The Sex Diet

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.

3

SHE CAUGHT HANK KICKING a pile of dirty clothes against the wall when she came out of the bathroom. He looked up and those bright eyes glittered with sheepish humor. “I made a foot of space available in the closet, and those top two drawers in the dresser are ready.” He passed a hand over his face. “I really hate what happened about your room. Things have been crazy around here since Gladys left. Tina will eventually get it.” His voice sounded more grim than hopeful, making Samantha’s lips twitch. “But between her frequent screwups and this Belle of the Beach contest, I’ve been stretched pretty thin.”

Samantha waved off his concern. “Don’t worry about it.” She conjured a playful grin. “I’m sure I’ll be perfectly comfortable in your bed.”

Of course, she’d be more comfortable if he were in it with her, but that wasn’t a likely scenario so she needed to put the idea out of her head. If she didn’t, she might as well kiss that orgasm goodbye. She cast a glance at the smallish couch and tried to imagine Hank’s big muscular frame sprawled over it. She winced. “But I don’t know how comfortable you’ll be.”

Hank grinned, slouched casually against the bedpost. “I’ll consider it penance for screwing up your reservation.”

“With that sort of logic, I should have gotten Tina’s bed.”

Hank grunted. “Trust me, if she lived in the house, she’d be giving up her bed ten times over.”

Samantha winced. “That bad, eh?”

He nodded, blew out a breath. “That bad.”

“If she’s so horrible, then why do you keep her?”

“She’s Gladys’s granddaughter.”

“Oh,” Samantha said knowingly. That explained it. Hank adored Gladys. He’d never do anything that might hurt her, even if it meant he paid the price for it. In this case, literally. An inept desk clerk in his line of work could be devastating. Still… “She didn’t train her before she left?”

“She tried.” Hank lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug. “Said that no amount of training would be better than on-the-job experience.”

Translation: Tina didn’t get it and Gladys had given up. Poor Hank, Samantha thought, not envying his predicament. “So what’s the deal with this Belle of the Beach contest?” she asked after a moment. “I saw a flyer next to the front desk.”

Hank crossed his arms over his chest, rolled his eyes and snorted. “It’s hell.”

“Surely it’s not that bad. Business certainly seems to be booming.”

Hank blew out a heavy breath, rubbed a hand over his face. “It is, and it’s all due to the pageant. Nevertheless, I wish that Mayor Flannagin could have come up with another way to boost the end-season besides this.” He rolled his eyes. “Hell, anything but this.”

“Funny,” Samantha said. She arched a brow and regarded him with amusement. “I would have thought that a bunch of gorgeous women on your sand would have been right up your alley.”

He flashed a smile, unwittingly kicking her pulse into overdrive. “Me, too, but it’s not.” His altogether-too-hot gaze did a lengthy sweep over her body, causing a tornado of tingles in her belly. “You should enter.”

A nervous flutter winged through her chest. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Nah,” she hedged. “I’m not the beauty pageant type.”

“You might be surprised,” Hank told her. “Besides, this is no ordinary pageant.” His amused gaze tangled with hers. “‘There’s more to being a Belle than just a pretty face.”’

Samantha grinned, recognizing the line from the flyer. “Is that right?”

“That’s right,” he told her, warming to his subject. “The official contest kicks off tomorrow and secret judges will be milling around grading contestants on personality, charm, grace and graciousness. The final contestants will compete in Redneck Jeopardy. And there’s no swimsuit competition. Instead Belle contestants will have a fried chicken and iced tea cook off.”

“What?”

He nodded and poked his tongue in his cheek. “You heard me,” he repeated, laughing. “Hell, every southern belle should know how to fry chicken and make iced tea.”

“That is so sexist,” Samantha replied, appalled.

A deep, wholly sexy laugh rumbled up his throat. “Take it up with Mayor Flannagin. This was his brainchild.”

Smiling, Samantha shook her head. “Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable.” Still, she wasn’t surprised. This was exactly the sort of thing she could expect from her little hometown. It was as exasperating as it was endearing.

“Yeah, well, an unbelievable prize package goes to the winner. An all-expenses-paid trip for two to the Bahamas, a fully loaded SUV and ten grand in cash.” The corner of his mouth tucked into a grin. “Hard to beat that. The contest committee decided to keep the entry fee minimal in order to increase participation.” He shrugged lazily. “More entries, more tourists. More tourists, more money.”

Made sense, she supposed. Still, a fried chicken and iced tea contest? Please.

Hank pushed away from the bedpost. “There are entry forms at the front desk and registration ends today,” he said, matter-of-factly. “You should enter. What have you got to lose?”

To her absolute amazement, she found herself seriously considering it. She might not be the most gorgeous woman here, but she was definitely intelligent, had a pretty good personality, considered herself charming and gracious. Anticipation hummed along her nerves as the idea gained momentum. As for talent, she was no Mariah Carey, but could sing a decent ballad. And, thanks to her mother, she could fry one helluva chicken. She certainly wouldn’t be a shoo-in, Samantha thought consideringly, but she had a shot. She definitely had a shot.

Furthermore, she could use a new car, had always wanted to travel and she could definitely use the cash. If she added ten grand to her nest egg, she could go ahead and move back home. Could be close to Hank. It would be tight, but she could still do it. Her insides grew jittery with cautiously hopeful excitement.

Hank was right. What did she have to lose?

Samantha bit her lip, looked up and her gaze bumped into his. “Forms are at the front desk?”

“Yeah.”

“I think I’ll change into my suit, grab a bite to eat out by the pool and look it over.”

He nodded, seemingly pleased. “Good.” He paused. “It’s great to have you back, Sam. You, uh, look fantastic,” he added, looking somewhat uncomfortable. And no wonder—he’d never had cause to issue a compliment before.

Her heart warmed all the same and she flashed him a smile. “It’s great to be back.”

“Any particular plans for this vacation?” he asked lightly. “A trip to Dauphin Island? Fort Morgan?”

Those were her usual haunts when she came to town, but Operation Orgasm wasn’t going to leave her much time for those pursuits. “Nah, no plans per se,” Samantha said evasively, unwilling to meet his gaze lest he discover her true intentions. Which was ridiculous. Why did she care if he knew what she was about? He’d never hesitated to share his plans about women with her. He’d always been heartbreakingly honest about his lovers.

Samantha moved to the foot of the bed, opened a suitcase and fished her bikini from one of the front pockets. She tossed it on the bed, then dug around for her sunblock. Unless she wanted to fry and freckle, she had to cover herself in SPF thirty-five. She was fair complexioned, but could turn sort of peachy if she played her cards right. She’d primed her skin last week with a few trips to the tanning bed, so hopefully she wouldn’t burn.

She could feel Hank’s gaze on her, could feel him studying her, checking for a secret via retinal scrutiny. “When you say per se…just exactly what do you mean?”

Where the hell was her sunblock, Samantha wondered, growing slightly annoyed. She knew she’d packed it. Remembered shoving it into the bag. She pilfered around a little more, nudged various items aside. Exasperated, she jerked a couple of magazines and small boxes out of the pocket, absently set them aside. Honestly, this was ridiculous. She knew she’d packed the damned—

Hank’s wicked chuckle interrupted her irritating quest. Something about that laugh made her spine prickle with foreboding.

When she looked up, he held her bikini bottoms in one hand and a box of glow-in-the-dark extra-large condoms in the other. “Care to explain?” he asked.

Though she longed for the floor to open up and swallow her—knew that her cheeks were blazing with embarrassment—Samantha managed to force a smile, lifted her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug and huffed a dramatic sigh. “Well, if I need to, I will. Though I must confess I would have thought that a man your age would have a general idea of what condoms were used for. In fact, I distinctly remember you carrying one in your wallet back—”

He smirked. “Cute. But that’s not what I meant.” His eyes narrowed and he twirled her bikini bottoms around his index finger. “Since when are you packing enough rubbers to outfit the defensive line at the state college?”

Samantha straightened and calmly snatched her prophylactics from his unsuspecting hand, then shoved them back into her suitcase. She requisitioned her bikini bottoms as well, then grabbed the top.

“Since I started having sex,” she replied, mildly annoyed at his somewhat shocked look. He didn’t have to look so damned dumbfounded, like the idea of her having sex—or anyone wanting to have sex with her—was out of the scope of his imagination. It undermined her confidence.

“Since you started having sex?” he asked slowly. His voice had developed a dry rasp and that smug smile he’d worn just a second ago had cap-sized. His eyes suddenly widened in horrified understanding. “My God, you’re trolling, aren’t you? You’re—”

“And I’ve got more than enough to outfit the defensive line at state college, smart ass—I have enough for the offensive line and special teams as well.” She smiled. “Just let me know if you need to borrow any. Of course, I only carry extra-large—” she purposely let her gaze drop to the front of his shorts “—so they might not fit.”

His jaw went comically slack.

Samantha grinned, heartened by his stunned expression. “As for trolling—” she shrugged lazily “—I might throw out a line or two. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to change.”

THERE WASN’T ANY “GOING TO” about it, Hank thought as he covertly watched Samantha entertain a host of bastards—all of them on pussy patrol, by the looks of them—at her table by the pool.

She had changed.

The Samantha he’d known all of his life would have never had the nerve to wear that bikini—honestly, she might as well be naked for everything that it covered, which was precious little, Hank thought feeling a smidge light-headed as he watched her peachy breasts nearly tumble out of the satiny push-up cups. One more sexy laugh like that, and that top was going to go, Hank thought ominously. His mouth watered at the mere thought.

After the Great Condom Discovery, Hank had decided to station himself by the pool and keep an eye out on her. Obviously she’d decided to cast out more than a line or two, he thought grimly—she’d lowered a sizable net.

Samantha McCafferty had to be one of the most practical, sensible women he’d ever known—she wouldn’t have packed a damned arsenal of rubbers unless she fully intended to use them.

She was going to have sex.

Had been having sex.

The mere idea set his teeth on edge, made his skin itch, made his brain feel entirely too small for his skull. The physical changes combined with the condoms and a couple of headlines he’d read from the magazines she’d pulled out of her suitcase—“Getting Lucky—Tips From The Pros” and “The Big O—How To Make Your Lover Go From A Dud to a Stud”—had led him to the unhappy conclusion that she planned to take a lover this week. A tic formed near his left eye.

No wonder she’d been so upset about not having her room, Hank thought. Evidently she’d gone to a lot of trouble to plan this vacation sex-fest and Tina’s screwup had mucked up her carefully laid plans.

God bless Tina, Hank thought, vastly relieved. For once, her ineptness had worked in his favor.

Hank realized that Samantha was an adult and should have the freedom to conduct her life in any way that she saw fit…but he didn’t care. Crass? Obnoxious? Selfish? Politically incorrect? All of the above. But he still didn’t care. The only thing he cared about at present was stopping her. There was no way in hell he’d be able to stand idly by and watch her waltz off into the sunset with some other guy. For reasons he had no intention of exploring, the idea of any man touching her made a hot, red haze swim before his eyes, made his stomach cramp with an emotion mortifyingly like jealousy. Made him want to hurl chairs into the pool and beat the living hell out of someone. His eyes narrowed. The guys currently swarming around her like a hive of horny bees, stingers at the ready, looked like perfect targets.

This was horrible. That first premonition of dread he’d experienced had morphed into a sickening ulcer in the pit of his stomach. Keeping this secret attraction under control would be hard enough in normal circumstances, but when he factored in her being in his room, that delightful new figure, and her obvious intentions for the week, he had to forcibly quell the urge to tear out his hair.

Furthermore—and it really ate at him to admit it—but if she’d gone to all the trouble to plan a seduction, why hadn’t she decided to seduce him? Hank wondered, unreasonably irritated. Why hadn’t she considered him as a possible candidate? A potential lover?

He stilled and swore hotly.

Which was the exact opposite of what he should have been thinking. A seduction would ruin everything, was the exact scenario he’d worked so hard to avoid. And it had been hard, dammit. Harder than she would ever know. But it would be the end of a lifelong friendship—one he valued tremendously—because nothing changed the dynamic of a relationship quicker than sex.

No matter how much he suffered through the grip of this unholy attraction, he had to keep that in mind. Did he want her? More than his next breath. Had wanted her for years. And in this case, he’d wanted her before he realized who she was, and to his extreme discomfort and ceaseless irritation, wanted her more now than ever.

Her tinkling laughter drifted to him on the salty afternoon breeze and he paused to look at her. A curious ache settled in his chest. The wind sent a long curl brushing along her creamy cheek and she wore a smile of absolute delight. He couldn’t see those pale green eyes behind her trendy sunglasses, but knew they’d be crinkled at the corners and glinting with a humor that seemed to literally light her up. She’d always been like that, Hank thought. Infectiously happy. How many times over the years had she shared that with him?

She’d twisted her hair up into some sort of giant claw thing, yet a few stands had worked loose and danced over her nape. Though she’d only been out by the pool for an hour or so, and he’d seen her take the sunblock into the bathroom when she’d gone to change, her slim shoulders were growing slightly pink.

Which seemed appropriate—then her whole body would match that pink barely there bikini and she’d be giving the illusion of being nude.

Which she more or less was to him and any other man who looked at her.

Hank mentally whistled. God, what a body. Who would have ever thought that a little weight would have made such a difference? And she’d gained every bit of it in all the right places—her breasts, her hips and her ass. She’d filled out and had a perfect petite hourglass figure. He wanted to wrap that red curly strand of hair presently swishing across her cheek around his finger, tug her closer, breathe in that fruity lust-provoking scent and kiss those sexy smiling lips.

Hank was no stranger to lust, knew what the sharp tug felt like. But this was no regular tug—it was an all-consuming yank mixed with a disturbingly tender emotion he didn’t readily recognize and he’d never once associated with sex. It was a warning, he knew, a sensation he’d only experienced with Sam, and all the more reason he’d make sure to keep his libido in check.

But what in the hell was he going to do? he wondered, blindsided with another wave of helpless, frustrated panic. He couldn’t just sit by and watch those bastards flirt with her. He could practically see her sizing them up, figuring out which one would best serve her purposes—which one would wear an extra-large condom, Hank thought darkly—basking in their attention.

She looked completely at ease, too, not the least bit shy or overwhelmed by all the attention. She dipped a shrimp in cocktail sauce, blithely popped it into her mouth, tossed her head back and laughed at something one of the men said. Something niggled at him, a thought played hide-and-seek in his brain, but he didn’t have time to chase it. He had other pressing thoughts to consider—like how to keep her in his bed and out of someone else’s.

Hank scowled. By the looks of it, she was thoroughly enjoying herself and if he didn’t come up with some sort of plan soon, she’d undoubtedly double-time it to the room, snag her handy stash of condoms and join one of these jerks in his room tonight. She’d be having sex. In his house. And it wouldn’t be with him.

His brain cramped at the thought.

He couldn’t allow that to happen.

He could not.

She’d used their friendship to finagle her way into his room, Hank thought, more than marginally annoyed now that he knew why she’d been so desperate to stay. Since she’d used that ploy first, Hank decided he wouldn’t have any compunction about using that same friendship to keep her there.

He grinned. For starters, a let’s-catch-up-on-old-times dinner would be in order.

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