when you walked into the bordello?” Summer shifted her legs, re-crossing them in the other direction and giving him plenty of opportunity to glimpse toned calves and a hint of creamy thighs below the jagged hem of her skirt.

Delayed gratification wasn’t going to be a stroll in the park when it came to this woman. But he had goals to achieve, damn it. He didn’t have any intention of wavering from his chosen path.

“What was I thinking when a gorgeous woman ushered me into a red velvet bordello and conversed with me over a pile of exotic lingerie?” He flicked an errant bra strap sliding off the edge of the coffee table. “I’ll bet you have a good idea what I’m thinking. That doesn’t mean I’m going to act on it.”

He nearly changed his mind when he saw a flash of disappointment—quickly concealed—in her light-gray eyes.

She released the red satin ties to her outfit she’d been playing with and tugged her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “How…noble of you.”

“Not noble. Just patient. Ten seconds into our conversation tonight I realized I wanted to know you better than any night of rushed sex would ever allow.” As he spoke the words, he embraced the objective all the more. There was something very intriguing about this woman who dressed like a gypsy, flirted with a vengeance and owned a quarter of the hottest new spot on South Beach. Not the least of which was the fantasy he’d heard her relate to her girlfriend about being overpowered. What might it be like to play out that particular scenario with her? “I’d rather not miss out on the chance to get to know you by fast-forwarding through the preliminaries.”

Relinquishing the garment she’d been clutching about herself, her jaw dropped for a split second before she snapped it shut again. “You’re not looking for sex. You just came into the bordello to talk?”

She spelled it all out as if to be certain of the facts. Damn. Was his request so unusual? And if it was, didn’t that say something pretty freaking sorry about the condition of the dating scene in the new millennium?

“Honestly, sex would be very welcome at some point down the road.” He concentrated on making eye contact with her so his gaze didn’t unwittingly roam her tempting body. “I just hoped we could go out sometime.”

“You and me?” Her tone told him she thought the idea ludicrous. She shook her head. “You’ll never stop making scandalous headlines if you hit the town with me, Jackson. My clothes alone draw enough attention to keep me in the paper every week. Can you imagine what kind of press you’ll get if I’m out on the town with South Beach’s most beloved bachelor? You’ll never win your election.”

“Isn’t that for me to worry about? And why should my personal life have to revolve around elections?” He’d been walking the straight and narrow for too damn long and for some reason it took meeting Summer with her bedroom goddess lips and decadent bordello to make him realize it.

She rose, brow furrowed, and edged around the coffee table to circle the sitting area. From the way her teeth sank into the soft fullness of her lower lip, Jackson gathered she was thinking. Worrying, maybe?

Pausing beside an open armoire, she folded her arms under small but oh-so-enticing breasts. “You’re asking me on a date?”

“Are you already seeing someone?”

“No. But look at us.” She gestured between her body and his. “Anyone could tell we’re mismatched.” She shook her head and started pacing again. “What sign are you?”